All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. -George Orwell, Animal Farm

In the past few weeks, I’ve found myself thinking about something uncomfortable: Is speaking about voting and civic responsibility making some people anxious? And if it does, should I stay quiet?

These questions are not simple—especially in a time like this in Nepal, when public memory still carries the emotions, anger, and grief of recent national events. Conversations feel heavier. People feel exhausted. Many of us are already carrying emotional fatigue from social, economic, and political uncertainties. In such moments, even a reminder to “go vote” can feel like an additional weight to someone who just wants a pause from everything.

But silence also has consequences.

Democracy does not weaken because people disagree; it weakens when people slowly disengage. When participation drops, decisions are left to fewer voices, fewer perspectives, and fewer lived experiences. And often, the people who feel most disappointed with politics are also the ones who quietly step away from voting, believing their individual action will not change anything.

I understand that feeling. Many young people feel it. Many professionals, students, and working families feel it. There is a kind of quiet resignation that creeps in—the belief that systems are too large, politics is too messy, and individual participation is too small to matter. Over time, that belief becomes a habit. We stop expecting change, and eventually, we stop showing up for it.

So when someone speaks publicly about voting—whether through a reel, a caption, or a blog—the intention is not to create anxiety. The intention is to gently interrupt that habit of disengagement.

Still, it matters to acknowledge another truth: political conversations can genuinely feel overwhelming for some people. Not everyone has the emotional bandwidth to debate policies every day, read political analyses every night, or argue online. Some people protect their mental space by stepping away from political discussions, and that is valid. Mental well-being matters. Rest matters. Not everyone needs to be constantly “on” in political discourse.

But stepping away from constant discussion is different from stepping away from participation altogether.

Voting is not the same as arguing on social media. It is not the same as fighting with friends over ideologies. It is a quiet civic act that takes a few minutes but shapes outcomes for years. Encouraging people to vote is not about forcing them into conversations they do not want to have; it is about reminding them that their absence also communicates something—often unintentionally.

Sometimes people say, “Politics gives me anxiety, so I avoid it.” That response is understandable. Yet if anxiety keeps large groups of thoughtful, educated, and socially aware citizens from voting, the political space does not become calmer or better. It simply becomes occupied by those who continue to participate—regardless of whether their intentions are constructive or not.

This is why encouraging participation should not automatically be seen as negativity or unnecessary pressure. It is, at its core, an invitation: If you can, show up. If you care, participate. If you want change, don’t remove your voice from the process.

Lately, I keep thinking about Animal Farm when I sit with this discomfort.

In Orwell’s story, the farm animals often stay silent not because nothing is wrong, but because it feels too complex to understand—or too tiring to question. They convince themselves that someone else must know better, that someone else will handle it, that it’s safer to keep their heads down and get through the day. And that constant absence—small silence after small silence—doesn’t create peace. It creates space. And slowly, that space gets filled by the loudest, the most manipulative, the ones who benefit when others stop paying attention. The decline isn’t sudden. It’s gradual. Ordinary. Almost invisible at first. And then, one day, it’s disastrous.

That’s the part that haunts me—because disengagement doesn’t always look like betrayal. Sometimes it looks like exhaustion. Sometimes it looks like “I can’t deal with this right now.” Sometimes it looks like educated people—well-read people—saying, casually, “No, I won’t vote.”

And when I hear that, I won’t lie: it fills me with sadness and a kind of despair I don’t know what to do with. Because it feels like a contradiction—educated, informed, aware… and yet choosing silence where it matters most. It makes me think of everyone who lost their lives, everyone who marched, everyone who hoped, everyone who believed that public voices and public sacrifice meant something. It makes me feel like we risk becoming “educated illiterate”—knowing so much, reading so much, understanding so much, but still opting out of the one basic act that turns awareness into responsibility.

And maybe that’s why I keep bringing it up.

Not because I want to argue. Not because I want to shame. Not because I think voting magically fixes everything. But because I’m watching something happen in my own circle: whenever I try to bring up politics—or even gently ask, “Will you be voting?”—I can feel people getting hesitant. Changing the topic. Avoiding the conversation altogether. Almost like the question itself is impolite, too intense, too much.

But if we can’t even talk about participation, what happens next?

At the same time, I also know this: forcing is not the way.

Those of us who speak about civic responsibility must be mindful of tone. There is a difference between encouraging and shaming. Saying, “Please vote—your voice matters,” invites reflection. Saying, “If you don’t vote, you are the problem,” creates defensiveness. Responsible advocacy is not loud anger; it is steady reminders delivered with empathy.

So for now, all I can do is ask—politely—why not? And listen. And gently encourage. Because sometimes people aren’t refusing to vote out of cruelty; they’re refusing out of burnout, mistrust, fear, disappointment, or the belief that nothing will change. And I can’t heal that by being harsh.

But I also can’t pretend disengagement is harmless.

In moments like these, balance matters. People should feel safe protecting their mental health, but they should also be reminded that democracy relies on participation, not perfection. You don’t need to be a political expert to vote. You don’t need to win every debate or understand every policy in detail. You only need to show up, make the most informed choice you can, and take part in the process that shapes the society you live in.

Encouraging others to vote is not about creating noise; it is about preventing silence from becoming permanent.

And perhaps that’s the reflection many of us are sitting with right now: speaking up may feel uncomfortable sometimes, but collective silence has always been far more powerful—and far more dangerous—than a few uncomfortable conversations.

If even a small reminder motivates someone to participate when they otherwise might not have, then the conversation has served its purpose.