<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101124/637209f39c7e80680e0b5572jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="507" height="600"/><figcaption>Author Buddhisagar. Photo: BUDDHISAGAR/FACEBOOK</figcaption></figure>Buddhisagar’s novel Karnali Blues starts with a father, who says after seeing his newborn son for the first time, “He has a mole on the sole of his foot, so he will have to walk a lot but he won’t go off anywhere and leave us.”His mother then asks the baby, “Will you go off and leave us when you’re big?”A statement from one parent, a question from the other.In a Thamel restaurant on a sunny winter afternoon, Buddhisagar walks in wearing a brick-orange jumper and black pants, looking as if he just returned from a track meet-and-greet. He apologises for being late. “I walk everywhere,” he offers as an explanation.He does not look like any of the pictures on the Internet, those that make him out to be larger-than-life celebrated Nepali author. Maybe it is because he is not expecting to be photographed.Read more: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/former-gurkha-soldier-turns-author/">Former Gurkha soldier turns authors</a>, Chun Bahadur GurungThis is the real Buddhisagar, in his most natural state. Perhaps this is how he looks writing in his own company, while sipping tea from a local vendor and building stories out of childhood nostalgia.Like Brisha Bahadur in Karnali Blues, Buddhisagar was also born in Matera, and brought up in Katasé and Kalikot. Like the main character of his novel, he was not academically gifted. But unlike his fictional counterpart, he was rather shy, Buddhisagar  confesses. So the prolific author most likely did not go around looking for mischief or drawing moustaches on pictures he found around the house.Many call Karnali Blues an autobiographical fiction. “Some parts of the beginning of the novel are real,” the author admits.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101124/637209f59c7e80680e0b5573jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="725" height="960"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The inspiration for the novel came in a hospital, a place of both birth and death. “My father was sick and like in the novel, he was in Kohalpur. He died later, from brain hemorrhage as well,” he says.But Buddhisagar does not think he is our protagonist. He explains, “A writer is never one character. They are inside the minds of young and old, of men and women - they are everywhere in fragments. There are some parts of me in Brisha Bahadur. There are some parts of my mother and father in him as well. He is not all me.”After a pause, he adds, “Just look at the poems he writes. If he was me, he perhaps could have written them better.”There is also the juxtaposition in the book between the two Harsha Bahadurs — one is the breadwinner of the family and the other lies paralysed in a hospital bed.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/nepali-literatures-thulnani-toya-gurung/">Toya Gurung: Nepali literature’s Thulnani</a>, Muna GurungThen, there are the two Brisha Bahadur: the child who looks up to his father, and the youth who still does so even as the father lies on his deathbed.Father and son oscillate between having to give and receive care to one another. There is also the pacing of the past and the present in the chapters of the novel. The present moves in a numbingly slow pace as the human mind goes through moments rejecting death, and yet accepting the hopelessness enveloping it whereas the past rushes up to the narrator like a deadly current in a moody river that catches up to those who do not want to be caught.“What matters the most to me is <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/writing-about-nepal-from-afar/">authenticity</a>,” Buddhisagar says,  sipping on a single-shot Americano. “Regardless of whether a story is autobiographical or not, the readers must think that the events happening in the story can actually happen in reality.”<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101124/637209f89c7e80680e0b5574jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1222" height="900">Karnali Blues tells us about <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/taking-nepali-literature-to-the-world/">people and places that age</a> through immaculately detailed visuals of the great river’s tributaries weaving themselves into the story.Villages and towns also have characters and stories to tell. A tea shop by the river turns into a small market. The river becomes a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/how-the-bagmati-civilisation-is-becoming-uncivilised/">dumping site to accommodate modernisation</a>. The cattle get sick. A new bridge opens up a nearby town, and its population migrates, hoping for a better future.The village dries up, but the rivers stay polluted. There is death and abandonment, but even if one life ends, the other has to move forward. The title is apt, there is no other place to feel blue and desolate than in the Karnali.“The back-and-forth style of storytelling in Karnali Blues came from those hospital nights with my father,” Buddhisagar says, this time holding a freshly-lit cigarette between his fingers. “You start by reading about an unknown person, sick and on his deathbed,  and slowly, you walk along the story with him. Eventually, the readers get to know him and so when the end comes, it creates an emotional response.”Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/taking-nepali-literature-to-the-world/">Taking Nepali literature to the world</a>, Ashish DhakalBecause we spend 400 pages with Harsha Bahadur, we know that he is a constantly caring patriarch whose love for blue waistcoats is immeasurable. We also know that Brisha Bahadur’s nameless mother is constantly forgiving. Despite being a troublemaker, we still adore Brisha Bahadur’s predilection for an expensive bicycle, or a leather jacket. His love for tea makes him the most relatable Nepali on earth. And thus we come to care for all of them.“Since I spent many years writing the novel, it opened a whole new world for me,” Buddhisagar says, blowing out blue smoke through his nostrils.It has been 12 years since he came out, and readers have come to love the world he created as well. It has now found new visitors with <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/taking-nepali-literature-to-the-world/">Michael Hutt’s English translation</a> (see above).<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101124/637209fb9c7e80680e0b5575jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1080" height="792"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Language bridges distance, and so when asked whether he wishes to change the way he had written Karnali Blues, especially now that he has become a father himself, he shakes his head.“I don’t have any regrets about my past work. Whatever I had felt while writing the book has dissipated. If I read it now, I will do it as a reader,” says Buddisagar. “We are fathers of a different era. I don’t feel the need to change the way I have written about fatherhood in this novel.”Perhaps it is not Buddhisagar we should be looking for in our narrator, rather it is us readers that find ourselves in his characters. The way we were as children, the kind of parents we want to become.Maybe Buddhisagar has expertly hidden himself somewhere within lines like these in Hutt’s translation: “Once Father set out, he never looked back. He used to say, ‘If you turn to look back, your attachments will trap you and you won’t be able to go.’”Buddhisagar is working on his third novel. The English translation of Karnali Blues translated Michael Hutt is available in Kathmandu bookshops. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-story-of-books-in-nepal/">The story of books in Nepal</a>, Ashish Dhakal

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The Man from Karnali

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.

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