KATHMANDU: I remember my friend at one of the foreign embassies in Kathmandu—shaking hands and holding papers as if he might lose himself if he let go. He answered questions steadily, but you could see the tension in his posture, the hope that maybe this time someone would see more than just a statistic from a poor country.

He left with a single sheet of paper: rejection. Its weight was far heavier than any suitcase he could have carried. Each application became a trial, each interview a quiet interrogation: Can he be trusted? Will he overstay? Is his life, his ambition, worth the stamp?

A passport is supposed to say you exist—that you have roots somewhere, that a country claims you. But the Nepali passport sends a different message. It makes you prove yourself over and over. Belonging isn’t assumed; it’s conditional, scrutinized, questioned. The world measures whether you deserve the freedom to move, whether your story even matters.

For outsiders, it’s easy to dismiss these experiences as mundane bureaucracy—forms, lines, regulations—the ordinary machinery of international travel. For Nepalis, the process is a gauntlet that shapes how they see themselves and their place in the world. It’s about dignity—about being acknowledged as someone with potential rather than suspicion.

The global hierarchy is tangible. Nepal ranks 101 on the 2025 Henley Passport Index. Nepalis can enter only thirty-six countries without a visa, most of which are struggling or offer little opportunity. For nearly every other destination, the demands are relentless: show bank statements, property deeds, family ties, reasons for coming and leaving. Before buying a ticket, you must lay your life bare and convince a skeptical official that you are not a threat, opportunist, or burden.

Compare this with an American, Canadian, or Japanese traveler. Their passport is a key that opens doors without question. They glide through immigration; their motives and honesty are assumed by default. The world divides travelers into two camps: those who are welcomed and those who must justify every step.

Interviews become rituals of suspicion: Why are you here? What do you own? Will you come back? Polite language hides the message: We doubt you. You are not enough. Reasons for refusal—“insufficient ties,” “insufficient funds”—mark the boundaries of a world where some people are always outsiders.

Migration is survival for most Nepalis. Jobs are scarce. Educated youth take work that underuses them. Entrepreneurship is risky unless you know someone. Climbing the system is like scaling a muddy hill in monsoon—you might reach the top, only to slide back. Remittances sent home by those who leave make up a third of the economy, a lifeline that masks the structural reasons people leave in the first place.

Ironically, the world is eager for our labor. Nepalis build skyscrapers in the Gulf, care for aging populations in Europe, scrub dishes and floors in Asia’s bustling cities. Our sweat and stamina are in high demand—but our dreams and dignity rarely are. Abroad, we are laborers, not equals; at home, we are remittance statistics. Nepal’s economy depends on the movement of its people, yet mobility is the privilege least accessible to us. We are needed, but not fully welcome.

Visa rules frame barriers as matters of security or order. Beneath the formal language, requirements—proof of income, property, family—filter privilege. A Nepali can work for years, pay taxes, contribute to a community, yet still face suspicion and denial. Meanwhile, a tourist from Europe or North America passes through with minimal scrutiny. Trust is automatic for some and withheld for others.

In her book Inconvenient Strangers, Shui-Yin Sharon Yam calls this “quiet bias.” Airports and embassies sort people into insiders and outsiders, often without conscious thought. If you are poor, you must be desperate; if ambitious, you must be scheming. Systems rarely want to know your story—they care about where you are from and how easily you can be categorized. Humanity becomes secondary, potential overshadowed by a passport and the reputation of a country.

At its core, the Western visa system doesn’t just regulate movement—it polices belonging. It treats people from the Global South—Nepalis, Bangladeshis, Nigerians, Filipinos—not as individuals with hopes and histories, but as “inconvenient strangers,” as Yam outlines. The rules are steeped in assumptions about race, class, and national worth. Immigration officers, whether consciously or not, become the gatekeepers of old global inequalities, reinforcing an order where some are granted the benefit of the doubt and others are trapped in cycles of suspicion.

For Nepali women, the barriers are even higher. Laws intended to “protect” them end up policing their freedom, treating them as if their desires are inherently dangerous. Officials, both foreign and domestic, turn this supposed protection into another form of control—another excuse to keep the door shut.

Women are told they’re vulnerable, and that vulnerability is weaponized against them, turning their dreams into yet another reason for suspicion. Stories circulate of women detained, questioned about family, marital status, and personal motives.

Visa refusals are just the tip of the iceberg. The real problem lies in how Nepal is perceived by the world. We have no powerful allies, no booming economy, no global reputation to smooth the way for our citizens. We aren’t known for innovation or industry—except, perhaps, for tourism and the bravery of our soldiers, who serve in foreign armies and rarely return. For everyone else, all we have is hope and that green booklet—flimsy proof of a nationality that isn’t respected.

Nepal shares the responsibility: corruption, fraud, and restrictive policies erode credibility and give outsiders reasons to doubt. Diplomatic channels offer little leverage; most applications are routed through regional offices like New Delhi. It’s a humiliation, highlighting our lack of bargaining power. Nepal’s diplomatic leverage is weak, so our passport negotiators have little to trade beyond a promise of trust.

Our politics makes things worse. Every protest, every flicker of instability at home ripples outward, shaping decisions in distant consulates. The fate of one applicant can hinge on headlines thousands of miles away—on events entirely beyond their control. The world claims it’s about “migration management,” but in reality, it’s often about one official’s gut feeling. If they aren’t convinced by your paperwork or your story, that’s it: no appeal, no explanation, no recourse. Politeness masks exclusion.

Mobility reflects both opportunity and dignity. Each form, each interview, each document asks Nepalis to demonstrate legitimacy. The consequences extend beyond individuals.

Families invest time, money, and hope. Denials carry social and financial repercussions. Young people internalize limitations, measuring aspirations against global suspicion. Systemic inequities reinforce cycles of disadvantage.

Nepali communities abroad feel it too. Workers in the Gulf send money home while separated from loved ones. A Nepali worker in Australia may save enough to bring parents—but rules block the path. Labor is valued abroad, but family bonds are denied. Remittances keep homes afloat while denying presence.

Nepali citizens navigate a world where nationality, class, and gender weigh more than character. Each denial, question, and requirement reminds you that belonging must be earned. Mobility is a question of respect—for individuals, families, and the nation. Until policy, governance, and diplomacy evolve together, Nepalis will keep proving their worth, one visa application at a time.

A passport is more than a booklet. It shows how the world sees you, reflects the country you call home, and measures your right to step beyond borders. For now, the green booklet is fragile. Its strength will improve only when Nepal itself reforms and when the global community rethinks its hierarchies. We cannot hope for others to trust us if we keep treating our own citizens unfairly or fail to assert ourselves.

If Nepal builds fair institutions, strengthens processes, invests in its people and its image, and demands recognition abroad, the passport could become more than a symbol of exclusion. It could finally say, without hesitation: You belong.

The story of passport power is ultimately about a country’s leverage in the world—and Nepal deserves a stronger share. With sustained effort, a day may come when Nepalis no longer need to ask permission to follow their dreams.