<img width="800" height="506" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161132/636d1a0e9c7e80680e0ac851jpeg.jpg" alt=""/>Even though Nepal’s political parties do not seem very keen for the moment to impeach controversial Chief Justice Cholendra SJB Rana, the mutiny against him is spreading among justices and lawyers.Chief Justice Rana’s alleged pressure on Prime Minister Sher Bahadur Deuba to make his brother-in-law a minister earlier this month and other purported misdemeanours have halted proceedings in the Supreme Court as judges and lawyers go on the warpath.Things have got so volatile that on Friday lawyers for and against Rana had a fistfight outside the Nepal Bar Association as it was announcing an intensified agitation against the chief justice. A video clip of the scuffle went viral on Nepal’s social media.<blockquote>नेपाल बार अगाडि वकिलबीच कुटाकुट प्रधानन्यायाधीश चोलेन्द्र शमशेर जबराका समर्थक र विरोधी वकिलबीच शुक्रबार नेपाल बारभित्रै कुटाकुट भएको हो। <a href="https://t.co/lCX8qdJBNJ">pic.twitter.com/lCX8qdJBNJ</a>— Setopati (@setopati) <a href="https://twitter.com/setopati/status/1453995371030454272?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">October 29, 2021</a></blockquote> Video: SETOPATI/TWITTER<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/what-is-happening-to-nepals-supreme-court/">What is happening to Nepal's Supreme Court?</a>, Santa Gaha MagarThe row over the chief justice has cast a spotlight on the transactional relationship between Nepal’s executive and judicial branches, and deliberate and blatant attempts by the political leadership and the chief justice to violate the principle of<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/supreme-court-puts-nepal-politics-back-on-track/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer"> separation of powers</a>.Public and judicial outcry ensued after news emerged that the Chief Justice had <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/what-is-delaying-nepal-cabinet-expansion/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">demanded ministerial appointments</a> for two of his people as the coalition government was deliberating a much-delayed Cabinet expansion earlier this month.Deuba agreed to one cabinet position, appointing Rana’s brother-in-law Gajendra Hamal as the Industry, Commerce and Supplies Minister. Deuba and Rana both refuted allegations of bargaining, but not very convincingly. Even Deuba’s own party members said appointing Hamal was wrong.As the outrage spread, Hamal resigned less than 48 hours into his ministership, but this only added fuel to the fire as many saw it as an admission of the chief justice and the prime minister <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/quid-pro-quo/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">scratching each others’ backs</a>.To be sure, other members of the ruling five-party coalition have not shown much interest in registering an impeachment motion in Parliament against Rana. In fact, Parliament was conveniently prorogued on Friday, citing the opposition UML’s disruptions of proceedings. The UML’s K P Oli, who had to step down as prime minister after the Supreme Court ruled in July that his <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-supreme-court-restores-house/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">dissolution of the House</a> was unconstitutional, is also opposed to impeachment — saying that five other judges who passed that verdict should also resign.<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/old-wine-in-old-bottle-in-nepal-politics/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Old wine in old bottle in Nepal's politics</a>, Shristi KarkiFor the past week, justices and lawyers have been boycotting full court meetings called by Rana, as well as cases in the Supreme Court and other courts across Nepal, bringing the judicial process to a standstill. As it is, only the Chief Justice-led single bench has been conducting hearings at Nepal’s top court.On Friday, the Nepal Bar Association issued an ultimatum to Chief Justice Rana to resign by 3 November, otherwise, it would undertake escalating protests including further boycotts of hearings, preventing Rana from entering the Supreme Court premises and even street rallies.On Thursday, Rana repeated in an interview with BBC Nepali that he would not step down just because some justices were calling for it. “I was appointed through a constitutional process, and I can only be removed through a constitutional process,” said Rana, possible convinced that the political parties would not move to impeach him.However, second-tier leaders of the Nepali Congress on Friday issued a statement calling on their party to protect judicial independence, the rule of law and separation of powers. ‘The Nepali Congress cannot remain silent in the controversy involving the chief justice when there is so much opposition to him from within the Supreme Court and the legal system,’ the statement by 12 NC members including Gagan Thapa, Sarita Prasai, and Dhanaraj Gurung said.And as Chief Justices, current justices on the court, as well as the Nepal Bar Association and the Supreme Court Bar Association called on the Chief Justice to step down, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-govt-fills-cabinet-after-3-months/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Deuba and his coalition partners</a> have stayed silent on the matter, privately hoping that Rana will resign and take the decision out of their hands.Rana, who was appointed Nepal’s top judge by the KP Oli government in 2019, has remained steadfast in his refusal to resign unless the four other justices of the five-member bench that reinstated the parliament dissolved by Oli and appointed Deuba Prime Minister resigned along with him. The four other justices are Deepak Karki, Mira Khadka, Ishwor Khatiwada, and Ananda Mohan Bhattarai.Instead, Rana has said that he is ready to face the constitutional process, daring the coalition to file an impeachment motion.Every politician and party has a reason not to anger Chief Justice Rana at present. A hearing against Madhav Kumar Nepal and Baburam Bhattarai for their alleged involvement in the Lalita Niwas land ownership case is due on 1 November.Similarly, K P Oli has also filed a writ petition in the Supreme Court against Speaker Agni Sapkota over his refusal to expel then-UML lawmakers as well as against the Election Commission over Madhav Kumar Nepal’s registration of his new party. Sapkota, who is a Maoist, himself also has a war crime case against him pending in court.<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepals-post-breakup-politics/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepal's post-breakup politics</a>, Santa Gaha MagarMany see Nepal’s recent political and judicial developments as the beginning of the end of the separation of powers within Nepal’s branches of government.In March 2013, following its failure to draft the Constitution after two-term extensions, Nepal’s Constitutional Assembly was dissolved. Subsequently, Nepal’s political parties, seeking a ‘neutral party’ to oversee the next CA elections, <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2013/03/14/regmi-sworn-in-2/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">appointed Khil Raj Regmi</a>,  who was then Nepal’s Chief Justice, as the chairman of the council of ministers. Regmi led a caretaker government and presided over the 2013 elections, and <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2014/02/11/khil-raj-regmi-resigns-as-cj/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">resigned after the elections in February 2014</a>.In hindsight, this was a watershed moment for the erosion of the separation of powers within Nepal’s executive and judicial branches.In 2017, an<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2017/05/01/lady-justice/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer"> impeachment motion </a>was filed against <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/interview/a-woman-is-as-capable-sushila-karki,3375" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Chief Justice Sushila Karki</a> by the coalition government of the NC and the Maoists, who accused her of interfering with executive decisions after Justice Karki overturned the government’s choice for Nepal’s Chief of Police.Expert and public consensus at the time was that the impeachment served to intimidate the judiciary and Karki, who was noted for her integrity, independence and <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/from-nepali-press/I-will-not-spare-the-corrupt,3156" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">aggressive stance on corruption</a>.Karki was reinstated after the single bench of Justice Rana issued an order against the impeachment motion.Rana’s tenure has not been without controversy, with the Chief Justice having come under scrutiny for reducing sentences of convicted murderers, acquitting individuals charged with corruption and manipulating favourable benches as favours to businessmen and politicians.Indeed, the controversy has also brought to light the practice of ‘bench buying’ in the Supreme Court, which Rana has been accused of facilitating. The decision on which cases have which benches assigned is so rife with corruption that bench-selection has become a money-making scam.An independent judiciary is the foundation of a functioning democracy and ensures that the branches of government operate within a system of checks and balances. But the controversy surrounding the Chief Justice, much more blatant than previous misgivings from within Nepal’s judiciary, has exposed the long-standing quid pro quo relationship between Nepal’s executive and judicial branches.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/non-government-of-nepal/">Non-government of Nepal</a>, Sonia Awale

Shristi Karki

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Nepal’s lawyers on warpath against Chief Justice

<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108121144/636a41ab9c7e80680e04a68bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="519"/>The organisational infrastructure of the court system is of critical importance for the success of Nepal’s <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/federalisms-birth-pangs-or-death-rattle/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">new constitutional order</a>. It is in the lower courts that people come face to face with the judicial branch of government, and where the ordinary and routine forms of justice most directly affecting daily life are in practice. Subnational courts therefore should not be forgotten in considering the judiciary’s irreplaceable role in instilling a commitment to the rule of law and encouraging a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/grassroots-democracy-is-delivering-development/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">new way of doing politics</a>.Nepal’s network of 77 district courts is the gateway for virtually all of the country’s litigation (85,000 cases in 2017-18, over which district courts oversaw final resolution to 60%). Yet both in resource allocation and in public imagination, these courts are the most neglected. It is remarkable that a mere 241 judges discharge the enormous workload.Read also:Part 1: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/federalism-rule-of-law-and-the-judiciary/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Federalism, rule of law and the judiciary</a>, George Varughese and Iain PaynePart 2: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/constitutional-guardianship-in-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Constitutional guardianship in Nepal</a> , George Varughese and Iain PayneWhile the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/share-rule-and-self-rule/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">2015 Constitution</a> has changed the executive and legislative, the court structure has not undergone significant revision, except to add two district courts — for a total of 77 — and to refashion 16 appellate courts as seven high courts with their 11 benches extended across respective provinces.The subordinate courts now have slightly enlarged purview. For the first time, provincial high courts will be able to hear public interest litigation, hopefully lessening some of the Supreme Court’s caseload burden. District courts now supervise all justice institutions, formal and informal, below the district level.District courts also have increased authority to oversee criminal offences punishable by more than one year imprisonment, many of which were previously adjudicated by quasi-judicial bodies like the district administration office. They have new jurisdiction over some civil matters previously supervised by the district executive.Critical access-to-justice issues have been inherited from the previous governance setup. For example, the geographical inaccessibility of the district courts, which remain the lowest court in judicial hierarchy and sit at the now obsolete district headquarters, are one of the key reasons why only a fraction of disputes tends to be registered with the proper court and judicial authority. The judiciary’s absence in municipal government is glaring and hardly addressed by the presence of so-called judicial committees, which fall under the municipal executive.Moreover, wholesale state restructuring must take into account roles and responsibilities of different justice sector institutions at the local level, and the judicial branch’s reflections on these would be timely in guiding other branches of government. This is especially the case with regard to judicial committees in 753 locations, about which inconsistent visions are projected in <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/constitutional-guardianship-in-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">the Constitution</a> and the Local Government Operations Act of 2017— the federal framework legislation that presently guides local government operations. This is also the case with the option provided for in the Constitution allowing the creation of local courts if required. The judicial branch’s reluctance to provide guidance on constitutional provisions for accessing justice beyond district courts could result in costly adjustments.These issues need to be addressed to guide the creation of a coherent and coordinated system for accessing justice locally, one that builds community and citizen trust in the entire justice sector and positions the judiciary in its rightful place in government. The lowest rungs of the judicial branch carry the greatest burden in making justice more accessible to more people. Much work, therefore, remains to be done to ensure that the promise of bringing all three branches of government closer to the people is fulfilled.Renewed commitments to judicial independence headlined the recently concluded National Conference of Judges. However, aside from the hot-button topic of judicial appointments that dominated discussion, only a few creative ideas emerged. Perhaps the most federally relevant of those related to empowering provincial courts to settle disputes between provinces and municipalities. Ideas such as this, while nascent, indicate that the judiciary may be willing to look for ways to be more responsive to the needs of the changed governance context.With a recently appointed Chief Justice and remaining vacancies filled, Nepal’s Supreme Court is drafting its fourth strategic plan with more stable leadership and better prepared justices than ever before. This will drive the judiciary’s institutional vision, direction and contribution to democratic government in Nepal over the next five years.Previous strategic plans have focused on court administration, caseload management, infrastructural and modernisation needs, and training programs. These remain necessary but will be insufficient to fulfil the difficult role of rethinking and reworking access to justice in a federal context. Oversight of the judicial functions of the state — wherever those may be located — is a key strategic metric of performance of the judicial branch.More difficult will be the deep institutional introspection and principled actions required to assert independence while exercising guardianship of the rule of law. It is vital that the judicial branch of the government sees itself as a trusted partner of both state and society, with its functionaries embracing their role as ‘justices of the people’ and not just of the court.Only then will a constitutional culture shaped by the rule of law translate into access to justice in federal Nepal.This concludes a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/federalism-rule-of-law-and-the-judiciary/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">three-part series</a> by Iain Payne and George Varughese who are associated with <a href="http://nitifoundation.org/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Niti Foundation</a>.

Devolving the judiciary

Shantanu Dhakal wakes up to a cold misty dawn, dons his college uniform and fastens his tie, tightening it carefully so as not to dislodge the tracheostomy tube protruding from his throat.
Gingerly, he brushes his teeth, mindful not to hurt the wound on his left cheek, where a bullet tore through during the GenZ protests on 8 September in the highway town of Itahari in eastern Nepal.&nbsp;
Dhakal, 18, came home from college that day three months ago and then took the bus to Itahari to join some friends who were protesting in front of the sub-metropolitan city office. It was mid-afternoon, and the crowd was chanting anti-corruption slogans and holding up placards.
Like most young Nepalis, Dhakal and his friends had been angered by videos on social media of the offspring of Nepal’s rich and powerful flaunting their lavish lifestyles.&nbsp;
"That was the trigger for me to join the protest, it opened my eyes to just how widespread nepotism and corruption was," Dhakal told Nepali Times.&nbsp;
The police arrested a few students, angering the crowd even more. They massed at the gate of a nearby police station to demand their friends be released. &nbsp;
Dhakal was standing across the street from the police station when the first shots rang out. The crowd scattered. As he ran for cover, there was a searing pain in his left jaw. Blood was streaming and it took some time for him to realise he had been shot.&nbsp;
“I was bleeding profusely and couldn’t speak. My vision blurred, there was a ringing in my ears,” Dhakal recalls. “I collected myself and continued to run, fearing that I would be shot a second time.”
Dhakal collapsed some distance away, and a fellow protestor took him to a nearby hospital, where doctors bandaged his jaw. He was referred to Birat Medical Teaching Hospital, where surgeons immediately performed an emergency operation. &nbsp;
The bullet had torn through his left jaw, shattering the bone, teeth, and soft tissue. Blood had rushed into his throat, obstructing the airway so doctors first performed a tracheostomy, installing a tube in his throat to help him keep breathing. A week later, the doctors reconstructed his jaw with metallic plates, grafting skin from his chest and transplanting it to the lower left side of his face.&nbsp;
Dhakal spent three weeks in hospital before being discharged. But the relief of being home was marred by disturbing thoughts. He says, “Just sitting there doing nothing began to take a toll on my mental health.” &nbsp;
Since he was always interested in content creation and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@docsbyshantanu">producing short documentaries</a>, he decided to document online his near-death experience and post-protest life.&nbsp;
Shantanu Dhakal’s Instagram and TikTok <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shantanu__dhakal/">posts are simple, short videos</a> every other day about his treatment process, dressing his wound and cleaning his tracheostomy tube, attending events with others injured during the protests, and scenes from everyday life in his family farm.&nbsp;
The comment section has Nepalis and people from around the world reaching out to ask how he is doing and keeping his spirits up. Dhakal now has a caring social media community, and he uses the platforms to keep in touch with other injured protestors across the country.&nbsp;
Life is returning to a new normal. This week, he returned to college to resume classes after more than two months and is making up for lost time. He has adjusted to speaking and eating with the tube, although the pain never quite goes away.&nbsp;
“I can eat mostly fine, but it is still difficult to speak,” he says. Soon, he will go to hospital for his fortnightly follow-up, and doctors will determine when his tracheostomy tube can be removed.
Like other young Nepalis, Dhakal is now even more politically engaged and actively reads the news of the interim government installed after the GenZ protests.&nbsp;
With the 5 March elections only three months away, young Nepalis like Dhakal hope that the elections will throw out the old and bring in the new. He is among the more than 800,000 new voters who have registered.&nbsp;
“The most important thing is that we have stable government,” he says. “As far as candidates go, an ideal one for me would be a person who prioritises health and education. But if the candidates in my constituency are not up to mark, I may not vote.”
Dhakal along with other injured protesters and relatives of those killed met &nbsp;Energy Minister Kulman Ghising, who has launched his own Ujyalo Nepal Party, and he is cautiously optimistic about the work of the current leadership. &nbsp;
It is a different story in Kathmandu, where Prime Minister Sushila Karki is struggling to manage the expectations of various youth collectives while trying to convince the old parties to participate in elections.&nbsp;
While the UML and NC are actively trying to delegitimise Karki’s government as they prepare to hold their respective general conventions, they are also preparing to give out tickets for elections.&nbsp;
Self-proclaimed GenZ leaders who used Discord to elect Karki prime minister are putting up their own conditions for the polls, even demanding her resignation for failing to meet their demands. This is in sharp contrast to the feelings of many of those injured during the protests who want elections so the nation can heal, and move on.

A new normal

This is the 75th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad. My father was a country boy from Sarlahi, and my mother a city girl from Kathmandu. They had an inter-ethnic marriage, which was difficult until the two families gradually began to accept it. My parents, who worked in development, viewed the world through a social lens. They often traveled overseas for their INGO work, leaving me and my sister behind. We spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house, or in rented apartments with guardians. Between Grades 1 and 10, I must have switched schools seven times. Our parents prioritised our education, and enrolled me in the most expensive schools. I was shocked by my school fees, and often wondered how they managed with their salaries.&nbsp; I wanted to become a businessman, so I could have the kind of life some of my well-to-do friend had. My family was not from a business background, and social services didn’t lend themselves to that kind of lifestyle. Now I realise what my parents gave me was already over the top, a truth that becomes clearer as I get older. Our family was getting along fine until our father died while working on a project in Dhading in September 2021. The official reason was ‘heart attack’. We do not talk about this much, perhaps as a way of dealing with the loss.&nbsp; He was our rock, and everything got harder. At least we had good people around us who reminded us to take care of our mother and to work hard. And we did. My sister and I made TikToks during the lockdown, initially in a joint account which reached its peak in 2022-2023. I had always wanted to be an actor, but I knew the film industry does not pay well. My parents also urged me to keep my interest in acting as a passion project. TikTok enabled us to showcase our talent for comedy. We figured out how to crack TikTok’s algorithm and stayed on top of trends. People liked our duo and the raw and authentic content. It required a strategy, luck, planning, and understanding the game.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1778" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  We use a hashtag #NakarmiKhanalAF in all our content drawing from my parents’ last names although they did not need to know what ‘AF’ stood for.&nbsp; My first viral content involving a humorous take on a Marvel character hit over 500k. That fusion combining international trends with Nepali humor worked really well, and I started making it my niche, adapting content.&nbsp; My father was always thick-skinned and did not have to try to be cool or tough. He was unapologetically himself, sometimes to the point where my sister and I felt embarrassed. When he was invited as a chief guest at a cricket game, for example, I remember feeling proud to be the child of an ‘important person’, but he grabbed the mic and told everyone to start cleaning the ground.&nbsp; Many of our friends came from wealthy families because of the schools we attended, and he proudly lectured them about our humble background and the importance of social service. Growing up, we tried hard to get his validity. My proudest moment was gifting him a shirt bought with my first salary. My father did not get to see our rise on social media, but I know he is watching over us just as he always did. The first brand deal I got was memorable but awkward. It was for a grooming package for private parts. I used to think about how movie actors start their journeys with advertisements for underwear, and this was going to be my story, my ‘humble beginning’ as a content creator.&nbsp; They did not even pay me money but just gave me the items. Other brands started coming in and with them, money. I earned as much as Rs40,000 per content and tried to make one every day. This was a big contrast to my monthly salary of Rs35,000 in a clothing store. All along, I was acutely aware that fame would not last forever. Just like one of my singer friends Wangden had said in a podcast: he was going to have fun while fame lasted.&nbsp; After TikTok was banned in India, there was even more uncertainty about social media. The alternates were also not assuring: people running businesses had to close up or were stuck, and the political uncertainty was scary. This pushed me to think about migrating, and Australia was a safe backup. I uploaded content right upto two hours before my flight from Kathmandu. I wanted to have enough savings so I did not have to start working right away in Australia. I was buying freedom. Since I had to change schools frequently, Rodin was one of few enduring friends I had. He was in Australia and assured me that he would take care of everything, and he did. He was my family there, and I did not have to go through the initial struggle that other international students had to endure.&nbsp; In Australia, I have done multiple jobs over the last two years and completed my MBA. My interviewer challenged me to make him laugh with one of my content videos. He did and I started work the very next day though I know I got the job because a hardworking friend had recommended me. To the boss, I was just another Nepali who could work swiftly. I mopped floors, washed dishes, and served customers. This was Australia, and I hustled. But I knew there had to be more to life. The long hours and little sleep eventually caught up with me. One day I slept 14–15 hours straight, and when I woke up, it hit me that I should try networking.&nbsp; I reached out to admins of Australia-based Facebook groups. Some replied, some did not, some offered jobs that were not for me. Then came an email from 8848 Momo House, and I travelled to Brisbane to meet the owner Hom Pyashi.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1548" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  “Do you want momos?” was the first thing he asked warmly. He told me to stop by one of his new outlets and make a video. I did, and I was hired the next day.&nbsp; It was that easy, and I have been working there ever since. My boss would later share in a conversation that he did not hire me because of the video but because I was young and he saw hunger in my eyes. To him, I was clay that he could help shape. I am now the marketing head, and the chain is doing well. Content creation is still a side job that brings in money. But just as my parents said, it remains a side passion.&nbsp; Then came the GenZ protests. On social media I compared Nepal’s youth to relaxed backbenchers who finally act when provoked enough to get things done. I could relate to the rage and suffocation. A song I was featured in was supposed to be released just when social media was banned in Nepal, and that fuelled my anger. But from the onset, I was wary of the headless nature of this movement, there was no ठुलो मान्छे leading and no one would be accountable if something went wrong. There was so much uncertainty, and I am not comfortable with uncertainty. We were glued to social media as the protests happened, at work and in the gym. When we learnt of the deaths of young Nepalis back home, a part of me died. The grief of unexpectedly losing my father came back.&nbsp; I left the gym early because I just could not take it. My friend and I just drove quietly to a nearby waterside. We did not even sit together because neither of us wanted to notice that we were in tears.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  One of the messages I received was a GoFundMe link to support the victims. I shared it, but someone asked if it was genuine. That is when it hit me that I had a large social media following and could not just share things without verifying them. I removed the link. The only person I felt I could trust was myself, so I decided to start my own fundraiser. I felt emotional and helpless, and had to do something.&nbsp; I assumed we could raise around AUD5,000. I was wrong. Within hours, we had raised nearly AUD60,000. Fellow content creators Avash and Manzil from Minority Report had also started a GoFundMe, and we decided to join forces.&nbsp; Partnering with them was going to be a lifesaver because I was not at all prepared for what was ahead. Over 11,000 people contributed across our two campaigns, raising AUD514,386. But we had not thought through the logistical challenge, the online hate and the delays. We needed to release the money to the right organisations in Nepal, get complete information about the families of the martyrs and injured — our primary target groups.&nbsp; We faced a huge amount of backlash after a hate narrative instigated by a few people spread online. We just could not get our message across that it was not as simple as raising the money and handing it over. People believed what they wanted to believe. Internet hate can take you to very dark places, even when you believe in your cause and know it can bring some comfort to grieving families. You try to focus on the positive message, because many people did support us, but the hate and accusations do bring you down.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98.png" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98" data-rendition-name="original" width="1320" height="2868" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  When I was paralysed by the internet hate to carry out even the most mundane activities like cooking and cleaning, my roommate Bibek took over. He even made me watch an episode from the Mahabharat capturing Krishna’s teachings on karma without worrying about the fruits, a lesson that did not just help me get out of that depressive episode but has become a guiding principle for life. How would I have emerged out of that darkness when I was battling with suicidal thoughts if people had not showed up for me? We worked day and night to find the right partners, and because of the large amount of money and the level of transparency we asked for, many influencers or organisations turned us down.&nbsp; This was not easy because we had our own jobs to take care of, our own bills to worry about that were not linked to the fundraiser. It helped that my team at 8848 let me deal with this during work hours, and assured me that they will stand by me no matter what. Thankfully, we finally partnered with Nepal Rising (Daayitwa US), a professional and transparent organisation that stepped in and saved the day. GoFundme finally released the funds to their account and it has begun reaching the right people. My sister helped ensure the money is delivered properly. As a final check, I speak with the families in Nepal and offer my condolences. I honour their loved one’s contribution to our country and we will make sure it is never forgotten. But no matter what we say or how much we try to help, the heartbreaking truth is that their young son or sibling is not coming back. The narrative is slowly changing. Slaps are now claps. But the trauma of the public hate is so great that it still gnaws at me, I have anxiety about attending Nepali gatherings like concerts here. I remember when a dance I had created for Bola Maya went viral on TikTok, with tens of thousands of people picking it up. A chef friend told me it was time to use that influence for a social cause. Those words stayed with me. As I navigated the backlash, I was also reminded of my parents who worked on social causes and asked my mother if they had faced similar cases. She had, and she reminded me that all we can do is stay focused on the cause and drown out the noise. Things will eventually work out.

Things eventually work out

This is the 76th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad. We did not have a whole lot, but did not grow up in scarcity either. When I was in Grade 7, my father migrated to Malaysia but returned just after 18 days and was heavily in debt. It is the interest and not the principal from loan sharks that ruins borrowers. As we grew up, family expenses rose and my father migrated again to Qatar, determined to make it work this time. I used to watch him via IMO in buildings under construction eating rice out of plastic bags. There was no AC, no oven, no shade. Those images are etched into my memory.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6" data-rendition-name="original" width="600" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Family picture from 2014 sent to Anil's father who was working in Qatar.</figcaption> </figure>  After Grade 10, I was encouraged to take up computers in +2 as I was a bright student. I did not have access to a computer, and the 30 minutes we got weekly at the computer lab was just not enough. My parents could not afford to buy a computer, but a friend had both a desktop and laptop at home.&nbsp; I did his homework in exchange for using his computer. When my father in Qatar, found out he bought me a laptop. Today, a decade later, I am still using it. Maybe I valued the computer more because it was bought with my father’s sweat. The laptop reminds me of how he toiled overseas.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil still uses the laptop his father bought him ten years ago.</figcaption> </figure>  The money he sent home did help with household expenses. My mother did tailoring, although the income was not stable. After my father returned from Qatar, we he bought a three-wheeler which he still uses in Makwanpur. After completing Grade 12, I came to college in Kathmandu to study IT. It cost Rs20,000 a month in tuition, rent and food just to survive. I could not complete my bachelor’s. Although my father kept saying, “Don’t worry, I am here,” he just did not have the money to pay for me. So, I took up a data entry job which helped cover living expenses. The pandemic meant my father could not earn money from his auto-rickshaw. We had no savings and had outstanding loans. Migration was the only way to get us out of the rut. I told my father that both of us should go abroad to earn some money. He could return earlier and I would stay on.&nbsp; My father agreed, and I visited recruiting agencies with both our passports. After reviewing our CVs, they said it was easy to find jobs for my father but not for me, given my educational background and my experience in software. “How can we send you for jobs as a cleaner or security guard?” they asked. I finally found a job in Romania, and decided to have my father stay back because going to Europe would have doubled the cost. My mother and sister came to see me off at Kathmandu airport. It felt just like my father leaving for Qatar many years ago. Perhaps some day, my brother would also leave in a similar manner, I thought.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's sister hugging him at the airport before he left for Romania.</figcaption> </figure>  In Romania, I work in a factory making car seat belts. It is not physically demanding and it is indoors. Even though I did not share it with my family, the initial period was difficult as I had no experience standing and working for so many hours at a time. Once, when I was tired at work, I wondered how my father managed in Qatar in a much more physically taxing job. Here I was not carrying heavy loads, my work was not outdoors. I was so emotional, I wrote a ghazal in my head. The words “खाडीको तातो घाम” kept repeating in my head. After work, I jotted down the verse in my diary:&nbsp; बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot become like you कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot imagine how hard it is म मान्छे हेर्दा मात्रै ठूलो I only look like a grown man बानी अझै बच्चै छ But I am still childish किनकि जता त्यतै जान मन लाग्छ I feel like roaming around जे देख्यो त्यो खान मन लाग्छ Eat whatever I see. न पैसा बच्छ I cannot save. न खाएको कुरा सबै पच्छ The food doesn’t agree with me&nbsp; कहिले काहीँ त मलाई म्याकडोनाल्डको बर्गर पनि पच्दैन Not even a burger at McDonalds तर प्लास्टिकमा पोको परेको त्यो चिसो भात But how did my father eat that cold rice खाडीको त्यो तातो घाममा सेक्दै खाँदा मेरो बुवालाई कसरी पच्छ? Under the hot Gulf sun? मेरो पेटले यस्तो पचाउन सक्दै सक्दैन I would not be able to eat that. बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot be like you. कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot say how difficult it is.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil Gole's diary entry of his ghazal compares his migration with his father’s journey.</figcaption> </figure>  I posted it online, and it went viral. But more importantly, people found the words relatable and engaging. My sister first saw it on Tiktok and shared it with my mother. It moved them to tears while my father kept watching it on repeat, deep in thought. Even though my birth father decided to leave my mother when I was less than a year old, my step father never made me feel the absence of anything. My friend from Grade 6 in Makwanpur, Sharan, introduced me to ghazal. He was six years older because he had to pause his studies during the Maoist conflict. He worked in a brick factory in Kathmandu, saved money, and returned to school. He was very talented and we became friends through the school children’s club.&nbsp; Sharan and I spent most of our time together, sharing meals to save money and even skipping classes. One day, in Grade 9 when our teacher was absent, he wrote a ghazal on the spot and explained the form, the rhyme, the meter. I listened half-heartedly as it was not of interest. We left it at that. Shortly after, Sharan was diagnosed with leukemia and he could not finish exam. Because he was a sharp student, the teachers decided to not hold him back. He died just before Grade 10. I cried. I do not have any pictures of Sharan. He had small ears, and I used to tease him that people with small ears do not live long. That still haunts me. <div class="embed-block"><div style="max-width: 56vh;"><div style="left: 0; width: 100%; height: 0; position: relative; padding-bottom: 177.7778%;"><iframe src="https://cdn.iframe.ly/api/iframe?url=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutube.com%2Fshorts%2FLpizGQWTbMs%3Ffeature%3Dshare&key=87ca3314a9fa775b5c3a7726100694b0" style="top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; position: absolute; border: 0;" allowfullscreen scrolling="no" allow="accelerometer *; clipboard-write *; encrypted-media *; gyroscope *; picture-in-picture *; web-share *;"></iframe></div></div></div> At the school assembly at the start of the new year, we were asked to share a talent. I did not know what to do, but I wrote a ghazal just as Sharan had taught me and dedicated it to him. Halfway through, I started crying and the principal took me to his office and calmed me down.&nbsp; I do not write much poetry except a few posts on social media here and there. But a video of me reciting went viral on TikTok and that encouraged me to write more. That made me feel validated, and I began writing more about real life experiences. It has been three years in Romania. My brother will also be joining me soon. Things have improved for us financially, but we are not where we want to be. We will get there. When we do, I will resume my studies. I’m interested in programming, especially back-end development and working with databases. It is on hold right now.&nbsp; I do not have big dreams, I just want to make sure my parents get what they deserve. It is okay if I get delayed if my parents are able to access what they had scarified for us when they were of my age. For now, my family is my priority.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34" data-rendition-name="original" width="2016" height="1512" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's family.</figcaption> </figure>

My father’s son

In a democracy, governments come and go. But Nepal had become so entangled in the triangular affair between Sher Bahadur Deuba, K P Oli and Pushpa Kamal Dahal that it was becoming impossible to tell who was canoodling with whom.&nbsp;
All three had long since abandoned their party ideologies. Staying in power was all that mattered as they turned Nepal’s democracy into a kleptocracy.&nbsp;
For the past at least 20 years, we have warned them to mend their ways. Democracy had to be rescued from the hands of such kakistocrats. Waiting to pounce were monarchists and anarchists of every ilk, outcast Maoists, and supporters of a leader jailed for fraud. Tycoon Durga Prasai said his rally in March was to restore a Hindu monarchy, but he was just a temporary royalist whom even the ex-king spurned.&nbsp;
All this converged into a perfect storm on 8 September. Commandos shot and killed 19 innocent young people outside Parliament, the anger boiled over into targetted arson and vandalism the next day. The government fell, and Sushila Karki was elected interim prime minister through Discord.&nbsp;
With not just their monopoly on power but also their very lives in danger, the triumvirate was at first in total shock. Then came conspiracy theories and an inability to gauge the rage from decades of misrule.
Nepalis had assumed that after September the old parties would see their folly, and step down to hand over the leadership to a new generation. But 10 weeks later, there is no sign of any act of contrition.
In the NC, Sher Bahadur Deuba has sidelined the caretaker he himself appointed, Purna Bahadur Khadka, and is active again as the party prepares for a showdown in its Convention next month. The UML is proceeding with its own General Convention, where Oli is fully assured of a third term as party boss. Dahal sees no alternative to himself in his newly-forged Nepali Communist Party and is eagerly eyeing becoming prime minister for the fourth time.&nbsp;
The three leaders who everyone had hoped would finally retire have reincarnated. It is obscene for obsolete politicians to still hanker for power after all that has happened.&nbsp;
SHOCK AND AWE
The three leaders who have been prime minister a dozen times between themselves want to cling on, but this is not abnormal if we apply <a href="https://www.bbc.com/audio/play/w3cszmjz" target="_blank">Elisabeth Kübler-Ross</a>’ theory of the five stages of grief. The author of <a href="https://www.google.com.np/books/edition/On_Death_and_Dying/GlSq0AEACAAJ?hl=en" target="_blank">On Death and Dying</a> was analysing how people with terminal illness deal with their situation, but her 5-stage theory may be applicable to the way heads of the NC, UML and NCP are reacting to the shock of being overthrown — first with denial, then anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance.&nbsp;
On 9 September, distressed by what had befallen them, the three were in total denial. Then began the stage of anger. Oli ranted in public about a conspiracy to install an ‘unconstitutional’ interim government, blaming the Nepal Army, and vowing not to take part in election even while preparing for it.
The NC has decided to participate in elections, although it has to first sort out its internal power struggle. The NCP and the RSP have united with smaller parties and are actively preparing to campaign. GenZ groups are speaking in different voices, with Sudan Gurung and Miraj Dhungana openly trying to unseat an interim government they themselves installed.&nbsp;
The parties are now in the third stage: bargaining. Instead of asking himself in hindsight what he should have done, Oli wants Parliament restored but has also registered his party for elections. The UML won't allow elections unless the government lifts restrictions on Oli’s movement.
Likewise, GenZ groups are putting up conditions for supporting polls: arrest Oli and others. Karki is single-mindedly focussed on elections, even if it has to be put off by two months. The Army would also like polls on time because it does not want a repeat of September when it had to intervene to form the interim government.
If Karki’s 6-month mandate ends without elections, and if by then the GenZ’s trust in the interim government collapses, then UML and NC could plan to press for an all-party election government, restoration of Parliament which would then dissolve itself to appoint a new prime minister that Karki would also be agreeable to.
The current state of affairs makes it difficult to imagine elections being held on 5 March — mainly because polls would be incomplete without the three main parties taking part, and it is unlikely they would participate in polls that they are certain to lose since they have not reformed themselves. Amidst these ifs and buts, the role of the Army will be critical.&nbsp;
The fourth stage of grief is depression, and that is what will happen to the parties when the reality of their unpopularity finally hits them. Only then will they finally accept their fate, realise that it was all their own doing, and perhaps reinvent themselves.
Kübler-Ross said the five stages did not necessarily have to be in that order, or that sometimes there may only be three phases, which may be applicable to the parties. What is for sure is that the three leaders are in no mood to atone for their sins.
Rabin Giri is an editor with <a href="http://nepalnews.com/" target="_blank">nepalnews.com</a>.&nbsp;

legislative

Nepal’s lawyers on warpath against Chief Justice

Devolving the judiciary

A new normal

Things eventually work out

My father’s son

Stages of denial