In a surprising turn of events, three Cabinet ministers who were scheduled to attend the much-anticipated public hearing on May 16, 2025, were notably absent. The official reason given was that they had “other important engagements.” And indeed, ministers are busy—burdened with the weight of governance. Yet their absence cast a long shadow over the proceedings, almost resulting in the cancellation of the event as originally planned. However, in a move that underscored institutional resolve, the committee was instructed to proceed with the hearing in their absence.
While the public hearing was widely welcomed and embraced by the people, the spotlight has now been hijacked, not by the discussions or deliberations, but by the conspicuous absence of the ministers. Their empty chairs have spoken louder than any prepared statement. Questions are swirling. Could at least one have made the effort to attend? Was it a matter of clashing priorities—or something more deliberate? Did one fear being out of place? Or did all three arrive at a collective decision to stay away?
As the very people who cast their votes for these ministers, such questions naturally arise. No ill intent lies behind their absence, yet curiosity quickly turns to concern, and then to unsettling self-reflection. The public waited eagerly for the hearing—eager to see their leaders stand before them, to hear their voices, to witness accountability in action.
It was never about watching them being grilled or cornered; rather, it was the simple, powerful desire to see their ministers speak with conviction and pride. Just as they look forward to seeing their representatives rise and take a stand in parliamentary sessions, they longed for that moment of connection and an affirmation that their trust was well placed.
Unfortunately, the law leaves little room for leniency regarding such absences. The National Assembly Act of 2008 clearly addresses “Breach of Privilege and Immunities.” It states that an offence is committed when members refuse to comply with an order of the Assembly or a Committee. The pressing question now is whether these ministers’ absence constitutes such a breach.
Further, Chapter 27 of the same Act, under “Offences and Penalties,” Section 310, declares: “Any person found guilty of breaching privileges under this Act shall be liable to a maximum fine equivalent to five years’ minimum wage.”
And so, the voters—the everyday citizens who placed their trust in elected leaders—find themselves raising their voices once more: Will there be consequences? This question does not stem from resentment or anger, but from a profound longing to see Bhutan’s democratic institutions function with transparency, fairness, and accountability.
It is not punishment the people seek, but assurance, that no one is above the law. Such absence may seem like a small matter to some, but for a democracy as young and aspirational as Bhutan’s, symbols matter. Presence matters. Accountability matters.
In quiet homes and lively gatherings alike, the question lingers in the air. There is no demand for spectacle or retribution—only a desire for the democratic wheel to keep turning in the right direction, guided by the rule of law and the spirit of service.
Bhutan is watching. The people are waiting.
