Less than 11 months into his term, Indonesian President Prabowo Subianto faces a stark choice. He can be remembered either as a leader whose presidency was defined by public anger and discontent, or as one who recognised the challenges facing his country and acted in the national interest.
The anti-government protests sweeping Indonesia over the past month are not fleeting outbursts but the culmination of long-suppressed grievances against abuses of power, the erosion of constitutional norms, and the violation of basic human rights.
The protesters are not seeking an apology or even sympathy from the president; they demand the chance to live a decent life in which their dignity and human rights are respected and upheld. That yearning for clean and effective government is now echoed in similar protests in East Timor, Nepal, Philippines and elsewhere.
Prabowo's administration has set its sights on making the country the world's fourth-largest economy by 2045 -- a goal that would require sustained annual growth of 8%. But with 68% of Indonesia's population living below the poverty line for upper-middle-income countries, such ambitions mean little if millions of citizens remain trapped in poverty and hardship.
Indonesians have experienced rapid growth before, most notably during the long dictatorship of Suharto (1967-98), Prabowo's former father-in-law. Given that history, they know that lasting and inclusive development gains depend on political and social reform, not strongman rule.
Blaming previous administrations or consolidating power among key parties -- which may provide short-term stability but weakens democratic resilience -- will not absolve the current government of responsibility for its decisions today. What Indonesia needs are concrete measures to reduce poverty, create employment opportunities, and restore trust in government.
To heal the country's deepening social fractures, policymakers must focus on four urgent priorities. First, they must enforce the separation of powers and eliminate conflicts of interest. Democracy flourishes only when the executive, legislative, and judicial branches operate independently, yet in Indonesia, power remains heavily concentrated. Many political parties operate as family-run enterprises, with leaders holding executive roles or wielding outsize influence across institutions.&nbsp;
This concentration fosters a culture of impunity and erodes public trust.
Clear ethics rules are essential. Public officials -- including the president, cabinet members, and parliamentary leaders -- should not hold party posts, positions in state-owned enterprises (SOEs), and private-sector jobs simultaneously.&nbsp;
Eliminating these overlaps would reduce corruption, ensure that policies serve citizens rather than private or partisan interests, and bolster the credibility of Indonesia's democratic institutions.
Second, fiscal transparency is critical to delivering better-targeted social assistance and accelerating SOE reform. For two decades, Indonesia's tax-to-GDP ratio has stagnated at 10-12%. While the 2026 budget projects revenues totaling 12% of GDP, early 2025 figures are lagging this target – a shortfall worsened by a decline in commodity revenues.
At the same time, budget pressures continue to mount, underscoring the need for fiscal discipline. The government's Free Nutritious Meals programme is a prime example. Though well-intentioned, it is prohibitively expensive, with a budget of 171 trillion rupiahs ($0.3 billion) that is expected to rise three-fold in 2026.&nbsp;
A more effective approach would be to pilot the programme in five underserved regions, at a cost of no more than five trillion rupiahs, while engaging with local communities. The remaining funds could be used to support teachers, health professionals, and waste-management workers, or finance programs that deliver tangible benefits to low- and middle-income households.
Similarly, the new Danantara sovereign-wealth fund, with its 300 trillion rupiah budget, is unnecessary. With public debt at 41% of GDP, new borrowing should be directed towards productive investment rather than bureaucratic expansion.&nbsp;
Reforming existing SOEs would be cheaper, faster, and more effective. While consolidation has reduced the number of SOEs from 118 in 2018 to 64 in 2024, the state still dominates sectors ranging from banking to hospitality, crowding out small enterprises.
Third, civil authority must be strengthened to curb military interference. Military or police intervention in civilian affairs tends to undermine democratic institutions.&nbsp;
In Indonesia, where the military continues to wield significant political influence, preserving clear boundaries is particularly important. That means codified institutional checks, stronger civilian oversight, and strict adherence to human-rights norms. Without these safeguards, Indonesia risks sliding towards the instability seen in Myanmar or in parts of Latin America and Africa.
Lastly, the long-delayed Asset Recovery Bill (RUU Perampasan Aset), which would empower the state to reclaim disproportionate wealth without waiting for a criminal conviction, must be enacted.&nbsp;
Crucially, its aim is not to seize assets arbitrarily but to ensure that stolen public assets are restored to their rightful owners -- the people. First drafted in 2008 and submitted to parliament in 2012, the bill has languished for nearly two decades, enabling corrupt actors to plunder public resources with impunity.
By establishing a civil process for recovering unexplained wealth (in rem asset recovery), the law fulfills Indonesia's obligations under the United Nations Convention Against Corruption and shows that the government stands with citizens in fighting abuses of power. If Prabowo channels this recovered wealth into education, health care, and social programs, he could leave a truly transformative legacy.
Indonesia's leadership can choose to deepen repression, or it can take a different path and strengthen democratic governance. Prabowo's legacy will not be measured by electoral margins but by whether his government respects human rights, improves health care and education, and creates more good jobs.&nbsp;
He can be remembered as the president who presided over Indonesia's largest protests since Suharto, or he can be celebrated as a leader who delivered political, social, and economic justice. The choice is his. © Project Syndicate
Lili Yan Ing, Secretary General of the International Economic Association, is Lead Adviser for the Southeast Asian region at the Economic Research Institute for Asean and East Asia.

original

674x448

610x380

500x500

400x266

400x240

400x203

301x200

1250x600

1084x550

thumbnail

viewImage

Opinion

Indonesian democracy on the brink

The protest led by digital-native generation is not a rejection of democratic norms but rather an insistence for the Constitution’s most fundamental guarantees to be taken seriously. What confronts us is not youthful defiance, but political impunity masquerading as governance.&nbsp;
The spreading narrative that our protests were about a fleeting social media ban insults our generation’s intelligence. The protest has exposed a deeper generational revolt. No longer will we pay for impunity, we are determined to confront it as a constitutional betrayal rather than an inevitability of culture.
We know what is enshrined in our Constitution. Article 17 guarantees us the right to freedom: a freedom to assemble peacefully and without arms. Yet when we exercised those rights, the state met us with bullets instead of dialogue. That betrayal forces us to ask if Nepal is capable of delivering real democratic substance, or will the upcoming generation be left to inherit yet another endless cycle of hollow symbols and the whims of the powerful?
We, GenZ, are not demanding reforms at the margin. We are asking for the future our Constitution promised. We look ahead with both clarity and urgency.
We envision a democracy true to its words, where the Constitution is honoured in practice; where digital freedom is not revoked when it unsettles entrenched power, where the judiciary upholds the law without fear or favor, and independent watchdogs strike at impunity with unflinching integrity, and where elections reflect the true will of citizens rather than the staged choreography of the elites.
We foresee a cultural transformation-connection being no longer needed for survival. We can only laugh when they label our demands as ‘utopian’, imagine living in a nation where fundamentals of democracy are themselves treated as luxuries.
What is new is our unwillingness to wait. Raised on digital democracy, well aware of the law and fluent in hashtags, we are unafraid to take our case to the streets when institutions have repeatedly failed us. The whole nation is watching the interim government closely, and so are we -- the generation determined to make a system which works for all, not just for the privileged few.
Sambriddhi Aryal, 21, is a fourth-year student at Kathmandu School of Law with a keen eye on constitutional law, civic rights, and the pulse of global change.

GenZ constitutional awakening

Visitors are often mesmerised by the beauty, tranquillity and old-world charm of Dhankuta in eastern Nepal. Now, this hill town is being turned into a dream destination for nature lovers, culture enthusiasts, and slow travel seekers.&nbsp; Community groups here have undertaken an innovative model of responsible tourism coupled with sustainable development that could prove to be the solution for other mountain communities in the region too. Responsible tourism is the one that benefits local people, protects the environment, and preserves local heritage. For the people of Dhankuta, it is not just a buzzword, but a lifeline. Here, their integrated approach to tourism is designed to improve livelihoods, preserve cultures, and address outmigration and the very specific challenge of water security. Across the hills and mountains of the Hindu Kush Himalaya, communities largely rely on spring water for drinking, household use, and minor irrigation. This water is fed by ‘watersheds’ – areas of land that drain water into a specific waterbody. The Nibuwa-Tankhuwa is Dhankuta’s watershed, where a fourth of the 97 springs have already dried up due to climate change, posing a clear threat to the community’s water security. To tackle this head on, the Dhankuta community began a grassroots movement here in 2021, which paired responsible tourism with vital water conservation efforts. This included building recharge ponds, reviving springs, and implementing rainwater harvesting systems in the watershed.&nbsp; Importantly, these projects have provided a foundation for the entire tourism model – tourists can witness this work firsthand, seeing and learning to understand how every drop of water is carefully managed. A further challenge is Dhankuta’s complex geography, with the settlements of the indigenous Aathpahariya community scattered across hilltops and valleys. For those living on higher ground, recharge ponds alone aren’t enough. To address this, rainwater harvesting systems and bio-sand filtration units were introduced, making safe water accessible to families and visitors even in previously underserved areas. Historically, the Aathpahariyas have depended on agriculture, but water scarcity led to significant outmigration, despite a long-held cultural and spiritual belief that crossing the Tamor River symbolises severing ties with their land. For them, responsible tourism has offered a way to earn a living without leaving the area.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250927150936_77e15e16a293e2d228bc7e5a7af74f95c87c24b9fb670f59f722be4416b73a62.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250927150936_77e15e16a293e2d228bc7e5a7af74f95c87c24b9fb670f59f722be4416b73a62" data-rendition-name="original" width="1126" height="751" loading="lazy" alt="The Aathpahariya community welcoming guests."> <figcaption>The Aathpahariya community welcoming guests. </figcaption> </figure>  Young leaders like Sabita Shrestha and Nabin Aathpahariya are now at the forefront of this movement. Sabita is Dhankuta’s first female cultural guide, and Nabin, a tour guide, is a champion of his culture and the local ecosystem, proving that you can both honour tradition and adapt to a changing world. This provides a unique opportunity for the indigenous Aathpahariya community, allowing them to remain rooted in their sacred homeland and continue their traditions, while engaging in meaningful economic activities that respect and uphold their cultural values.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250927150936_89d3e3fb2f9d4e1564b393e493d06d6c8825a90e0c39fc839e6da38813b5c774.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250927150936_89d3e3fb2f9d4e1564b393e493d06d6c8825a90e0c39fc839e6da38813b5c774" data-rendition-name="original" width="1051" height="793" loading="lazy" alt="Dhankuta tourism"> <figcaption>Nabin Aathpahariya (centre) and community members in their traditional attire at Khambela, an Aathpahariya settlement on a hilltop.</figcaption> </figure>  Dhankuta isn’t trying to attract a multitude of visitors. The vision is to invite intentional travellers who favour immersive, low-impact, high-value experiences. While Nepal’s tourism sector is growing, much of it comes at a cost to the environment. Dhankuta offers an environmental breakthrough, a path that strengthens local culture and makes perfect business sense for the community.&nbsp; This is particularly relevant now, as Nepal's tourism sector faces a fresh challenge. A recent wave of protests led by GenZ against government corruption and mismanagement has disrupted the peak tourist season. The unrest caused international travel advisories to be issued and led to a sharp drop in tourist arrivals, with some industry estimates pointing to losses of over Rs25 billion.&nbsp; In response to the setback, the Nepal Tourism Board has launched a new campaign, including reviving hashtags like #NowInNepal, to reassure the world that the country is safe and ready to welcome visitors. But while the national tourism strategy focuses on broad recovery, initiatives like Dhankuta's provide a model of what a truly resilient tourism economy can look like. It is not just about bouncing back from a crisis, it is about building a system that can weather them. Dhankuta is not waiting for solutions to come from outside. It is actively building them from within. Dhankuta’s tourism is a powerful example of what is possible when a community takes collective ownership of its future. The question now is not just how many people will visit, but how many others will be inspired to build their own dreams from the ground up. Anu Kumari Lama is a tourism expert at ICIMOD while Vuyasi Rajbhandari is Communications Associate.

Building a dream in Dhankuta

On 8 September, Nepal witnessed one of the darkest chapters in its democratic journey. What began as a peaceful demonstration by GenZ students against corruption ended in tragedy.
Young people, many still in their school uniforms, came forward with banners and voices, not weapons. They believed that wearing their uniforms would protect them, a symbol of innocence and safety. Instead, they were met with tear gas, bullets, and chaos.
I was there. I marched with two of my closest friends. I heard chants rise, I saw hope spread. And then, in one moment, everything changed. The air filled with sirens and smoke, our voices drowned in chaos. I was pulled back before it was too late, but others were not so lucky.
That night, my Instagram feed was filled with trembling hands, bloodied uniforms, and lifeless eyes. They were children like me, who trusted the very state that turned its guns on them.
And as if that was not enough, opportunists took advantage. While we bled, criminals escaped from prisons. At the same time, political actors attempted to hijack the movement for their own interests, undermining the authentic voices of the young generation. These betrayals deepened the sense of injustice and disillusionment among Nepal’s youth.
Despite the grief, one truth remains: this generation refuses to be silenced. From the ashes of 8 September must emerge a stronger, more accountable Nepal.
To honour those who lost their lives and to safeguard the nation’s future, the following are essential:
• Justice for the martyrs. Not only official recognition but also lifelong support to their families, including education, healthcare, and economic assistance.
• Independent Truth and Justice Commission. An impartial body with international oversight to investigate the events and ensure transparent, public trials.
• Accountability for violence. Immediate suspension, investigation, and prosecution of officers and commanders who authorised or used violence against students.
•Vetting of political leaders. A commission to ensure that no past leader returns to power without thorough investigation and clearance from corruption or abuse of power. Every new minister and officer must also meet strict academic and professional standards, pass full background checks, and have no criminal record.
• Re-arrest of escaped criminals. Publication of wanted lists and formation of task forces with strict deadlines to restore law and order.
• National healing and trauma care. Counseling and support programs for survivors, families, and students who experienced trauma.
• Memorialisation: Construction of a Youth Martyrs’ Memorial in Kathmandu and designate 8 September as Youth Courage Day.
• Police and security reform. Ban on live ammunition in peaceful protests, mandatory body cameras, and human rights training for law enforcement.
• Youth participation in governance. Establishment of a permanent Youth Advisory Council under the government to ensure young voices shape national policy.
• Accountability of the interim government: monthly progress updates and a 100-day roadmap with clear deadlines for reforms and justice.
• Curriculum inclusion. Incorporation of 8 September protest into school textbooks to educate future generations the cost of freedom.
• Exoneration of GenZ protesters. Officially clear GenZ of any responsibility for property damage, recognising that any destruction was caused by opportunists, while our actions remained peaceful and focused on justice.
These demands are not radical, they are the foundation of a dignified society. In the short term, citizens expect justice for victims, re-arrest of escaped criminals, and concrete accountability from the interim government. In the long term, we look toward systemic reforms: a political culture rooted in merit, transparency, and integrity, and a nation where youth are active participants in governance.
The GenZ protest was more than a demonstration, it was a test of Nepal’s democracy. The state’s failure to protect its children has left a wound that cannot heal without truth and justice. If we act decisively, we can transform grief into reform, betrayal into accountability, and tragedy into hope.The blood of our generation must be the foundation upon which a just, transparent, and inclusive Nepal is built.
Niharika Sah is a final-year engineering student from Lalitpur with a deep love for literature and poetry.&nbsp;

The Nepal our friends died for

Social media has long been more than entertainment for young Nepalis. It has become a civic space where they stay informed on national issues, challenge authority, demand accountability, and organise for change.
In early September, TikTok, Reddit, and other platforms were flooded with a 'naming and shaming' campaign aimed at so-called 'nepo babies' in Nepal. Echoing similar movements in Indonesia and Sri Lanka, the campaign resonated deeply with disillusioned Nepali Gen Z. &nbsp;
Frustration escalated when the government banned 26 social media platforms including Facebook, WhatsApp, and Instagram, for failing to register within Nepal. The ban shut down the civic space Gen Z relied on. What began online spilled onto the streets, sparking nationwide protests now known as the GenZ protests. Young Nepalis voluntarily marched, demanding two urgent reforms: lifting the social media ban and rooting out corruption.
For many, the anger runs far deeper than digital restrictions. Public trust in politicians has withered after decades of power struggles between Sher Bahadur Deuba, Pushpa Kamal Dahal and K P Oli. Tired of the endless game of musical chairs who promise change but deliver betrayal, GenZ insists that politicians are not divine power to be worshipped but public servants who must answer to the people.
On 8 September, GenZ protesters marched peacefully, carrying artistic placards and singing patriotic songs. Police responded with deadly force firing live rounds, deploying tear gas, and beating protesters with batons and water cannons, resulting in the mass killing of our fellow protesters. What began as a citizen’s duty to hold the government accountable turned into a tragedy because the government forgot that it is the guardian of its people, not their murderer.
On 9 September, rage engulfed the nation. People from every corner joined the protests, responding to the government’s failure and the brutal mass murder of young people. Taking advantage of the situation, some vested groups infiltrated the demonstrations, which escalated into violence, including arson, vandalism, and attacks on property and individuals holding political power.
Following the incident, the government was overthrown, and GenZ formed a citizen’s Government. Our primary demand to this new government is a full and impartial investigation into the mass murder. GenZ has specifically identified former Prime Minister K P Oli, former Home Minister Ramesh Lekhak, and the former Inspector General of Police Chandra Kuber Khapung who must be investigated free from political interference.&nbsp;
Those found guilty must be held accountable under national law. Additionally, GenZ demands a transparent inquiry into the vandalism and arson that occurred on 9 September, emphasising that attacks on public property undermine the true spirit of their movement.
GenZ’s second demand is the conduction of fair elections on 5 March 2026. The true measure of this interim government’s success lies in fulfilling that commitment.
The third demand is the establishment of a high-level, independent anti-corruption mechanism to investigate graft since the restoration of democracy in 1990. GenZ argues that existing watchdog bodies are toothless, filled with political appointees loyal to ruling parties. The new body must be free from political influence and empowered to investigate and prosecute even the most powerful. These demands are not negotiable.
While united on these core demands, GenZ activists hold different views on the political system’s future. Some advocate for a directly elected prime minister, while others favor reforms within the existing parliamentary structure. Even young members within ruling parties share this frustration, calling for internal reforms and urging long-entrenched leaders to step aside and pass the mantle of leadership to a new generation. This is not a formal demand but a discussion taking place within GenZ circles.
Debates over the Constitution of Nepal 2015 have also surfaced. While some anti-democratic actors have called for its nullification, GenZ protesters firmly reject this. This Constitution was achieved through nearly a decade of struggle. Although it is rare for a Constituent Assembly to fail in delivering a Constitution, Nepal became an exceptional case when the first assembly collapsed without producing one. This failure led to the formation of a second Constituent Assembly, which ultimately delivered the 2015 Constitution.
GenZ continues to uphold the principles of a Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal. They emphasise that the Constitution must be implemented in its true spirit ensuring accountability, transparency, and rule of law.
At the same time, no Constitution is perfect. Society is constantly evolving. Space for amendments should always exist, as in any healthy democracy, to address shortcomings and strengthen its foundations. However, this remains a background discussion, not a central agenda of the GenZ movement.
Though triggered by the social media ban, the GenZ protests represent something deeper. This generation demands strengthening the pillars of good governance. For Nepal’s GenZ, this movement is reclaiming democracy, reclaiming their space.
Eight September is embedded into GenZ’s collective memory as a trauma that will continue to haunt Nepal unless the nation changes its course. And if it does not, GenZ will keep rising up, not only as the greatest leaders but, more importantly, as a most formidable opposition. 
 
Tanuja Pandey is a lawyer and climate justice activist.

A new dawn for democracy in Nepal

Although instability is endemic to South and Southeast Asia, it is becoming increasingly dangerous both for India’s neighbors and India itself. This was reflected most recently in the violent unrest in Nepal. But that crisis is hardly an isolated case. In Bangladesh, directly to India’s east, the same tensions that led to the overthrow of the government in 2024 remain unresolved. And to the southeast, Thailand is reeling from the court-ordered removal of its prime minister and a series of recent border clashes with Cambodia. 
According to the Armed Conflict Location &amp; Event Data project, Myanmar’s civil war has claimed at least <a href="https://acleddata.com/report/war-sky-how-drone-warfare-shaping-conflict-myanmar" target="_blank">80,000 lives</a>, both civilians and combatants, since 2021, following the military coup that ended Aung San Suu Kyi’s democratic government. To India’s west, a perpetually volatile Pakistan wrestles with the zombies of its history: Islamist extremist groups and poor economic and governmental performance. 
To the south, Sri Lanka may have settled down following the ouster of its president three years ago, but its economy shows few signs of mounting a sustained recovery. And to the north, China’s quest for regional hegemony is another source of instability. 
For India, these crises are not distant concerns. Refugee flows from Bangladesh are causing social unease and disruptions in India’s eastern states; the never-ending threat of cross-border terror from Pakistan nearly incited a war in Kashmir this summer; and now, Nepal’s volatile politics have given China another opportunity for meddling. Since this arc of fragility is too large to ignore, the question for India’s leadership is how to absorb and minimize the shockwaves, and how to steady the region.
One can start with Nepal, which has struggled to live by the ambitious constitution that was forged to end a long Maoist rebellion two decades ago. Nepali state institutions remain fragile and contested, and hopes of stability have been repeatedly dashed by factionalism, corruption, and political leaders’ inability to consolidate a system that everyone can trust. The recent spasm of shockingly brutal violence is a symptom of these deeper fault lines. 
India cannot be indifferent to such instability. Our long, open border with Nepal makes us vulnerable to refugee flows and cross-border crime, and our deep cultural, ethnic, religious, and economic ties mean that the government in Kathmandu will always look over its shoulder at the government in New Delhi. Moreover, China’s increasing influence in Nepal’s domestic politics has, as a matter of necessity, made the country a major strategic concern for India. 
In Bangladesh, the interim government that has ruled since <a href="https://www.project-syndicate.org/columnist/sheikh-hasina">Sheikh Hasina</a>’s ouster is failing in its efforts to restore law and order or safeguard human rights. The economy, a bright spot for decades, is under pressure from domestic political jitters and US President Donald Trump’s punishing tariffs. The febrile political environment has left the country’s minorities feeling increasingly insecure. The stakes for India are high, because its own efforts to manage the border, migration, and counterterrorism depend on the regime in Dhaka maintaining order. 
At first glance, Thailand’s turmoil and the border clashes with Cambodia may seem less urgent. But India, under its Act East policy, has been pursuing deeper economic and strategic ties with the Association of Southeast Asian Nations’ ten member states and their 600 million-plus people. Any instability within that bloc will complicate this outreach. 
Moreover, Thailand has long served as a bridge between South and Southeast Asia. If its institutions falter, or if disputes with Cambodia escalate despite Malaysian Prime Minister <a href="https://www.project-syndicate.org/columnist/anwar-ibrahim">Anwar Ibrahim</a>’s best efforts to broker a resolution, India’s vision of a connected, secure Indo-Pacific corridor could become untenable. 
To describe Pakistan as chronically troubled may sound dismissive, but it is an unfortunate truth. The country’s civilian authorities have been consistently undermined, as when <a href="https://www.project-syndicate.org/columnist/imran-khan-1">Imran Khan</a>’s elected government was ousted in 2022 at the military’s behest. Extremist groups thrive when politics becomes a blood sport, and Pakistan’s fragile economy only exacerbates this dynamic. 
From India’s perspective, Pakistan’s troubles are more than a domestic issue, because they regularly threaten to spill across the Line of Control in Kashmir, fueling terrorism, destroying any prospect for regional peace, and even introducing the specter of a nuclear catastrophe. This continuous instability chains India to the sub-continental chessboard, even when it wants to look outward. The Pakistan-China axis further complicates the status quo, which is unlikely to change in the foreseeable future. 
All these stories point to a larger worrying trend: democracy in India’s neighborhood is in retreat. Constitutions are being rewritten, and courts politicized. Sensing weakness, too many army generals see themselves as free to intervene, including by jailing or exiling political leaders.
For India – the world’s largest democracy – responding to this trend demands a more assertive regional strategy. Of course, for most of South Asia, barring Pakistan, India is the first responder when crises hit. But during periods when India’s neighbors do not think they need its help, they tend to shrug off its security concerns. 
And as if India’s neighborhood were not dangerous enough, the wider world adds its own layers of uncertainty. Trump’s policy toward the region has been arbitrary in the extreme, leading smaller states to hedge their bets. In Japan and South Korea, debates are underway about the wisdom of acquiring nuclear weapons, now that China is flexing its muscles and the US security umbrella has been called into question. 
Although India has stood its ground in the face of the storm, the regional and Trump-induced volatility is making it harder to maintain the country’s treasured strategic autonomy. The task now is no longer to deepen ties with America, but to maintain the strategic, technological, and economic core of the partnership while building resistance against sudden shifts in US policy. 
India is not seeking dominance in South Asia. Its goal is to build an inclusive, rules-based, and connected region – and thus transform a history of recurring crises into a future of enduring stability. © <a href="https://www.project-syndicate.org/">Project Syndicate</a>
Nirupama Rao is a former foreign secretary of India and former Indian ambassador to China and the United States.

India’s reckoning with its dangerous neighbourhood

I keep asking myself the same question over and over: why is it always the ordinary people who pay the heaviest price? Those who call themselves leaders, those who stand at podiums and later claim the glory of victory, almost always walk away untouched.&nbsp; The ones who never asked for such a burden-the bystanders, the children, the men and women just trying to live through an ordinary day-are the ones who never return home. The names and faces of 8 September are still fresh, and they will not leave me. Shreeyam Chaulagain was walking on the road that afternoon. He was not throwing stones, not giving speeches. He was clapping, curious, watching history unfold before him. And then, without warning, a bullet struck him right at his head. His life was over before he could even grasp what was happening. That same day, a police officer in civil clothes was brutally beaten to death. He was mistaken for someone of higher rank. His killers did not ask who he was, what he believed, or whether he deserved their rage. They decided his fate in seconds, and in seconds he was gone. And then there was Mohammad from Saptari. He had stopped at a small tea shop in Baneshwor, the kind of place where countless people gather for a short break in the middle of the day. He was not there to fight, not there to chant. He was there for tea. When the crowd surged, he ran. But the bullet still found him.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250916070932_18d8cc1a9ccfcf3ddcf20bbb41e5e0cd96548675ca268f2ea55e41739882fbed.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250916070932_18d8cc1a9ccfcf3ddcf20bbb41e5e0cd96548675ca268f2ea55e41739882fbed" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="GenZ protests"> </figure>  None of these people were leaders of a movement. None of them had asked to be part of a revolution. They were swept up by forces beyond their control, and now they are remembered in funerals and obituaries rather than in life. People tell me this is how revolutions have always been. That every struggle demands sacrifice. That change does not come without blood. I have heard these explanations repeated so often they sound rehearsed. But I cannot accept them.&nbsp; I cannot agree that the lives of strangers should be considered an acceptable price for political theater. Sacrifice cannot be imposed. It cannot be demanded from those who never chose it. When I think of these deaths, I think of the families who must now live in silence and absence. A mother who waits for a son who will not come home. A child who will grow up without a father. A wife or a husband who replays those last words, those last smiles, wondering if there was anything they could have done differently.&nbsp; The grief will follow them for the rest of their lives. And it will not be eased by slogans, nor will it be erased by talk of revolution. I have never lived through past revolutions. I do not carry the scars of 1990 or 2006, nor do I share in the pride that others claim from those years. I only carry the questions of today. And my question is simple: if leaders can claim the credit for a movement, why can they not also claim the mistakes? Why can they not say, clearly, that lives were lost unjustly? Why can they not apologise-not in the shallow way that circulates on social media to save face, but in the kind of apology that carries weight, one that acknowledges human life and responsibility? One of the most responsible things this generation-the one that fills the streets, that carries the banners, that calls itself GenZ - could do over the next six months is to demand a full investigation.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250916070932_d8be401ce532df250c2e794fdd65f4262edad526900328dad720ed57ebca07b6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250916070932_d8be401ce532df250c2e794fdd65f4262edad526900328dad720ed57ebca07b6" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="GenZ protests"> </figure>  We need to know who gave the order to fire on protesters on <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-s-8-september-massacre">8 September</a>. We need to know who directed the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/kathmandu-burns-despite-pm-resignation">arson and destruction on 9 September</a>. These answers cannot be allowed to slip into silence.&nbsp; If we do not seek them, if we let the questions fade, we will have accepted a dangerous message: that violence is permissible, that lives can be discarded without consequence. The stakes are higher than they may appear. This is not only about justice for the dead. It is about what kind of country we are willing to live in. If impunity remains the rule, it will not stop here. The lesson will be learned, and repeated, and repeated again.&nbsp; The next protest will end the same way. The next group of bystanders will face the same fate. Unless we demand accountability now, history will not change its course. I write these words not because I have easy answers, but because I am haunted by the questions. I imagine Shreeyam’s last glance at the crowd, Mohammad’s unfinished cup of tea, the officer who thought he was going home to his family.&nbsp; I imagine their families waiting in disbelief, telling themselves it cannot be true. I imagine the silence that follows, the silence that will stretch across their lives. If there is ever a next time-and there always is a next time-when people think of bringing children and students to the front lines, I hope they will remember these names. I hope they will remember that innocence should never be used as a tool, because innocence always suffers most. Revolutions are not measured by how many lives are lost, but by whether they create a future where life is valued. If we cannot say with certainty that those lives mattered, that those deaths were unjust, then we will have betrayed not only the memory of Shreeyam, Mohammad, and the officer who died, but also the generations yet to come. Ishika Panta is the founder of Project Abhaya, an organisation leveraging technology to advance civic engagement and political literacy among youth and marginalised communities.

Questions That Won’t Leave Me

On September 9th, Dashrath Rai from Kantipur TV was reporting from the Lalitpur Satdobato area, when the station’s van with the camera crew, was stopped by protesters twice. “Kantipur Murdabad” the men shouted, and some other men in the crowd showed up to lead them away to make way for the TV van. As someone who spent about 14 years at KTV, I worried for my former colleagues. On September 8, cameraman Shyam Shrestha Dai had been injured during the shooting at the parliament, where 19 protesters were killed. The death toll would rise later to 72. As the reports of arson from different parts of the city came in, I texted my former colleague Rupesh Shrestha, Deputy News Chief at KTV, who was reporting from the streets. Stay safe! He said: Huss, didi. Three hours later, he was injured in an attack at KTV. The station was preparing for the 2PM bulletin when the attacks began. First, they pelted stones, then stormed the office. “We had been alerted of an imminent attack, but we were busy working and didn’t have the time to get away,” Sabina Karki, Presenter and Reporter, says. “I didn’t panic at first and thought we would be able to leave.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250915150928_94e82aa9ccb550abce0f8f6b50c2f29c592cd7fdf51adaf4113b6e9dffc780c9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250915150928_94e82aa9ccb550abce0f8f6b50c2f29c592cd7fdf51adaf4113b6e9dffc780c9" data-rendition-name="original" width="1280" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Kantipur TV’s September storm"> <figcaption>All photos: RUPESH SHRESTHA</figcaption> </figure>  Soon after the attacks began, the staff tried to get out of the building. By the time they arrived on the ground floor, it was in shambles. “I thought of hiding in the toilet on the ground floor, but my colleague Surendra Kattel said, if this floor is gutted, we’ll never get out. So we went back upstairs and to the studio building [using the bridge that connects the two buildings]. We alerted colleagues at the News Control Room (NCR) who had no idea what was going on outside,” Sabina says. The staff looking for cover, converged outside the NCR and tried different exit doors but the doors didn’t give. News Chief Bijaya Poudel had to smash the glass door of the studio building so everyone could get out. He was hurt in the process. “Once outside, we saw people had big sticks, knives and someone even had a gun. I felt like I was in a movie scene or perhaps a war zone. We were so helpless. We didn’t know what they would do to us. We stood still,” Sabina recalls. “And then a stranger grabbed my hand and said get out of here and dragged me by the hand and left me outside the office gate.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250915150928_5554643519fe1870bbd2852a9fa233f3dcee5a0ba74db4140550dca6f3358610.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250915150928_5554643519fe1870bbd2852a9fa233f3dcee5a0ba74db4140550dca6f3358610" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Kantipur TV’s September storm"> </figure>  Some others were able to leave with Sabina. They pushed and jostled past protesters to get away from the building but when they tried to check on colleagues, armed men stopped them and made them leave. They ran past Kantipur Hospital and escaped into the inner lanes, navigating scenes of vandalism on the streets. A police station had been attacked. They sought shelter at a random, private home where Sabina waited for almost two hours and then shifted to a colleague's house to shelter for another couple of hours, before she was able to get home that night. “I couldn’t process anything. After I reached home, I felt scared.” Rupesh, who was working on a special editorial when the attack happened, was one of the last to leave the station building. As someone who had been on TV a lot, covering some major political events in the recent past, he became an easy target. “I had been doing live TV, so I was still wearing my studio attire and that might have made it easy for them to identify me,” Rupesh explains. “I was leaving through the gate when they started to hit me. My glasses fell and punches rained down on me. Some colleagues put their palms together and asked the vandals to let them go. They also told me to say sorry. And I said, why must I apologise when I haven’t done anything wrong? They hit me some more. I raised my arms in surrender.” They pulled his studio jacket off him, then yanked off his tie and dragged him away from the building, from where he was finally allowed to go. Rupesh found safety at someone's private home, from where he tried to contact colleagues, who had all fled in different directions. His phone died and it was 7:30PM when a colleague was finally able to help him get home. The attackers kept returning until midnight in installments, destroying more property and torching the building. Rupesh has a fractured nose from the attack and his face was swollen for days. His body is sore. His car was reduced into a skeleton. For the first two days, he did not want to speak to the world. He could not wrap his head around the violence. “At first we weren’t sure whether to transmit or not. Everything was gone and it felt like an impossible task. I had no confidence, I felt scared. How do we broadcast from the ashes, a masan? But then I thought, if we don’t do our jobs, who will?”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250915150928_a4d508f9f974663a72b13c90c834e650b9a1b9fbde121de87b2f587a7edce45b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20250915150928_a4d508f9f974663a72b13c90c834e650b9a1b9fbde121de87b2f587a7edce45b" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Kantipur TV’s September storm"> </figure>  The team sat down and worked out what they needed to get on the air again. Since the news studio building had been damaged, they decided to transmit from the scene of the wreckage. They retrieved just enough UPS batteries for one operation. Four devices with a newsroom network system support the current function. Battery back up goes out as soon as bright lights use them up and the teleprompter does not work. When KTV started broadcasting from the debris, some called it a stunt, and others called it cool. “Currently, salary and insurance issues persist but the owners have said they will address them,” Rupesh says, who has spent 19 years with Kantipur, punctuated by two brief departures and has seen many incidents of vandalism. “We hope incidents like this will not repeat.” During the April 2006 street protests, hundreds of people had stopped outside the Kantipur complex in Tinkune to clap and show gratitude for the good journalism it had done. I worked there at the time and I remember looking out the window, tears of gratitude streaming down my face. The same establishment received a different kind of treatment this time. Attack on the media is an attack on democracy and this calls for probe followed by action.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250915150932_90fe8832022207cc856bfa9fe2525605f05f13594f9ecadbe5f47b0e84e0d4bb.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250915150932_90fe8832022207cc856bfa9fe2525605f05f13594f9ecadbe5f47b0e84e0d4bb" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="Kantipur TV’s September storm"> <figcaption>Sabina Karki and colleagues retrieving their belongings. Bijay Poudel, far left, in the photo.</figcaption> </figure>  While media houses are also about their owners and their advertisers, they are mostly about the journalists who run them, giving up their lives to uphold high journalism standards. Kantipur Media Group has had many journalists over the years, who have taken stands for the nation and its people. “We already know this wasn’t an attack by GenZ. This is the handiwork of people with personal vendetta. We already know the protest was infiltrated. This is the work of those who didn’t understand journalists are also people just doing their jobs,” Sabina says. When Sabina came back to the office after the curfews were in place and things had calmed down, she wanted to sit down on the rubble and weep. “Journalists operate on a small salary. Some of us have lost our life’s savings in this attack.” The KTV staff is traumatised. Sabina says she is frightened of loud sounds and strangers. “But at times like this, it’s better to work than to just wait in distress.”

Pratibha Tuladhar

Suburban Tales

Kantipur TV’s September storm

While protesters were torching the Special Government Attorney Office at Mandala on Tuesday, they shouted slogans <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-s-gen-z-protest-turns-deadly">denouncing government corruption</a>. They did not seem to know that in reality the Government Attorney’s office was carrying out active investigations and prosecuting multiple cases of government corruption. Their case files have now been reduced to ashes. While attackers ransacked the building room by room and and burnt it down, they said they were protesting the government’s inability to catch the person who raped and murdered of 13-year-old <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/justice-delayed-and-denied">Nirmala Panta </a>in Kanchanpur seven years ago.&nbsp; In reality, the District Government Attorney’s Office has been carrying out and directing<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/justice-eludes-many-rape-survivors"> investigations against rapists and abusers</a> whose victims were even younger than Nirmala. As an ordinary Nepali citizen before joining the Government Attorney’s Office, I had read about &nbsp;Nirmala’s story in the media. It was a major case that shook the nation, and the biggest rape case I had heard about.&nbsp; But once I was behind my desk as a Government Attorney myself, not a day went by when there was at least one new rape investigation file. This was a serial horror on a nationwide scale. The <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/incest-sex-abuse,2547">rapists were not faceless strangers</a>: many were fathers, brothers, stepfathers, teachers, drivers who knew the survivors. I found all age groups from all parts of Nepal on those charge sheets. And every file I carried to the courtroom was in the hope of at least someone who wanted the crime against them recognised and the perpetrator punished. Now, all those files are gone. The news from Singha Darbar that the government’s data centre was saved from arsonists this week was a relief. But we lost all our records. The evidence was never digitised, there were no backup files. They lived only on paper, in ink, in fragile white file folders with green strings.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250914120920_353c6e03fa2f4cea8992c5c02ede101b4ad9ccc102f5af8407f333f518ef7200.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20250914120920_353c6e03fa2f4cea8992c5c02ede101b4ad9ccc102f5af8407f333f518ef7200" data-rendition-name="original" width="5000" height="3333" loading="lazy" alt="The day justice died"> <figcaption>Photo: HEMANTA SHRESTHA</figcaption> </figure>  When the building burned, so did the only record of those crimes and the identity of the criminals.&nbsp; Imagine entire basements filled with such files: each representing a victim, a face, a life. More than 10,000 such cases are now smouldering heaps of ash. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/kathmandu-burns-despite-pm-resignation">Kathmandu burns despite PM resignation</a> Singha Durbar can be rebuilt brick by brick, just as it was after the earthquake. Who is going to rebuild these case files?&nbsp; The social media is cruel: it shows homes of politicians stashed with cash and charred dollar bills. But the media did not show an entire building full of criminal case files going up in flames. The smoke that filled Kathmandu’s sky on Tuesday carried away with it the hopes of<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-s-chance-on-transitional-justice"> justice of thousands of victims</a>, mostly young women. Our duty as Government Attorneys is to direct criminal investigations, prosecute criminal cases, plead in courtrooms, make appeals. On a normal busy day we prosecute at least five criminal cases involving survivors and perpetrators. THAT DAY On <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-s-8-september-massacre">8 September</a>, when the GenZ protesters were gathering at the Mandala outside, we were at the Police Club, attending the first ever Women Government Attorneys’ Conference. We wore our brightest blue sari uniforms and pressed blouses. Our heads held high, we celebrated our success as government attorneys who had led the prosecution of the highest number of cases involving <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/not-just-16-days-against-gender-based-violence">violence against women</a>. But the day had other plans for us. By 4 pm the program was halted after protesters were shot outside Parliament. The Attorney General directed us to go home immediately. As the hall emptied, a small group of us young women officers and one senior female advocate walked together through Bhadrakali towards our office. There was an angry mob approaching us. The moment they saw us in our official dress, they turned on us with verbal abuses — words so horrendous that it would have been enough to prosecute a slander suit.&nbsp; Heads and eyes lowered we walked on. They started spitting on us. Obviously, they were pouring out their <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/genz-and-aragalaya?amp=1">anger against the government</a> on us civil servants. But they had no idea that the senior female advocate on whose coat they spat had pioneered the law granting Nepali women equal property rights. To us, she was not just a lawyer, she was a hero and a figure we had worshipped in our law books. Her name appears across Supreme Court documents for setting a precedent.&nbsp; We ran to save ourselves from their wrath and reached our Special Government Attorney Office. The mob stayed outside. We waited two hours in silence, praying fervently until the street was calm enough for us to slip away and find our way home. The next day, 9 September, was much worse. The protesters had already torched Parliament, Singha Durbar and the nearby Supreme Court. Then they came to set the Government Attorney Office alight. As a Nepali, I can understand the anger. But as a Government Attorney, I carry a deep scar. There is an immense void and sorrow. This is not about the loss of a building, or being spat at. It is about the silent victims whose stories were stored in all those thousands of files. Many of the survivors do not even know that their <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/hunger-for-justice">struggle for justice</a> has ended.&nbsp; We are government employees never affiliated with any political party, doing our work honestly and independently. In the name of demanding justice, they destroyed the very place that delivered it. Mamata Shrestha is an Assistant District Government Attorney.

The day justice died

In the heart of Nepal, amidst the breathtaking beauty of the Himalaya, a very different story is unfolding. It is not one of towering peaks and serene landscapes, but of a young generation that dreams of a brighter future while being trapped by decades of political instability and entrenched corruption.
For many young Nepalis, life is a constant struggle with poverty and unemployment. In a country where the per capita income is only about $1,400, a youth unemployment rate of 20% has forced more than 800,000 people each year to leave their homeland in search of work abroad.&nbsp;
This exodus is not just an economic decision — it is a profound disillusionment with the government, a ‘silent referendum’ on its ability to lead the country toward prosperity.
In the months leading up to the recent uprising, social media platforms were filled with posts exposing the extravagant lifestyles of the so-called #Nepokids, the privileged children of politicians. These images revealed the stark gulf between the political elite and ordinary citizens, deepening the frustration of Nepal’s youth.
That anger finally exploded after 5 September, when the government banned 26 social media platforms — including Facebook, YouTube, X, and WhatsApp — claiming it was a necessary move to curb hate speech and fake news. For nearly half of Nepal’s population who are active on social media, the ban felt like nothing less than an attempt to silence their voices.
Massive street protests followed. What began as peaceful demonstrations on 8 September quickly escalated into violent clashes with police, leaving more than 20 people dead. Protesters stormed the Parliament and Supreme Court buildings, Singha Darbar, and attacked the residences of the president and prime minister. It became one of the largest uprisings in Nepal’s history.&nbsp;
Prime Minister K P Sharma Oli resigned, the GenZ is negotiating with the Nepal Army and President Ram Chandra Paudel. It remained unclear till Thursday press time if the unrest will subside as rival GenZ groups put forward their own candidates for interim prime minister.
SRI LANKAN PARALLELS
Young Nepalis no longer want the same leaders who they see as having deceived them for decades. They demand renewal and a brighter horizon. Still, how realistic is such a demand? As history reminds us, every polity gets what it deserves.
Most of the Communist parties that claim to represent the oppressed have themselves been central players in fragile coalition governments by partisan clannishness, personal selfishness, and unaccountable leaders, locking the country into cycles of weak and unstable rule.
As a Sri Lankan political activist, I cannot help but notice the striking parallels between Nepal’s trajectory and ours. Nepal had left-wing governments well before Sri Lanka, where the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP)–led National People’s Power (NPP) only came to power in 2025. Nepal has been under left-leaning governments since 2008.
Yet, despite the rhetoric of Marxism, both our countries face very limited economic and political options. In Sri Lanka, the economic policies pursued by capitalist President Ranil Wickremesinghe were almost identical to those later followed by Marxist President Anura Kumara Dissanayake.
In our case, the 2022 ‘Aragalaya’ movement was much like Nepal’s GenZ struggle. It ended after President Ranil Wickremesinghe assumed power. In the aftermath, the JVP gradually brought the Aragalaya forces under its control.&nbsp;
Their sweeping electoral victory in late 2024 was powered by the hopes of these protest forces. But today, the same question hangs over Colombo as it does over Kathmandu: can a new government really meet the impatient and ambitious expectations of young people?&nbsp;
Already in Sri Lanka, doubts abound — about broken promises, lack of real progress, one-party dominance, and even the risk of yet another national bankruptcy.
Traditionally, governments in South Asia have changed through elections. But recent years show another pattern: pre-electoral uprisings, sudden eruptions triggered not by slow build-up but by specific events.
In Sri Lanka, it was the energy crisis during bankruptcy. In Bangladesh, it was a law granting privileges to war veterans. In Nepal, the crackdown on social media was the trigger.
Social media has become central to all these movements. Those who manage the platforms at the country level hold immense power. Their ability to manipulate algorithms, combined with the small size of their teams, makes their influence even greater.
I personally witnessed Sri Lanka’s Aragalaya closely. From the creation of the #GoHomeGota hashtag to the dramatic ouster of President Gotabaya Rajapaksa on 9 July, 2022, social media shaped the very reality of our political struggle.
Certain moments in crisis politics prove decisive. In Sri Lanka, the events of 9 May 2022 was one of the most destructive days in the country’s recent history, with the greatest property damage in a short span of time. Mobilisation, arson, violence, and killings were coordinated primarily through social media.
Ordinary people, not usually powerful, became decisive actors thanks to social media. By midday, the momentum of the Aragalaya was fading whereas Prime Minister Mahinda Rajapaksa had agreed to resign. The turning point came when a pro-government rally held at Temple Trees, the Prime Minister’s official residence to bid him farewell turned into a march toward Galle Face.&nbsp;
This procession, which could have been stopped by then-Deputy Inspector General Deshabandu Tennakoon, instead broke into the protest site, attacking Aragalaya activists. The violent attack as well as the counterattacks that followed were all broadcast live on social media and television, electrifying public opinion, which had been lukewarm until then, redirecting anger toward counter-violence.&nbsp;
The role of media in this transformation demands deeper analysis. There were clear patterns in social media content in those critical hours, much of which has since been removed by service providers. Even those who originally streamed Facebook Live videos cannot retrieve them today.&nbsp;
One peculiar detail stays with me. A military-experienced friend pointed out that in many of the burned houses, toilets had been deliberately smashed. He explained the symbolic nature: destroying sewage systems could render entire cities uninhabitable. How such symbolism wove itself into the protests remains an unresolved mystery, like many other secrets.
At times, literature steps in to fill the gaps history leaves behind. Fiction can serve as a symbolic mirror of reality. With my novel Arunodakaruwo (Dawnbreakers), I attempted to imagine the political undercurrents of such decisive moments.
Arunodakaruwo has since been published in Sinhala. Its English translation, #Dawnbreakers, was recently long-listed for the Vidarshana Literary Awards. I believe this form of literature — blending political memory with imagination — is an essential intervention.
Ajith Perakum Jayasinghe is a Sri Lankan political activist and writer.&nbsp;

GenZ and Aragalaya

In 2003, the death by police firing of a student protesting a rise in fuel prices pushed Nepal’s student activists to join the प्रतिगमन विरोधी आन्दोलन (Movement Against Regression), which political parties had begun after king Gyanendra’s sacking an elected government a year before. The students’ participation elevated the movement and prompted more Nepalis to join in, leading to the People’s Movement that first sidelined the monarchy and then abolished it in 2008.&nbsp; That took five years to happen. But 12 years later, this month, a youth-led protest forced the prime minister to resign within 30 hours.&nbsp; Police massacred GenZ activists, many of them students, outside Parliament on 8 September. This intensified public anger, leading to targeted attacks, looting, and burning of the homes of political leaders, private businesses, and public buildings.&nbsp; Amid the smouldering ruins of state institutions, young Nepalis chose a new prime minister to lead an interim government and deliver a fresh mandate. All of this happened in five days.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250910140912_019d62de4b62a366299a27d1276e931a7dadefcc674441e7fb3acd503970efaf.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250910140912_019d62de4b62a366299a27d1276e931a7dadefcc674441e7fb3acd503970efaf" data-rendition-name="original" width="8000" height="5760" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal in ashes"> <figcaption>Parliament building up in flames during the GenZ protest on 9 September. Photo: KAMAL PRASAI</figcaption> </figure>  Students have been central to Nepal’s democratic and political process since the mid 20th century. In her 2018 book Making New Nepal, researcher Amanda Thérèse Snellinger traces the history of student activism and politics against a background of &nbsp;Nepal’s socio-political history and party politics.&nbsp; Snellinger examines the interplay of ideology and identity, explores how student activists fit into a political landscape continually occupied by the traditional elite, and details how student leaders have established themselves through relationships with influential actors on local, national, regional, and transnational levels. The Rana regime’s repression caused students to be politically aware. In 1947, students held the first organised protest against the Rana autocracy demanding educational reforms. The breadth of student activism expanded during the Panchayat era after king Mahendra banned political parties, which drove mainstream politicians and parties underground. &nbsp;Student activists then became proxies for multiparty democracy because they were still able to organise.&nbsp; Student politics was institutionalised, and unions emerged as vanguard sister organisations of political parties. Student activism, more so than mainstream political parties, played key roles during &nbsp;both major movements in 1990 and the 2000s, as they mobilised the citizenry to join the democratic process.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250924130940_f94cf97fb7ed98b90b48736e1aa8a76466f50337dffc36ec78e9cd5e6927deea.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250924130940_f94cf97fb7ed98b90b48736e1aa8a76466f50337dffc36ec78e9cd5e6927deea" data-rendition-name="original" width="1952" height="2928" loading="lazy" alt="1990 people's movement Nepal"> <figcaption>The iconic image of the 1990 People's Movement agaist the autocratic Panchyat regime of the king. Photo: MIN RATNA BAJRACHARYA</figcaption> </figure>  Through extensive ethnographic research between 2003 and 2015, Snellinger investigates the political coming of age of student activists during the final years of the armed insurgency and their role in and beyond the movement that ultimately abolished the monarchy. Her research revolves around the political journeys of five student activists: Akash and Rishi from the Nepali Congress (NC) student wing Nepal Student Union (NSU), Salini from the UML’s All Nepal National Free Students’ Union (ANNFSU-Akhil), Gyanu from ANNISU-Revolutionary of the Maoists, and Lagan, who began his political journey from Nepal Majdoor Kisan Party’s student wing Nepal Krantikari Bidyarthi Sangathan. The ‘movement against regression’ in 2003 served as the entry point &nbsp;for activists into national party politics. Indeed, it was their &nbsp;participation in the movement that elevated the profile of the main subjects of Snellinger’s research. In the years that followed, the paths of the five activists diverged. Some made it into mainstream politics, even becoming lawmakers. In doing so, they have had to trade idealism for pragmatism, and their attempts realise their previous vision for Nepal’s democracy have been overshadowed by their political opportunism and position. And even decades after they began their journey as student activists, the generation that the book focuses on are still considered &nbsp;‘youth’ leaders. Snellinger quotes a former student leader who joined mainstream politics as saying: “I am still a youth because &nbsp;my aspirations remain unfulfilled.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250924130944_7cca095d79fb5ce45cf92c61b77d72c31c5e0931aa744c73e264b6f91efdd29b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20250924130944_7cca095d79fb5ce45cf92c61b77d72c31c5e0931aa744c73e264b6f91efdd29b" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1004" loading="lazy" alt="2006 People's Movement of Nepal"> <figcaption>A student protester wearing a paper crown and ridiculing Gyanendra with an impersonation, a day after king stepped down and left his palace. Photo: AJAY JOSHI / A PEOPLE WAR</figcaption> </figure>  Meanwhile, the refusal of Nepal’s octogenarian leaders to retire (even after The upheaval this month) has created a surplus of younger adults waiting in the wings, making the word ‘youth’ relative in Nepal’s political trajectory. Other subjects of Snellinger's research have retreated from student and mainstream activism, either in disappointment over their mother party’s retreat from some of their more radical positions, or to &nbsp;continue their work at the community level through education and journalism. One of them has leveraged her political connections to further women-led initiatives after unsuccessful election bids. Nearing the end of her research in 2015, Snellinger observes the disappointment of Madhesi communities whose movement to demand more inclusive provisions of the draft Constitution had gone in vain, even after 45 lives were lost.&nbsp; As the Constitution was promulgated in 2015, TVs were switched off in the Tarai, and there were sighs of resignation. In Kathmandu, Snelllinger noted that the student leaders that entered mainstream politics protesting for inclusive democracy had little empathy for the struggles and similar demands of groups in the Madhes. Despite the students’ role in ending the monarchy, Nepal’s political status quo has remained. The institutions and people that replaced the &nbsp;monarchy have allowed one set of Kathmandu elites to be replaced with another.&nbsp; The socio-political benefits promised during the movement two &nbsp;decades ago have remained tightly controlled by leaders who refuse to give up their hold on power. The political system was overhauled, but without concrete reform. It was only a matter of time before public frustration would boil over. Indeed, Snellinger concludes her book by predicting the inevitability of future movements in Nepal.&nbsp; She writes: ‘Leaders emerge through the andolan … a new generation will emerge shaped by Nepal’s accumulated socio-political heritage, which they will mediate to shape a liveable present and future for themselves in their country, perhaps by continuing the movement.’&nbsp; And that is exactly what happened on 8-9 September. Students marched in the streets demanding an end to corruption and impunity, but this time not as proxies of political parties.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250908120948_8a9acceede487651487c2f15b65e40f900ee6cd390bbf98394eade6b95d05b28.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250908120948_8a9acceede487651487c2f15b65e40f900ee6cd390bbf98394eade6b95d05b28" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="Gen Z protest"> <figcaption>A student during the GenZ protest against acorruption on 8 September. Photo: SUDIKSHA TULADHAR</figcaption> </figure>  Their desire for socio-political reform was apolitical at a time in Nepal’s history when the nation’s student organisations have weakened and lost credibility, mirroring the erosion of trust in their parent parties. Along with party-based student unions, the Free Student Union (FSU)— the umbrella body all student unions—has lost its reputation due to corruption and embezzlement. That is not to say there are no similarities in movements past and present. Whether political or apolitical, protests have been overshadowed by a lack of unity within the groups that spearhead movements. They have led to destruction of public and private institutions.&nbsp; Leaders of youth and student movements have also had to bear the brunt of the frustration of the people they represent when there is no delivery on their demands. The academics of students have suffered because of frequent lockouts of university and college administration. Youth andolan, whether political or apolitical, has been a rite of passage into Nepali democratic politics — dissensus is an integral part of political regeneration. It remains to be see how the fall &nbsp;from grace of political parties after the GenZ movement will affect their affiliated student unions. As elections approach, student unions and youth collectives will find their own footing in Nepal’s &nbsp;newly emerging socio-political landscape. The youth who took to the streets are asking for a complete overhaul for political parties. Establishmentarian leaders still have not seen the writing on the wall.&nbsp; NextGen leaders in their parties have been waiting for years for their turn &nbsp;to break through the glass ceiling. These established political actors will not go down without a fight in the run-up to March elections.&nbsp; Amanda Thérèse Snellinger perhaps needs a post-script or even a sequel to her book to see how a new generation of leaders, forged by their student activism, will compete in Nepal's new political arena.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250923190928_98d53dd49d56c92950bc34642eaee51dea458fd64312d945a358ad70e5e994bb.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20250923190928_98d53dd49d56c92950bc34642eaee51dea458fd64312d945a358ad70e5e994bb" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Making new Nepal book details NT"> </figure>

Nepal’s historic youth dissensus

What does a journalist do when young protesters are shot in front of her? Does she do her job and stay neutral? Can you stay neutral?&nbsp; As protests engulfed Kathmandu, Nepal's journalists found themselves reporting a story that was personal. While doing their job, some of them were even targeted by mobs.&nbsp; Dart Asia Pacific Fellow <a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/arunkarki/" target="_blank">Arun Karki</a> visited their newsrooms and spoke with his colleagues on their experience of reporting the GenZ protests that erupted on 8 September. These are the first-hand accounts of journalists who witnessed the turmoil in the city they call home. Sunita Karki was at a workshop in a hotel on 8 September. She saw the first waves of protests through hotel windows. Curfew alerts flooded her phone, a vehicle belonging to a human rights group sat burning across the road, young boys were taking their wounded friends on motorbikes to the Everest Hospital, and police were beating a teenager with hands raised up.&nbsp; “I cried a lot,” she said, but the tears were not out of fear -- they were because she felt guilt. “I couldn’t write the news. We were witnessing these scenes from a five-star hotel.” By evening, the death toll had reached 19. On 9 September at about 3:35 p.m. &nbsp;her outlet, the Annapurna Post's office in Tinkune, Kathmandu, was set on fire. Staff had to leave the building as parts of the newsroom burnt down.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250924040948_e1cc49c9e4fcc4bd4cd3c0163c782fc4e9956bf633cff7b53a63cf8e2dd74cff.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250924040948_e1cc49c9e4fcc4bd4cd3c0163c782fc4e9956bf633cff7b53a63cf8e2dd74cff" data-rendition-name="original" width="1333" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Dart Centre Asia Pacific"> </figure>  When she knew her office was burning, she anxiously told her husband that she would resign from the job: "If we have to hide our identification cards in every protest, what kind of journalist am I?" she asked herself. She filed a story the next day, but her emotions kept bouncing between that of a journalist’s duty and shock. She said that in moments like this, it’s hard to feel truly neutral. After watching the police beat people, she felt a strong urge to step in, not just stand back and report. The first real calm came later, when people came to the street and lit small candles together. “This was a sort of victory procession. I felt some relief after brutal days,” she said. <a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/angaddhakal/" target="_blank">Angad Dhakal</a> a photojournalist who works at Kantipur National Daily, was standing outside his office building when protesters stormed in and set parts of it on fire. He had already been informed that protesters were planning to torch his office building and &nbsp;rushed to his office hoping to save his hard drives containing ten years of photography work. He failed. He raised his camera and "forcefully" pressed the shutter - more to document the scene than out of "professional enthusiasm or duty".&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250924040948_ebafaacb85c4ea045c41f2c63f1eff06fee9a4ddb5fbf419724e1a5d533781fa.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250924040948_ebafaacb85c4ea045c41f2c63f1eff06fee9a4ddb5fbf419724e1a5d533781fa" data-rendition-name="original" width="1333" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="It is hard to feel neutral NT"> <figcaption>Photo: GAURAV POKHAREL</figcaption> </figure>  “My office was burning. What should I photograph?” he recalled. A few moments later, a protester noticed the “PHOTO” label on his yellow Press jacket. Dhakal deflected it by saying he was an early career freelancer and YouTuber. So that protesters wouldn't find out, he went to one corner and took his jacket off. When it comes to covering street protests, &nbsp;Angad usually stands near the police because it feels safer. But on 8 September, fire and gunshots made even that area unsafe. A rubber bullet hit his friend Dipendra Dhungana that badly injured him.&nbsp; He thought, “Where do we go now? If we stay here, we’ll be hit.” After witnessing two days of protests, violence, and killings, and seeing his own office burning, he couldn't sleep for days. The same afternoon that government buildings burned and Kantipur was attacked, a message in a protest Discord forum talked openly of 'attacking Kantipur'.&nbsp; Rumours spread to other outlets. Outside OnlineKhabar's office, where <a href="https://www.linkedin.com/article/edit/7376157229248528384/?author=urn%3Ali%3Afsd_company%3A79132377#" target="_blank">Gaurav Pokharel</a> works, the newsroom manager saw “very suspicious people were walking around”. They lowered blinds, avoided windows, locked the front gate and dispersed staff to other places across the city. The outlet was threatened and effectively locked down, but not torched. Pokharel hid his press ID. “ I never showed the ID card. Sometimes I had to enter the crowd shouting slogans, just to blend in among the protesters,” he said. He watched people fall under gunfire, he helped pull one surrounded journalist out of a hostile crowd.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250924040948_3b335eee57280373cb51f460534ca4476df23f89c787ba9e4a66d116a537b1a3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20250924040948_3b335eee57280373cb51f460534ca4476df23f89c787ba9e4a66d116a537b1a3" data-rendition-name="original" width="1333" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="It is hard to feel neutral NT"> <figcaption>Photo: GAURAV POKHAREL</figcaption> </figure>  As a freelancer, Gaurav also contributed articles for international outlets. Later, while transcribing an interview of a young protest organiser, he wrote to his editor at an international outlet : “This was very hard to write. I cried many times while doing it.” He had been working at a stretch for days battling bouts of exhaustion and low blood pressure.&nbsp; Protesters vandalised and set fire within the Singha Darbar complex housing Nepal Television and Radio Nepal. They tried to disrupt public broadcasting.&nbsp; Surendra Paudyal began the day with his press ID hanging on his neck, thinking it would let him move freely. But when he reached Singha Darbar around 3:30PM, the situation felt dangerous.&nbsp; He put the ID in his pocket. When asked what mattered most, he answered without pause: life comes first. In that moment, he felt real fear and a strong duty to protect his team.&nbsp; His focus narrowed to basic things: stay calm, find exits, get everyone out safely. Later, they were able to keep the 8 pm news on air through a regional link. He felt mixed emotions and a sense of relief that the broadcast continued, but also sadness and anger that their own studio had come under attack. Reprinted with permission from the Dart Centre Asia Pacific, a regional hub that provides trauma-informed support and advice to journalists.

"It is hard to feel neutral"

Harry Jackson was on an epic adventure ‘from Thailand to the UK on 2 wheels’ when he ran into the ultimate sidequest. Having just visited Zangla in Ladakh, Jackson had only landed in Kathmandu when he found himself in the middle of GenZ protests earlier this month. ‘<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Slq6zWu9o9w">Arriving in Nepal - Chaos, Protest &amp; Curfews</a>’ is the title of his first video (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/@wehatethecold/videos">wehatethecold on YouTube</a>) about the protest. He shoots police as they shoot at protesters outside Parliament. Jackson is riding a Honda CT125, a retro lightweight motorbike with off-road capabilities. Strapped to the bike is his sparse luggage, flute, and a faded Union Jack. People are rioting on the streets and there is a heavy armed police presence as he makes his way to his hostel in Thamel. His vlog the day after on 9 September has 29 million views. In ‘<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IyxSqeFrlp0">The side of Nepal the media won’t show you</a>’, Jackson rides his bike straight at the crowd just past the Parliament building into Old Baneswar.&nbsp; He parks it and walks among the protestors, documenting it all: from the police firing capsules of tear gas into the crowd to the burning Parliament building as well as the jubilant, victorious crowd in the premises as they destroy police vehicles and dance. “I’m shocked at the scenes I’ve witnessed here today. I have truly witnessed history on a stupid trip from Thailand to England on a f***ing moped!” exclaims Jackson as he leaves the scene for the day, heading back to his hostel to edit the footage. The hostel is in direct contrast to the raucous scenes of the protest, as tourists and Nepalis sit and lounge at tables. ‘KUIRE VLOGGER’ Nepalis quickly called him the ‘kuire vlogger’, and attribute his skin colour to his popularity. Objectively, the videos are well made. Jackson goes full gonzo journalist, putting himself right in the heart of the action, talking directly to the people, all while narrating the events as they unfold. Despite being cut together in an entertaining way, the footage retains a raw, unpolished quality that outdoes what most professional journalists with a heavy duty camera crew could do. At a time when legacy media has been seen to be pushing biased narratives, Jackson wants to see for himself what happened, and make up his own mind.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250925120956_f7141e06c72655502fc4b2e56120d084b0f5ae111078d66df4fd0415adf8d376.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250925120956_f7141e06c72655502fc4b2e56120d084b0f5ae111078d66df4fd0415adf8d376" data-rendition-name="original" width="2880" height="1604" loading="lazy" alt="WehateTheCold"> </figure>  This kind of video journalism takes a lot of skill and a certain personality. Many people, almost everybody, had their phones out at the protests, but only a handful were like Jackson. He interviewed people firsthand, edited the clips and uploaded them the same day. Jackson continued his vlogging over the next few days as the curfew was first put in place and then lifted. He explores the city as the Valley rebounds. By this time, Nepalis recognise him everywhere he goes. Jackson had achieved moderate fame as a 23-year old DJ in Birmingham, but what he has done in Nepal is something else. Almost everyone he talks to has already seen his vlog, and they are all eager to interact. He has been on multiple podcasts in Nepal too, and most videos online on the protests reference his vlogs. Before his Nepal blogs, Jackson had a modest 16k subcribers on YouTube, but after Nepal figure is now almost 700k, gaining over 100k each through 11-13 September. Most of them are Nepali viewers. “I’m just a regular dude who just did what he wanted to do,” says Jackson on a podcast. “I wanted to go on an adventure, learn about history, and learn languages. And I wanted to film it, document it, and have a wicked film for my life to show future generations.” &nbsp;

Indonesian democracy on the brink

GenZ constitutional awakening

Building a dream in Dhankuta

The Nepal our friends died for

A new dawn for democracy in Nepal

India’s reckoning with its dangerous neighbourhood

Questions That Won’t Leave Me

Kantipur TV’s September storm

The day justice died

GenZ and Aragalaya

Nepal’s historic youth dissensus

"It is hard to feel neutral"

The accidental journalist

India’s reckoning with its dangerous neighbourhood