Questions That Won’t Leave Me

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

We need to know who gave the order to fire on protesters on 8 September. We need to know who directed the arson and destruction on 9 September. These answers cannot be allowed to slip into silence. 

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. 

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. 

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.