By any standard, Nepal has rarely been a quiet political landscape. Yet what has unfolded in Kathmandu and beyond over the past weeks feels different— both in scale and in character. It is not merely another episode of power politics among fractious parties. It is, instead, a generational reckoning— a sudden, furious assertion by young Nepalis that the country’s political class has squandered too much trust, too much time, and too many opportunities.
At its core, the protests that have convulsed Nepal since late August were sparked by an almost absurdly shortsighted government decision: banning more than 20 social media platforms— from Facebook and WhatsApp to Instagram and X. The official justification was regulatory— platforms had failed to register with the Ministry of Communication, as required by a Supreme Court order. The practical effect was to sever millions from their digital lifelines. Young people rely on these platforms for business, learning, and sharing their political views. So, the move didn’t seem like a mistake, but rather an act of deliberate censorship.
The government underestimated both the symbolism and the substance of the ban. Within days, thousands of mostly young protesters flooded Kathmandu’s streets, transforming frustration into fury. They were not merely objecting to the loss of connectivity. They were indicting an entire system— a culture of corruption, nepotism, and elite impunity that had treated their future as disposable.
By September 9, the protests had grown beyond control. In this situation, Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli (known for surviving past political crises) chose to resign. His home minister followed. Curfews were imposed; police resorted to tear gas, water cannons, rubber bullets— and eventually live ammunition. Nineteen people were dead. Parliament and party offices were torched. Even the residences of Nepal’s President and Prime Minister were not spared the mob’s anger. This was not, in other words, business as usual in Nepali politics. This was a social earthquake.
Every generation eventually comes to suspect that the political bargains struck by its elders have been profoundly unequal. In Nepal, that suspicion has become certainty. Generation Z— roughly those between 13 and 28— has grown up with democracy as a given but prosperity as a mirage. The youth unemployment rate hovers near 20 percent. Brain drain is a national fact of life; thousands leave the country every day in search of opportunity abroad. Remittances account for nearly one-third of GDP, making economic vitality less a function of domestic productivity than of overseas sacrifice.
Add to this the daily insult of conspicuous corruption. The “Nepo Kids” phenomenon— the children of political elites flaunting imported cars and designer clothes on the very social platforms the government sought to ban— has become a digital shorthand for all that is rotten in Kathmandu’s corridors of power. It is hard to build trust in institutions when those who run them treat public office as a private inheritance.
The pressing question now is whether Nepal’s leadership can grasp this opportunity. If they cannot, the streets will decide for them— and history rarely remembers those who mistook a generational demand for dignity as a temporary inconvenience.
In this light, the social media ban was less a spark than a detonator. It compressed years of frustration into days of rage. And it reminded political leaders of a simple truth often ignored in young democracies: legitimacy, once squandered, is rarely retrievable by decree.
Nepal’s politics are inevitably interlinked with its neighbours. Nepal is a landlocked country between India and China, and it has long been a regional political chessboard. Recently, Beijing has been more engaged with Kathmandu— investing heavily in infrastructure, mediating party disputes, and promoting its Belt and Road Initiative. KP Sharma Oli himself was a beneficiary of China’s political attention, particularly during periods when his party seemed poised to consolidate a pro-Beijing tilt.
But the current crisis is not one Beijing can easily shape. China may prefer stability, and it may have quietly encouraged party unity behind closed doors. But these protests are not a function of foreign policy disputes. They are not about borders or trade or even great-power alignment. They are about dignity, opportunity, and accountability— things no external actor can credibly deliver.
That may be a silver lining. Nepal’s turmoil, for all its dangers, is fundamentally a domestic affair. It is not yet another proxy conflict in a region already overburdened with them.
Still, the dangers are acute. Power vacuums do not stay empty. Oli’s resignation has removed a lightning rod but not the storm. The protests continue. Other ministers have resigned. The army is reportedly prepared to “stabilize” the situation, an ominous euphemism in a country with a fraught history of military involvement in politics.
The scenarios ahead range from fragile hope to outright tragedy. A caretaker government could steer the country toward reforms, addressing corruption and opening space for a younger political generation. But it could just as easily drift toward repression, particularly if elites misread the protests as transient rather than transformative.
One risk is radicalization. When peaceful protests are met with bullets, anger curdles into extremism. With the decades-old Maoist conflict, Nepal’s recent history shows that political violence has generational consequences. There’s also a risk of geopolitical opportunism. Both India and China have interests in maintaining stability near their borders. If Nepal remains unstable, they may be tempted to support certain groups to protect their own interests.
Nepal’s youth movement is part of a global trend now. Similar protests have occurred in places like Hong Kong, Iran, Chile, Sri Lanka and recently Bangladesh. In all these cases, young people, connected through the internet, are standing up against governments that are unresponsive, corrupt and authoritarian. Social media plays a key role, both as an organizing tool and as a symbolic battlefield. Banning it, as Nepal discovered, is like trying to silence a storm by confiscating umbrellas.
Equally instructive is what happens next. In some countries, protests yield meaningful reforms— Chile rewrote its constitution, for example. In others, they trigger repression or political backsliding— as in Myanmar or Egypt. The determining factors are rarely the scale of protests alone. They are whether political elites can channel dissent into institutional change rather than personal survival, and whether opposition movements can translate fury into a coherent vision of governance. Nepal has arrived at precisely that fork in the road.
For a nation of nearly 30 million, perched between two giant powers and burdened by history, the temptation will be to view this crisis as an existential threat. It is not. It is a warning— and perhaps an invitation. Democracies often renew themselves not through gradual evolution but through abrupt, uncomfortable reckonings. The violence of the past weeks is a tragedy, but it may yet be the cost of long-deferred accountability.
The task now is neither restoration nor revolution. Nepal now needs to reconstruct trust, institutions, and the bond between its leaders and its people. For this, it needs unwavering courage from politicians, professionalism from the security forces, and patience from the protesters. International actors should help stabilize the vulnerable situation in Nepal. In the end, a stable democratic Nepal can serve everyone’s interests best.
The pressing question now is whether Nepal’s leadership can grasp this opportunity. If they cannot, the streets will decide for them— and history rarely remembers those who mistook a generational demand for dignity as a temporary inconvenience.
