Dragon Tales

We are what matters to us; our grief, losses, failures, joys, triumphs, people, places…

A personal blog by Sonam Ongmo, a Bhutanese nomad, offering commentary on Bhutanese politics, social media, economics, and international affairs, alongside personal reflections and poetry. The blog spans posts from 2009 to 2013, covering topics from the Anti-Corruption Commission findings and the Rupee Crunch to UN addresses by Bhutan's Prime Minister and the introduction of a free press in Bhutan.

A personal blog can serve as a quiet archive of thought, gathering reflections that might otherwise scatter across the noise of social platforms. In a small Himalayan society, the act of writing publicly carries a particular weight, because the distance between writer and reader is often short. The blog becomes a space where the personal and the political intersect without the urgency of a newsroom deadline. Over time, a body of posts accumulates into something more than commentary: it becomes a record of how one person tried to make sense of a changing country, one entry at a time, in full view of strangers and neighbours alike.

The relationship between anonymity and accountability shapes much of what happens in online forums. When people can speak without attaching their names, they sometimes say things they would never utter in a village square. Yet anonymity also protects voices that might otherwise be silenced by fear of reprisal. This tension runs through every comment thread and every shared post. In a society where personal reputation carries immense weight and social ties are dense, the question of whether to sign one’s name or remain hidden is never merely technical; it is a moral and political choice that reveals a great deal about the conditions under which expression takes place.

Social media arrived in Bhutan not as a gradual evolution but as a sudden flood, bringing with it both connection and confusion. Platforms designed in distant cities suddenly became the town square, the gossip circle, and the public noticeboard all at once. The speed of information sharing outpaced the development of norms around what should be shared and how. In this new landscape, the line between private conversation and public declaration blurred almost overnight. People found themselves navigating a world where a single post could reach thousands before the author had finished reflecting on what they had written, raising questions about responsibility that remain unsettled.

Corruption, when it surfaces in public discourse, often arrives through a cascade of allegations, denials, and investigations that leave the average citizen unsure what to believe. The work of anti-corruption bodies is vital but rarely straightforward, because the cases they examine involve complex webs of relationships, institutional histories, and competing narratives. When findings are published, they land in a media environment that can amplify certain details while burying others. The challenge for any society is not simply to punish wrongdoing but to build institutions strong enough that the public trusts the process, even when the outcome is contested and the facts remain subject to interpretation.

The arrival of a free press in any country marks a profound shift in how power is held to account. Before independent newspapers and broadcasters exist, information flows through official channels that can filter, delay, or reshape what the public learns. Once a free press takes root, the government must contend with questions it did not invite and stories it did not author. This transition is rarely smooth. Journalists must learn their craft under scrutiny, officials must adjust to being questioned, and readers must develop the habit of distinguishing careful reporting from rumour. The institution of a free press is not built in a single reform; it is built daily.

Elections are moments when a society’s collective grievances and aspirations become visible in concentrated form. Campaigns bring to the surface issues that may have simmered for years beneath the routine of daily governance. In a small country, the intimacy of the electorate means that candidates and voters often know each other personally, which can make political disagreement feel more acute. The challenge of democratic politics is to channel that intensity into constructive debate rather than personal animosity. When the ballots are counted and the winners take office, the deeper test is whether the institutions can address the concerns that the election brought into the light.

Poetry and politics might seem like unlikely companions, but a blog that moves between them reveals something true about how people actually experience public life. A policy debate engages the intellect, but a poem can reach the part of a person that grieves, hopes, or remembers. In a Himalayan context, where oral traditions and written verse have long carried cultural memory, the poetic voice is not a departure from serious commentary but an extension of it. The same person who analyses a budget shortfall might, in another post, write about loss or landscape, and both kinds of writing belong to the same attempt to understand what it means to live in a particular place and time.

Living between countries, as many Bhutanese do, creates a perspective that is neither fully inside nor fully outside. The nomad’s vantage point allows comparisons that the settled observer might miss, but it also carries the ache of distance from home. Writing from abroad about domestic affairs means relying on second-hand reports, digital connections, and memory, all of which can distort as much as they illuminate. Yet this position also offers a certain freedom: the freedom to speak without being physically present to face the consequences, and the responsibility to speak carefully because one is not there to clarify, correct, or stand beside the words once they have travelled.