Kathmandu is burning once again. Protests led largely by students and young workers spiraled into violent clashes with police. Nineteen people are confirmed dead. Government offices, media houses, and even private residences of political leaders have been torched. Several ministers, including the home minister, have resigned. And yet, the unrest shows no signs of subsiding.
As a lawyer, I view this not just as political turbulence but as a collapse of constitutional order. At its heart, Nepal’s turmoil raises the question: what happens when governments lose legitimacy not through a coup or foreign invasion, but through systematic betrayal of public trust? Whether exaggerated in rumor or blurred in the chaos of protest, one thing is certain: Nepal is once again confronting the ghosts of its unstable history.
Nepal has cycled through 13 governments since adopting a republican framework in 2008. Each has promised reform; each has fallen to allegations of corruption. The Airbus procurement scandal involving Nepal Airlines remains an enduring symbol of millions of dollars lost, no one truly held accountable.
Under such conditions, the law becomes hollow. Taxation without transparency, power without responsibility, and public office without scrutiny create a vacuum of legitimacy. Citizens see the state not as protector but as predator. This legal vacuum explains why Nepalis have little patience for elite distinctions between government and opposition.
In the current protests, mobs have attacked the homes of both ruling and opposition leaders. The message is clear: the entire political class stands indicted in the court of public opinion. As one Kathmandu university student put it bluntly: “Every government comes, takes money, and goes. They don’t give us jobs, they only give us debt.”
For a generation that lives, breathes, and organizes through digital spaces, cutting off platforms like Facebook, Instagram, and X was not just a policy measure, it was an attack on their voice. To a youth already burdened by unemployment, corruption, and systemic exclusion, this became the proverbial last straw. But the deeper reasons lie elsewhere.
The sweeping ban on social media platforms imposed in September failed this test. It was not a regulation of harmful content, it was collective punishment of citizens for the state’s own insecurity. By silencing voices online, the government silenced dissent itself. And in doing so, it violated not only domestic constitutional protections but also international human rights obligations to which Nepal is a party. From a legal standpoint, this decision is indefensible. From a political standpoint, it was catastrophic. As one political scientist in Kathmandu observed, “This was a textbook pressure cooker situation. The state tried to shut down dissent, but instead shut down the only mechanism that kept dissent manageable.”
For South Asia at large, Nepal is a cautionary tale. Banning social media, suppressing dissent, and ignoring youth unemployment may buy governments time, but only briefly. Sooner or later, the law of political gravity asserts itself. Otherwise, as Nepal shows, when law is absent, the street will become the only court left. And its verdict is rarely merciful.
There is an old Roman line by the satirist Juvenal: the people demand only two things, bread and circuses. So long as rulers provide food and entertainment, revolts can be staved off. In today’s world, social media plays the role of both bread and circus. It is where people vent, distract themselves, and sometimes mobilize. By cutting off that outlet, Nepal’s leaders removed both the circus and the safety valve. Instead of distraction, the citizens found solidarity. Instead of containment, there was combustion. What was meant to silence dissent eventually became the spark for an uprising.
Whereas, the state’s response to protest has been equally problematic. The principle is simple: the state may regulate protest to maintain order, but it may not annihilate protest to maintain power. The killing of civilians by security forces is not law enforcement; it is a breakdown of law itself. Here lies the paradox. Governments claim to protect order, but by violating fundamental rights, they delegitimize the very order they claim to defend.
Protesters are not only venting rage; they have articulated demands ranting the creation of an independent anti-corruption ombudsman, fresh elections within six months, direct election of the prime minister, reduction of the parliamentary term to four years, and justice for those killed, including capital punishment for perpetrators.
Some of these demands are constitutionally viable; while others are not. Nepal abolished the death penalty decades ago. To reinstate it now would not only contravene the country’s constitutional spirit but also breach its obligations under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. Justice for victims is necessary, but vengeance masquerading as justice risks repeating the cycle of violence.
Nepal’s crisis should not be read in isolation. It belongs to a regional pattern. Sri Lanka’s mass protests in 2022 forced a president to flee. Bangladesh’s upheaval in 2024 toppled a prime minister. And Pakistan, despite chronic unrest, remains perpetually on the brink of, but never quite at systemic upheaval. What distinguishes Nepal and Sri Lanka is size and cohesion. Small, relatively homogenous populations make it possible for anger to crystallize quickly. In Pakistan, with its population of 240 million and deep ethnic and provincial divides, unified revolution remains far less likely.
Moreover, Pakistan’s establishment acts as a built-in circuit breaker, removing leaders before unrest reaches critical mass. As one regional analyst based in Colombo explained, “Revolutions succeed in smaller states with tighter social cohesion. In Pakistan, the scale and diversity of grievances prevent nationwide unity.” Nepal, by contrast, lacks such buffers. When discontent erupts, it hits the system full force.
The deeper challenge for Nepal is not toppling governments but building institutions strong enough to outlast governments. Thirteen administrations in 17 years tell a story of constitutional fragility. Without durable checks and balances, independent courts, empowered watchdogs, accountable parties the cycle of corruption and collapse will persist. The lesson is simple but sobering: democracy without rule of law is performance without substance. Elections alone cannot deliver legitimacy. Only when power is exercised under law, and law applies equally to rulers and ruled, can legitimacy endure
As Yuval Noah Harari has observed, in modern times “people often have power but not authority, while governments have authority but not power.” Nepal today embodies this contradiction. The people, empowered by networks and outrage, can bring down governments. But authority without accountability has hollowed the state, leaving its leaders unable to govern effectively.
For South Asia at large, Nepal is a cautionary tale. Banning social media, suppressing dissent, and ignoring youth unemployment may buy governments time, but only briefly. Sooner or later, the law of political gravity asserts itself. Otherwise, as Nepal shows, when law is absent, the street will become the only court left. And its verdict is rarely merciful.
