When he was a teenager years ago during the war, the Maoists who held sway over the Dalit village of Muktikot in western Nepal promised Man Bahadur Bishwakarma liberation and prosperity. Many like Man Bahadur believed in that utopia, and took up arms like others from the downtrodden Dalit community here. They even renamed the village Muktikot (Fort Freedom) from its original Dumkot. ‘Dum’ is a derogatory term used to address the Dalit community. Muktikot is spread across a steep mountainside with unirrigated terrace farms. Most of the men migrate to India for seasonal work, others never come back. The women left behind had to walk hours for water, and since there were no roads then, travelling to town for government subsidised rice took at least a week. “The Maoists told us that we would find jobs right here in the village, that every household would have tap water, they promised an end to caste discrimination,” recalls Man Bahadur. “That is why I joined the revolution in Grade 10.” He is talking while walking up a steep trail three hours from Muktikot, where his family has been living in a cattle shed after a landslide damaged his house in 2021.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024051804058_bc4d26d047714332fcdd2242229a1227d207a972439e02e3c822aaa118066b3f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2024051804058_bc4d26d047714332fcdd2242229a1227d207a972439e02e3c822aaa118066b3f" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="Muktikot"> <figcaption>Th remote village of Muktikot in Bajura district in far west Nepal.</figcaption> </figure>  Most of Muktikot’s young population joined the Maoists, convinced that changing the name of the village was proof this was going to be a real revolution. Eighteen years after the end of the conflict, the only thing that has changed for the nearly 2,300 Dalits in Muktikot is the name of their village. Not that there has not been some progress. There are now motorable roads and residents do not have to walk as far as Kalikot or Dailekh to get a sack of rice. More essentials are available in local shops for those with cash. Man Bahadur himself migrates to India to earn money, and had just returned for a break when we talked to him. “I fought for the Maoists in the hope that I would not have to go to India for work, but there are still no jobs here,” he says. “The Maoists promised a mirage.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024051804058_fcd64c34f689e7a4d44f285bb6a7b6b28329941e2766440ab208c9039a855d31.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2024051804058_fcd64c34f689e7a4d44f285bb6a7b6b28329941e2766440ab208c9039a855d31" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="Muktikot"> <figcaption>Men in Muktikot preparing to migrate to India for work.</figcaption> </figure>  Birth and death Manbuja Bishwakarma has just turned 20, the minimum legal age of marriage in Nepal. But she has been married since age 13, giving birth to five children, three of whom died. “The babies just died one after the other,” recalls Manbuja, who just had to have more babies in the hope that some would survive. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/how-the-climate-crisis-adds-to-child-marriage-in-nepal">How climate crisis adds to child marriage in Nepal</a>, Sonam Lama Her neighbour, 30-year-old Lalkala Bishwakarma has given birth eight times, and only four babies survived. There are women in Muktikot who gave birth to as many as 14 children, and there is not a single mother in Muktikot who has not lost a baby.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024051804058_dd4d62e65cc4ac88cd46a91a62b9c60bcb2d43bbc5cb5455dc7efe4a7d2ff1b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="2024051804058_dd4d62e65cc4ac88cd46a91a62b9c60bcb2d43bbc5cb5455dc7efe4a7d2ff1b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="Muktikot"> <figcaption>Lalkala Bishwakarma</figcaption> </figure>  Tilakhuni Bishwakarma, 40, had 10 children, and eight of them survived. Sitting outside her home, she is now surrounded by her grandchildren. Despite Nepal’s total fertility rate now dropping to near replacement level, here in Muktikot infant mortality is still high and this means women have more babies in the hope that some will survive. Child marriage and low female literacy contribute to the high rate of maternal and infant mortality. Community health records show that even in 2021, eight out of 45 infants born in Muktikot died. While Nepal’s average infant mortality rate dropped to 33 for every 1,000 babies born in 2022, &nbsp;the rate was 178 in Muktikot. “The most prominent among the many reasons for the high maternal deaths are early marriage and frequent pregnancy,” says Janaki Neupane, a community nurse in Muktikot. &nbsp; Four years ago, Bachchi Bishwakarma died of a hemorrhage while giving birth to her second child at home. Her husband Gorkha says she had barely survived giving birth to their first child. “I was home alone that day, and I took care of her,” Gorkha recounts. “Our child was born, but my wife bled to death.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240518040512_4718183318c77de8bb9b719346b9b19c96bef0984055585b00884f741f905c2e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20240518040512_4718183318c77de8bb9b719346b9b19c96bef0984055585b00884f741f905c2e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="Muktikot"> <figcaption>Tilakhuni Bishwakarma</figcaption> </figure>  Birthing centres were opened in Muktikot last year to address high infant and maternal deaths, but Nurse Neupane says it still lacks basic equipment and budget. Nirmala Bishwakarma got married when she was 13 and was &nbsp;pregnant soon after. She had her first baby, but soon got pregnant again. “Birth brings death here,” Nirmala, now 20, says simply. Nirmala and her children all look emaciated and she weighs only 33kg. Bajura’s district headquarters in Martadi provides nutritional allowance, but Nirmala cannot afford to travel that far to get it. &nbsp; Nepal’s development indicators, including lifespan (page 1) and poverty rate have shown dramatic improvements over the past three decades. But here in Muktikot, hunger stalks the land. In fact, a recent survey showed that 95% of women, children and young adults in Muktikot are undernourished. Most men, on the other hand, look well fed because they are mostly away in India for work. &nbsp; Only 12% of the land in Bajura is arable, but even then there is lack of irrigation, frequent droughts, and now climate breakdown contributing to the lack of food. “The harvests are just not enough to sustain the families,” says Bharat Bahadur Rokaya, chair of Swamikartik Khapar Rural Municipality where Muktikot is located. Here in the rugged mountains of northern Bajura bordering Humla and Mugu, the families grow millet, maize, and wheat, but Nirmala Bishwakarma says the harvests hardly last a month. “If it was not for the subsidised rice we would have empty stomachs,” she says. Hindrances to hygiene Down the mountain from Muktikot, the green waters of the Karnali River are visible. But the 400 Dalit households here have to share just three community taps for drinking water. Half the households do not have toilets, and defecation in the open is common. Donor agencies have helped build toilets, but these are mostly used to store fodder because there is no water. “How can we use water for the toilets where there isn’t enough for drinking?” asks Ward chair Ajay Bishwakarma. &nbsp; Families have to walk for four hours to bathe and do washing. “We do not wash our clothes for months on end,” says Kushi Bishwakarma, 40.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240518040516_e234d5b4fac4fa24e62e65a35f2eafbfb044a32a5f8ef8172932eca96eeaa17b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20240518040516_e234d5b4fac4fa24e62e65a35f2eafbfb044a32a5f8ef8172932eca96eeaa17b" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="733" loading="lazy" alt="Muktikot hygiene"> </figure>  The lack of water has compromised hygiene and sanitation in the village, resulting in diseases like diarrhoea, allergies, and other health issues, especially among children. Lack of water in the village has also led to uterine prolapse among the women in Muktikot since they primarily face the task of ferrying heavy jars of water from the communal taps to their houses The ‘One house, one tap, one toilet’ campaign introduced by the rural municipality this year hopes to solve water-related issues for Muktikot residents. But that is yet another election promise. Testing times This underserved village is not just affected by structural inequality and state neglect. In 2021, a landslide swept away 54 houses in Muktikot, and most families lost homes and what little arable land they had. “Earlier, we at least had a house to live in, now we don’t even have that,” says Muktikot resident Asal Bishwakarma. “We have been living with relatives since. How will we survive?” More than two years after the landslide, not a single house in the village has been rebuilt. Each family was allocated Rs500,000 in relief on an instalment basis, with aid from all three tiers of government.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240518040516_26ebf9b2f52722180b1b403b1410f19ea5c7d0321047b099a574a35519706914.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20240518040516_26ebf9b2f52722180b1b403b1410f19ea5c7d0321047b099a574a35519706914" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1433" loading="lazy" alt="Muktikot landslide"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240518040516_bbe50221dca556ac0e798843d672f1190abafacb82fa792bfec289eeb31ad013.jpg" data-media-id="editor_7" data-image-id="20240518040516_bbe50221dca556ac0e798843d672f1190abafacb82fa792bfec289eeb31ad013" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="Muktikot landslide"> </figure>  Asal has only received Rs35,000 so far, and has spent it all on buying food. No one knows where the promised money went. Muktikot residents now want their entire village relocated somewhere safer. &nbsp;The local government agrees that resettlement is necessary, but it was unable to find a suitable alternative. “It is not possible to resettle such a large number of people at one go,” says Bajura MP Badri Pandey. “We also cannot create jobs for all of the population at once.” Muktikot might have been declared liberated on paper during a war fought in the name of Nepal’s downtrodden, but this Dalit village is emblematic of promises not kept. Looking around the landslide scarred village he has spent half a century of his life in, Muktikot’s Dhanajay Bishwakarma laments, “We are not even considered humans by the state.”

original

674x448

610x380

500x500

400x266

400x240

400x203

301x200

1250x600

1084x550

thumbnail

viewImage

Muktikot still waiting for liberation

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd90c9c7e80680e0801f0jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="566"/><figcaption></figcaption></figure>Durga Sob, politicianDurga Sob was born in Doti, and was sent by her family for higher studies in Kathmandu in 1980. She had faced caste discrimination in Nepal’s culturally conservative far-west, and had thought educated and prosperous Kathmandu could be different.How wrong she was.In college picnics, at the student dormitory, in the classroom, Sob faced the same ostracisation and taunts of fellow students from the so-called ‘upper’ castes that she used to get in Doti.She got a job at Action Aid even while at college, and in 1988 she met American rights activist Robin Morgan. They talked a lot about how Nepal’s gender activism was not inclusive, and it left out women perceived to be of a ‘lower’ caste.Morgan helped Sob set up her own group. Forty years later Sob is still running her Dalit Women’s Organisation which by now has grown to become nationwide. Sob rented a flat in Kathmandu and kept two rooms as her office and two rooms to live in.Soon, the landlady found out that Sob was a Biswakarma, from the Dalit community. The usually friendly woman became hostile, and gave Sob notice to move out immediately.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd90f9c7e80680e0801f1jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="449">Sob went flat-hunting throughout Kathmandu without hiding her caste, since she did not want to face the same problem again. But that made it even more difficult for her to find an office and residence space to rent.“I asked many people for help, no one came forward,” Durga Sob recalls. “In the end, I lied about my caste and soon got a flat. But even then, they would find out and harass me by cutting off my water supply or electricity to drive me out. I have had to move so many times in Kathmandu because of my caste.”In 1995, Sob was invited to attend the Beijing International Women’s Conference with other Nepali women activists. She had to share her hotel room in Beijing with a Nepali, but because she was a Dalit, none of the other conference participants from Nepal agreed to share a room with her.“That was the worst day of my life, I wept,” Sob remembers. “This was an international conference on women’s rights, the Nepalis were gender activists, and yet this was happening.”In 2001, Durga Sob was nominated member secretary of the newly established National Dalit Commission. But the discrimination did not stop. She says: “Dalit women have to face double discrimination: first because they are women and second because they are Dalit.”Sob was convinced that the only way to resolve caste racism is through politics. So, she started becoming politically active, but even in politics she found prejudice against Dalits. First, she joined Baburam Bhattarai’s Naya Shakti Party as a coordinator, hoping that its progressive agenda would help in her struggle.“I got that position because of my ability, but I started feeling pressure, there was a feeling that a Dalit women should not have a leadership role. I should have been a deputy chair or general secretary, but I was demoted to being a secretary,” she says.Durga Sob is now a central committee member of the People’s Socialist Party, but she has no illusions about ever rising to a position higher than secretary. She concludes: “When racism is direct and open, we can resist it. But when it is hidden, it is difficult to endure and fight against.”Yash Kumar, singerYash Kumar’s father was a Brahmin and his mother a Dalit. When he was 10 years old his parents brought him to Kathmandu from Sarlahi. He did not have to face racism while in the Tarai because he was quite young, and he was not discriminated against in Kathmandu because he had a Brahmin surname. However, when he was making his citizenship papers, he added ‘Pariyar’ to his formal name.It was after he became a well-known singer and famous for a hit song about untouchability that Yash Kumar started really feeling societal discrimination. A sister of his best friend with the Brahmin surname ‘Acharya’ was getting married, and he came over to give Yash Kumar an invitation card to the wedding. But he said the invitation was just for formality, and that he should not come to the reception.“He told me he did not believe in untouchability but his parents did not want his Dalit friend to attend the wedding,” he recalls. “It was like something pierced my heart.”Yash Kumar relates many other incidents where he faced ostracisation because of his caste. He would even hear friends cast derogatory remarks about Dalits either because they did not know he was one, or because they thought he was out of earshot.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd9129c7e80680e0801f2jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="806">One well-known film actress once confided to him: “You are different from other Dalits in the way your think and speak. You must be mixed.”Yash Kumar says he reacts immediately when someone mistreats him because he is a Dalit, but it is more difficult when the discrimination is subtle. “I feel really sad that there is such behaviour in a city where there are supposed to be educated and conscious people,” he adds.Rekha Pariyar, student leaderUnlike other Dalits who face direct and indirect prejudice, Rekha Pariyar has been physically assaulted because of her caste. After her family moved to Kathmandu from Chitwan, and started being treated differently by the neighbours. They could not draw water from the community tap, and were not allowed into the corner tea shop.Rekha’s father and brother had a tailor shop. In 2012, they brought a sewing machine and other equipment in a rented pickup, but the driver asked for money more than was agreed upon. An altercation ensued, and the neighbours beat up members of her family, hurling racist slurs against them.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd9159c7e80680e0801f3jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="456">It took a long time for the police to arrive at the scene, and they took Rekha and her injured family members to hospital where her father and mother had to spend three weeks. Police in Maharajganj refused to accept her complaint. Only after appealing to Prime Minister Sushil Koirala did the police register the case, but even though this became a high profile media story, the perpetrators were never caught.Rekha Pariyar rose up the ranks of the student union, and used to deliver fiery speeches against caste discrimination. But her political colleagues would not eat with her, even though they travelled and did everything together.She says: “It is even more difficult to fight discrimination when it is so entrenched in supposedly better educated people in the cities.”B B Anuragi, singerBorn in Baglung, BB Anuragi was at the receiving end of racial discrimination. But when he came to college in Pokhara, the ostracisation got much worse. He got into an argument and a fist-fight when fellow students wanted to keep him out of the student dormitory. But after that he could not rent a room anywhere. He finally found a room with two other friends, but he had to move out when their parents were visiting.He started singing at a local gazal restaurant, but had to move multiple times when landlords cut off his water supply or harassed him when they found out that he was a Dalit. There was a Newa landlady who had a room, and he told her he was a Dalit. But her reply surprised him: “It does not matter to me what caste you are as long as you are a decent person.” She was an exception.In 2003, Anuragi moved to Kathmandu, but here the discrimination was of a different nature than Pokhara. “In Kathmandu people did not bring up caste directly, but would insinuate things which was difficult to counter,” he says.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd9189c7e80680e0801f4jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="448">Even to this day, he notices that people’s demeanour changes completely when they find out he is a Dalit. Neighbours do everything together, but do not call him for their parties or festivals.“I am a singer, and I pour out my anger in my songs, but this is Kathmandu, the message is restricted to the songs, it does not change too many people,” Anuragi says.Sona Khatik, Radio Station ManagerThroughout her life, Sona Khatik grew up suffering from caste discrimination. Her life story indicates that caste stigma is more entrenched in the Tarai than in the mountains.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd91b9c7e80680e0801f5jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="881">“I like to report from the field instead of dealing with people in the office,” says Khatik who worked her way up from being an intern to the Station Manager of Community Radio Kapilvastu.“Even so, I often notice people’s attitude change after they find out I am a Dalit. They talk down at me,” she says. “They ask me my caste and profession of my parents, and when they find out I am a Dalit they actually tell me I must be a non-Dalit because of my senior position.”In 2012, she had gone to interview a senior official at a government office. He did not even tell her to sit down in the sofa, she had to take the interview standing up. Because caste discrimination is now punishable by law, the prejudice is also more subtle.One of Khatik’s close friends eats with her, but when she is invited to her friend’s house she has to eat outside the kitchen. “It really affects me when close friends do that,” she says. “I just stopped going to her house.”Khatik says it is difficult to counter discrimination when it is so indirect. “We are invited to functions, but the organisers often treat non-Dalits differently than Dalits. Often, they just ignore me. So, I have just stopped going to such functions. I counter indirect stigma with an indirect boycott.”Holi Nepali, tourism entrepreneurNepali Dalits face discrimination even when they are abroad. And Holi Nepali, who runs Top of the World trekking agency in The Netherlands, has a direct experience of this. Nepali was born near Pokhara and through the kindness of trekking agency operator Rajiv Shrestha she got a good education. She stayed with his family, so others did not treat her badly then.When some people in Nepal used to ask her what her caste was, she would say she was from the leather worker ‘Sarki’ caste. They would reply: “You are so good looking even though you are a Sarki?”She started working in Shrestha’s trekking agency where she met a Dutch national and got married to him, and started living in The Netherlands in 2012. But even there, caste discrimination has followed her.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd91e9c7e80680e0801f6jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="434">Nepali has a Nepali Chhetri friend whose relatives admonish her for hobnobbing with a Sarki. During Nepali gatherings, she has heard many Nepalis advise others not to marry outside their caste groups.“It seems that no matter how educated you are, no matter if Nepalis are in Europe, they cannot rise over bigotry,” she says.Shanti Paswan, activistShe was born and raised in a town in the Madhes and never had to face discrimination in her home town of Siraha. That may have been because she grew up in a Tamang majority neigbourhood. However, after she became older and got involved in social service activities, she faced discrimination at every step.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd9219c7e80680e0801f7jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="437">In 2012, when she wanted to stand for election to a school management committee she was forced to step down because of her caste. Her rivals thought she might win, so they threatened and intimidated her. “After it got nasty, I thought is just was not worth it,” she says.Because it is illegal to openly discriminate against a Dalit, the educated ones pass snide remarks to put them down. “They will not say it directly, but if there is someone who not good-looking or if there is an undesirable person around, they describe them as ‘being like a Dalit’. If there is a crime anywhere, it is a Dalit who is the first suspect,” Paswan says.She has developed her unique way of dealing with such racism. “If it is someone who is just not aware or are illiterate, I let their slight go, but if it is someone who should know better, I come down hard on them.”Bhuwan Singh Biswakarma, ex-soldierHe is one of the few Nepalis who has even been to Antarctica. Bhuwan Singh Biswakarma was born in Baglung but moved to India when he was 10, and later joined the Indian Army. He joined an expedition to Antarctica, and says he was never treated different because he is a Dalit.However, after retirement and return to Nepal he has been facing discrimination in his own homeland. “Earlier, even the educated people used to discriminate on the basis of caste, but now because it is illegal to do so, there is a different more roundabout kind of discrimination,” he says.Biswakarma says such indirect treatment manifests itself in friends who do everything together, but stay apart while eating. Once, he was drinking tea with a friend when he inadvertently touched his glass. The friend got up and left saying he did not feel like having tea that day.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd9249c7e80680e0801f8jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="362" height="417">“I always know they are doing it because of me, but how do I fight that?” asks Biswakarma who now lives in Butwal. “Close friends do not invite you for weddings and other parties at their home. It hurts.”Purna Lal Biswakarma, engineerEven if a Dalit is an engineer, he has to face discrimination. In fact, no matter what senior position they hold, even if they are rich, or hold high office, Dalits still face caste discrimination from a society that should know better. Engineer Purna Lal Biswakarma is living proof of that.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd9269c7e80680e0801f9jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="350">Born in Kusma of Parbat district, Biswakarma grew up with other Dalits, and did not face stigma for being from a ‘lower’ caste. Even when he enrolled in an engineering college in Kathmandu, he did not really face much discrimination.It was after he gave his Public Service Exam that he started facing the brunt of the injustice. After joining the Irrigation Department, he had to travel across Nepal. It was in Baitadi in far-western Nepal where he had to face the worst treatment even from co-workers.He still remembers the discrimination from a close friend and long-time colleague who was getting married. Everyone got an invitation but him. He was invited for a reception later, but did not go because the ill-treatment affected him deeply.“They talk to you with respect, but as soon as they find out you are a Dalit, the tone changes completely,” Biswakarma says.Purna Nepali, professorHe was born in India and was raised in Kapilvastu where he faced ill treatment, abusive language and discrimination every step of the way while growing up. But it was after he moved to Kathmandu that he had to face other kinds of poor behaviour. He joined the United Nations Gender Mainstreaming Project and was assigned to Myagdi where he faced caste violence from his own colleagues. They did not drink water from a bottle that he had touched. “They never said anything bad, but their behaviour was appalling,” Nepali remembers. It affected me deeply at a psychological level.”<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109171144/636bd9299c7e80680e0801fajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="521">In 2008, he had gone to Bajhang and Doti for research into his PhD and it was difficult to get a room for the night. “Dalits did not have room, and non-Dalits would not give you a room,” he remembers. “There have to be stricter laws against caste discrimination, and they need to be enforced. The only way to reduce this racism is through a zero tolerance policy.”Centre for Investigative Journalism- Nepal

Caste aside, Dalits battle stigma

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;

The accidental journalist

From the echo chambers of social media to neighborhood tea shops, the hot topic two weeks after the GenZ revolt toppled Nepal’s government is whether the country should now have a directly elected prime minister. Although this has been proposed before as a way to end the instability in heads of government chosen by the biggest party or coalition in Parliament, it has found supporters and critics in the aftermath of the protests. As democratic as it sounds, a directly elected executive is not that simple.&nbsp; Nepal’s 2015 Constitution does not allow it, but for a young generation impatient for change, this demand raises critical social, political and constitutional questions. Nepal has seen a multiplicity of systems in the past 45 years: from a partyless absolute monarchy to a constitutional one, a parliamentary democracy and then a federal republic. But they have repeatedly failed to bring stability, good governance or an end to corruption in Nepal. But even though lately they have ensured civil liberties, the public was losing hope for the future, especially the young who could air and amplify their outrage on social media. Unbridled corruption and ideologically mismatched fragile coalitions acting with impunity, led many to conclude that a directly elected prime minister would ensure stability and accountability. ‘We have repeatedly trusted the same political parties, but they have repeatedly broken that trust, so it is no longer possible to trust that system anymore,’ says Miraj Dhungana, popular for the TikTok videos asking young people to go out into the streets to rally against corruption, and seen by many as the ‘original’ representative of Gen Z.&nbsp; In interviews he has stated that it has become necessary for Nepal to have a directly elected executive head through constitutional amendment. Dhungana himself did not participate in the protests after his meeting with pro-monarchist businessman Durga Prasai on 7 September sparked controversy that he as a lackey. Binod Deuba Thakuri of the Nepal Student Union who also participated in the GenZ protests thinks Nepal is institutionally not ready for directly elected prime minister: “Our democracy is not mature yet, our institutions are not strong, and we are vulnerable to social media induced populism.”&nbsp; CONSTITUTION AMENDMENT Amending the Constitution would also open a pandora’s box, with other demands, and should be left to the next legislative body, he adds. In her address to the nation on Friday, Prime Minister Sushila Karki who is a former chief justice also clarified that her interim government does not have the mandate to amend the Constitution to make way for a directly elected head of government, and it should be up to the new legislature and government after the 5 March election.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250919130956_799b2d43dccca73b3bff96e435efc0752203117b2cb219d0073994c0e6f2ee25.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250919130956_799b2d43dccca73b3bff96e435efc0752203117b2cb219d0073994c0e6f2ee25" data-rendition-name="original" width="4160" height="2774" loading="lazy" alt="Constitution Day NT"> <figcaption>Constitution Day address by Prime Minister Sushila Karki on 19th September earlier this month.</figcaption> </figure>  The demand for a directly elected executive head was first raised by Maoist leader Pushpa Kamal Dahal after the 2006 ceasefire. He proposed himself as Nepal’s first executive president ahead of the 2008 Constituent Assembly elections. While the UML did not strongly oppose the idea, the Nepali Congress (NC) stuck to a parliamentary framework. The 2015 Constitution ultimately clinched it for the current parliamentary system. The Constitution stipulates that the process of selecting a prime minister is based on parliamentary strength: the President appoints the leader of the party with a majority in the House of Representatives, or, in the absence of such a majority, a member who can demonstrate majority support. If these efforts fail, provisions exist for coalition or minority governments, and ultimately for the dissolution of the House and fresh elections. The Constitution currently makes no provision for a directly elected prime minister, which means that any attempt to introduce a directly elected executive would first require the careful design of a democratic mechanism to amend the Constitution and set out the procedures for such an election.&nbsp; “There is no legal legitimacy to have the directly elected executive head of the country in the March election, except if political legitimacy surpasses legality but that would mean a new constitution,” explains senior advocate Surendra Kumar Mahato. “Many other institutional arrangements like the appointment of the judiciary, the role of the president, and other check and balance mechanisms would need to be restructured.” Mahato says: “Nepal’s Constitution itself is not at fault — it is the political actors, who have failed to uphold good governance within its framework. Changing systems does not ensure better governance.”&nbsp; Changing the Constitution also needs a broad political consensus, the institutional capacity of the state must be carefully considered to ensure such a new system can function effectively in practice and not simply in theory. Empowering an executive head through direct elections should not come at the expense of accountability or parliamentary oversight, and there should be checks and balances in place. LESSONS FROM ABROAD Sri Lanka’s 2022 Agralaya was fuelled by the anger that the directly executive head turned out to be an authoritarian who backslides on democracy. Under Sri Lanka’s 1978 Constitution, the country adopted a directly elected executive presidency with sweeping powers over the cabinet, appointments, dismissal of parliament, and control over key institutions.&nbsp; Over the years, President Mahinda Rajapaksa removed term limits via the 18th Amendment in 2010, centralised appointment powers, including judges and heads of independent commissions, and used constitutional changes such as the 20th Amendment (2020) to reverse safeguards that limited presidential authority, thereby subordinating the legislature, weakening oversight, and enabling authoritarian control.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250914060932_a96e1046d0b148982b33f2dcbe56f349dc0c20a087e358360eb2dddcfe0b5072.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250914060932_a96e1046d0b148982b33f2dcbe56f349dc0c20a087e358360eb2dddcfe0b5072" data-rendition-name="original" width="4640" height="2610" loading="lazy" alt="GenZ and Aragalaya"> <figcaption>Anti-government protest in Sri Lanka on 13 April 2022 in front of the Presidential Secretariat. Photo: WIKIPEDIA</figcaption> </figure>  Nepal’s multiparty framework upholds an institutional balance where both the governing party and the opposition have defined roles. This parliamentary setup prevents power from being overly concentrated in one individual and ensures accountability through parliament and competing parties. Beyond the neighbourhood, the United States has a directly elected executive system. Donald Trump exemplifies how direct electoral mandate can fracture institutional check mechanisms. He has leveraged his power to attack judges, frame political opponents, turn legal defeats into rallying points for his supporters, often using pliant media platforms to reinforce the idea that institutional checks impeded the popular will. In Nepal, there is a risk that a directly elected prime minister could bring up a populist media savvy messiah who could use public grievances to get to power and consolidate it. Social media can be mobilised and easily saturated with posts to fuel a political narrative of choice.&nbsp; In the past, former prime minister K P Oli’s ‘digital army’ has been lobbied on his behalf on social media. Even without an ‘IT sena’, it is not unusual for governments to collaborate with social media platforms as seen in the US and India.&nbsp; In Nepal, a directly elected prime minister would raise the stakes, turning the battle for votes into a battle for attention online, where a leader who wins the algorithm also wins the elections, just as Kathmandu Mayor Balen Shah demonstrated in 2022 with support from groups like MRR and RONB. The Balen Phenomenon started in social media trickled to the ballot box.&nbsp; The digital space mas ensure that it is not trendy to dislike Balen. Comments that are critical of the Kathmandu Metropolitan City’s treatment of street vendors or of the mayor himself are met with backlash from supporters. Or, if the comments did not get any likes, the algorithms filtered them out as ‘not relevant’.&nbsp; The conversation of Shah often centred on his emotive responses and sentiments, generating strong engagement online. Meanwhile, policy debates received comparatively less attention.&nbsp; “Choosing a leader directly through an election means that we are vulnerable to populism and undermining of the democratic process, accountable institutions,” says Thaukri. Political activist Pradip Gyawali admits that the GenZ revolt was an example of how social media is a powerful tool to organise and disseminate information. But there are risks posed by disinformation and fake news online.&nbsp; “More media and political literacy among the people before the election in March is crucial to control the damage social media could do to influence voter behaviour,” he says.&nbsp; Beyond social media, online news increasingly relies on sensational, click-driven headlines to attract readers in a competitive digital market. A recent survey showed that 82.6% of GenZ (16- 24) rely on Facebook for news and 51.4% on YouTube.&nbsp; Nepali people with higher education seemed to engage with news more (99.1%) than illiterate individuals at 52.1%. Byte-sized headline-only journalism is leaving readers to their own devices, and vulnerable to media infiltration by IT cells.&nbsp; With social media actively shaping the course of elections, and news consumption, debates about changing the Constitution or the system of governance yet again may not ensure the demands for corruption free governance is met. Instead, strengthening media and political literacy among voters is key to prepare for the elections in March. Ayusha Chalise is a communication and development scholar specialising in how politics is experienced in the digital space.

dalits

Muktikot still waiting for liberation

Caste aside, Dalits battle stigma

Nepal’s historic youth dissensus

"It is hard to feel neutral"

The accidental journalist

Nepal's democracy keeps doubting itself