Which brings me to the question I haven't been able to stop thinking about.
What is democracy supposed to look like between elections?
We're taught that democracy means voting every five years. But surely it has to mean more than that. It has to mean citizens can ask uncomfortable questions without being dismissed as anti-national. It has to mean peaceful protest is heard before it becomes a medical emergency. It has to mean institutions earn public trust through transparency, not simply ask for it. And it has to mean that disagreement is treated as participation—not betrayal.
That's why this story unsettles me.
Because whether you agree with Sonam Wangchuk or not, the image of a respected educator and environmentalist weakening himself through an indefinite fast should make all of us uncomfortable. A democracy should never become so difficult to reach that a citizen believes an empty stomach is the only way to make themselves heard.
Maybe the government believes its actions were necessary to protect his health. Maybe his supporters believe those actions silenced a peaceful protest. Those are questions that courts, institutions and public debate will continue to examine. But beneath those disagreements lies something much bigger than any one case.
How do we want our democracy to respond when citizens dissent peacefully?
Because if every criticism is treated as hostility, every protest as an inconvenience, and every uncomfortable question as something to manage instead of answer, then we slowly stop participating. Not because we've stopped caring—but because we stop believing our voices matter.
I don't think we're angry enough.
Not angry in the sense of hatred. Not the kind that burns buses, spreads misinformation or abuses strangers online. We've seen enough of that.
I mean the kind of anger that refuses to become numb.
The kind that reads before it reposts.
The kind that asks for evidence instead of rumours.
The kind that demands accountability without abandoning fairness.
The kind that writes, organises, votes, questions, volunteers, reports, studies and refuses to let difficult conversations disappear after one news cycle.
Because somewhere along the way we've mistaken scrolling for participation.
We add three broken-heart emojis.
We argue with strangers for fifteen minutes.
Then another scandal arrives.
And somehow the people whose futures are actually on the line are left exactly where they started.
History has never changed because people refreshed their feed.
It changed because ordinary citizens refused to become spectators.
So where is our outrage when students lose years to uncertainty? Where is our impatience when trust in public institutions begins to crack? Where is the urgency when environmental warnings are treated as tomorrow's problem? Where is the collective insistence that honesty, competence and public service should never be exceptions—they should be the standard?
Because if we're old enough to inherit the consequences of this country, then we're old enough to help shape its future.
History is literally watching.
The only question is whether we'll keep scrolling—or finally start paying attention.