While most Nepalis understand ‘media’ to mean tv (21.5%) and radio (20.6%), younger, urban, and educated audiences also equate Facebook (19.9%) and YouTube (16.9%) with 'media'. In provinces like Sudurpaschim, reliance on radio (40.4%) and tv (30.7%) far outpace digital platforms, but in Bagmati Province, Facebook (35.4%) and YouTube (32.8%) are more common sources of news. Respondents with at least a Bachelor’s degree are far more likely to associate media with both traditional and digital platforms, with 59.3% mentioning tv, 54.7% radio, and 42.1% citing Facebook. Defining Facebook as ‘media’ reflects its accessibility and role in delivering diverse, user-generated content that resonates with younger, urban, and educated audiences. This shift indicates a transition from traditional gatekeeping to algorithm-driven news consumption. Madhes and Karnali Provinces, with lower literacy rates and limited access to electricity and local media outlets, show lower media engagement. On the other hand, Bagmati and Gandaki Provinces have higher adoption of both traditional and digital platforms, indicating that media habits are shaped by infrastructure and socio-economic status.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241226151224_88ff2e60339e15f20999c74052a4a4c1ddb5832218221b06fdc3c13bae550f4c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20241226151224_88ff2e60339e15f20999c74052a4a4c1ddb5832218221b06fdc3c13bae550f4c" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal Media Survey 2024"></figure>  However, a high proportion of ‘Don’t Know’ responses indicates gaps in media awareness, particularly in areas like Madhes Province, and among less-educated populations. For Nepal’s media sector, therefore, the challenge is to navigate this evolving landscape by balancing the strengths of traditional media with the growing demand for accessible and engaging digital content. While digital news is steadily gaining ground, tv and radio remain relevant for significant population segments. Print media, however, is in steady decline. News on mobiles  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241226141212_fd348dd2ddfe3b1035accf96a2959c179c80886f24244938276ebfd9288dd91c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20241226141212_fd348dd2ddfe3b1035accf96a2959c179c80886f24244938276ebfd9288dd91c" data-rendition-name="original" width="868" height="645" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal Media Survey 2024"></figure>  Digital platforms are increasingly the preferred medium for news, with 46.8% of respondents using the internet (33% of surveyed population) saying they read the news on their mobiles or computers. This trend is most pronounced in Gandaki (69.5%), Bagmati (53.2%), and Kosi (57.0%) Provinces. The younger, better educated are leading this digital shift. For example, 83.3% of respondents with higher education consume news digitally, compared to just 13.1% of illiterate respondents. The gap is evident in regions like Madhes, where only 19.9% engage with digital news, underscoring disparities in access and adoption. This digital transition can be attributed to the accessibility and convenience of mobile devices and the internet, the immediacy of digital news, and the interactive nature of online platforms. Younger and educated audiences increasingly prefer digital platforms for personalised and real-time content, which mainstream press often cannot match. Additionally, the declining relevance of traditional media in some regions stems from their limited ability to adapt to the fast-paced, on-demand consumption habits that digital platforms readily fulfill. This shift underscores the growing importance of technological access and user-centric content in shaping media preferences. Despite its gradual decline, television remains a significant medium, with 37.3% of respondents saying they have watched tv in the past three months. Tv is strongest in Bagmati (48.0%) and Kosi (43.6%) provinces, while Karnali lags at 22.7%. Respondents with higher education (60.7%) are more likely to watch tv than their less-educated counterparts with a notable gender disparity.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241226141212_775249f428ea98b1749613cf86585eaadc8382fb8145e2c9c609ddab6e9a7ab4.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20241226141212_775249f428ea98b1749613cf86585eaadc8382fb8145e2c9c609ddab6e9a7ab4" data-rendition-name="original" width="500" height="587" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal Media Survey 2024"></figure>  Radio, once a dominant medium, now caters to a shrinking audience (32.2%). Print media faces the steepest decline (only 13.8% saying they read a newspaper or magazine in the past 6 months), with higher engagement only among urban (28.2%) and educated audiences. Lowest print usage is in Karnali (5.7%). But print still has remarkable staying power among those with higher education (53.4%). Of the surveyed population, 58% say they go to at least one of the legacy media, whereas 73% have internet access. The message for the mainstream press: innovate to remain relevant. Print outlets must rethink strategy, perhaps by targeting urban and educated audiences with specialised or niche content. Previous surveys had shown that many Nepalis would read print if it was available. Nepal’s media landscape is at a tipping point, and the industry must adapt to the changing and diverse needs of an evolving audience. In media we trust  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241226141212_d75127854185d1b944d0e2979824c064c3284c706711a41bba47c1ba07f4839b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20241226141212_d75127854185d1b944d0e2979824c064c3284c706711a41bba47c1ba07f4839b" data-rendition-name="original" width="844" height="801" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal Media Survey 2024"></figure>  Respondents who primarily associate media with the mainstream press are more likely to express ‘Complete Trust’ or ‘Mostly Trust’ driven by the credibility they have built over the decades. Conversely, digital media audiences, while appreciating its accessibility and interactivity, have cautious optimism about the credibility of their content. Bagmati Province with Kathmandu Valley’s media hub leads in trust, with 47.2% expressing ‘Somewhat Trust’. While urban respondents generally report higher trust levels, there is some skepticism in rural areas. Younger respondents aged 16–24 show the highest levels of trust of digital platforms, highlighting their greater engagement and openness to newer forms of media. By contrast, older demographics, (age 60 and above) show lower trust and more uncertainty about online content. This generational divide shows that legacy media need to meet the expectations of younger audiences, while maintaining relevance for older groups. Respondents with higher education consume media more diversely and report higher trust levels (55.4%), while 45.2% of illiterate respondents remain uncertain, reflecting broader literacy, access, and inclusivity issues in the media landscape. The Nepal Media Survey 2024 shows a media landscape in which traditional and digital media coexist. While trust in media remains relatively strong, significant gaps in representation and accessibility persist across regions, age groups, and educational levels. Not surprisingly, younger urban audiences gravitate towards interactive digital platforms, while older and rural populations continue to rely on traditional media. However, pervasive uncertainties among specific demographics highlight the need for a more inclusive and localised approach. As Nepal’s media landscape evolves, it faces dual challenges: maintaining credibility and trust, while adapting to diverse and shifting consumption habits. Media stakeholders need to think about the steps they now need to take for their own survival, to ensure pluralism and healthy public debate, and ensure that the voices of the marginalised are included in the national conversation. Policymakers, media owners and journalists must strive to balance innovation with accessibility, fostering a trusted space that informs, empowers, and connects all Nepalis. This media transition is shaped by regional disparities, generational differences, and the growing dominance of digital platforms. Consumers of news An overwhelming majority (81.7%) of respondents report engaging with news in some form, underscoring a widespread appetite for staying informed. However, 18.3% do not use media for news at all either because of lack of access, or distrust. Regionally, news consumption is strongest in Bagmati (91.6%) and Sudurpaschim (90.5%), while Madhes (60.6%) lags significantly behind. This finding reflects potential challenges in access or outreach in the region. In rural areas, 79.5% of respondents consume news compared to 87.6% in cities. Urbanisation continues to drive higher engagement with media. Among social media platforms, Facebook (62.0%) and YouTube (44.4%) dominate, particularly among younger and urban audiences. In the 16-24 age group, 82.6% of respondents rely on Facebook as their primary news source, while 51.5% turn to YouTube. In contrast, their use of radio (23.6%) and tv (21.3%) is considerably lower. Among those 60 and above, 38.4% rely on radio and tv equally for news. Although Facebook is not a media platform in itself, the tendency to perceive posts on Facebook as ‘news’, or view content shared by traditional media on the site as originating from Facebook likely contributes to this perception. There is a blurring of boundaries between mainstream media and social media platforms, and the content they host. Print media is struggling to maintain relevance, with only 5.3% of respondents citing newspapers and magazines as their go-to news source. This sharp decline in print engagement suggests a broader shift toward instant, accessible digital content, leaving traditional formats struggling to adapt. Interestingly, media aggregate sites like Hamro Patro (6.2%) and emerging spaces like TikTok (1.4%) show how niche tools and apps carve out their own spaces in the news ecosystem. Higher education is a strong predictor of news consumption with 99.1% of respondents using news content in one form or other. Only 52.1% of illiterate respondents engage with news, raising issues of literacy, access, and media inclusion. Responsive media  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241226141212_2201d79424e162f11ab79f3de8675cd7da8018f71cc99ebd49bd9961d362d3cf.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20241226141212_2201d79424e162f11ab79f3de8675cd7da8018f71cc99ebd49bd9961d362d3cf" data-rendition-name="original" width="898" height="810" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal Media Survey 2024"></figure>  The question of how much Nepali media cares about the public issues reveals disparities across regions, demographics, and platforms. While 38.5% of respondents believe the media cares about their needs, a significant 31.2% feels otherwise, with 20% are uncertain. Confidence in media is strongest in Bagmati and Karnali, while Sudurpaschim and Madhes highlight gaps in engagement and relatable coverage. This divide reflects earlier findings about Nepal’s media landscape, where digital platforms dominate urban and younger demographics, while traditional platforms hold sway in rural and older populations. Nepal’s journalism needs to bridge this gap in representation and trust by creating inclusive, localised content that resonates with diverse audiences. The age, urban-rural and education divide is also reflected in how media responsiveness is perceived. The survey result shows that while journalism is often seen as addressing more significant national issues, it struggles to connect with individual or localised concerns with a persistent trust gap and regional disparities. This likely stems from the media’s tendency to prioritise macro-level narratives, such as politics and societal challenges which resonate on a broader scale, while often overlooking the lived experiences of individuals or underrepresented communities. Over half of respondents (51.3%) feel that journalism cares ‘A Great Deal’, ‘Quite a Bit’, about public concerns, while 34.2% feel the media pays only ‘Slight’ or ‘No’ attention to their needs. Age and education continue to influence perceptions of media responsiveness. Younger respondents aged 16–34 are more optimistic, with over 35% stating journalism cares ‘Quite a lot’ about public concerns. However, confidence diminishes among older age groups, where 39.8% of those aged 60 and above express uncertainty. Urban respondents (35.2%) consistently report higher trust in media responsiveness compared to 33.8% in rural areas. This data aligns with earlier findings, where urban audiences, engaging more with digital platforms, feel better represented. The contrast between personal and public perceptions suggests that while Nepali journalism is recognised for addressing large-scale, national issues, it struggles to connect with localised or individual concerns. Digital platforms, which dominate urban and younger audiences, likely contribute to the more positive perceptions of media care for public concerns. In comparison, mainstream media, which is used more by older and rural audiences, may not foster the same level of trust or engagement. Nepal’s traditional press must balance coverage of national issues with more relevant local content to build lasting trust. Bridging this gap requires headline-worthy grassroots storytelling that resonates with individuals and communities while building a national narrative, fostering trust and representation in society. Madhu Acharya is the CEO/President, and Bhumiraj Chapagain, PhD, is the Research Director at Sharecast Data Initiative.

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What do Nepalis think of the media?

The scenes from Dhaka on Monday were eerily similar to the ransacking of the residences of Ferdinand Marcos or Gotabaya Rajapaksa. Protesters took selfies lying on Sheikh Hasina’s bed (pictured above), they lounged on her sofas, feasted on biryani, and looted whatever was portable.&nbsp;
As is usually the case, it only takes a spark to light a revolt when a people’s fury at ruthless rulers reaches the tipping point. Hasina’s regime cracked down brutally on demonstrators, killing more than 300.&nbsp;
After another day of bloodshed on 4 August, Hasina lost support of the security forces, and jubilant protesters watched as their <a href="https://edition.cnn.com/2024/08/05/asia/bangladesh-prime-minister-residence-stormed-intl/index.html">prime minister of 15 years fly off to India</a>. Army Chief Waker-Uz-Zaman announced an interim government would be formed.
There is a vital lesson from what has happened in Bangladesh for the rest of South Asia and beyond. Rulers cannot rest on their laurels just because they were freedom fighters. If citizens do not benefit from regime change, they will sweep rulers into the dustbin of history.
History is replete with examples of despots who plunder, torture and kill opponents, but are overthrown sooner or later. <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/article/2024/aug/05/why-bangladesh-prime-minister-sheikh-hasina-resigned">Sheikh Hasina</a>, was elected for the fifth time in a rigged election in January that was boycotted by the opposition BNP, and accepted only by India.
Hasina's fate is also a lesson for regional powers who back tyrants for geopolitical reasons: what they gain from such support can be tenuous and short-lived.
Nepal is presently not ruled by an elected despot, our press is the freest in the region, and the check and balance of democracy here function relatively well. Yet, the events in Bangladesh have an important lesson for our elderly rulers and mass media.&nbsp;
Are we in the media also partly to blame for increasing public frustration with politics as usual that is making Nepalis cynical and apathetic?
Nepal’s new politicians have exploited the fecklessness of old rulers by using the new media to gather populist support. Journalists are seen to be comrades-in-arms of the legacy leaders, and are collectively held responsible for Nepal’s decline.&nbsp;
In the age of citizen journalism, there is a misconception that the mass media has become redundant. However, in-depth journalism is more essential than ever to help citizens navigate information overload, disinformation and deep fakes.&nbsp;
The mobile phone and its algorithm-driven networking platforms are more for entertainment than information. And if information is a major part of content, then more often than not it is fake news and toxic trolling. Readership has not decreased, it has just migrated, and the sources of information have changed.
The main reason Nepal's politicians and journalists find themselves targetted is because they played active roles together in the people power movements of 1990 and 2006.
Indeed, journalists have been at the forefront of the restoration and protection of democracy and in upholding press freedom — through the conflict years, and after king Gyanendra’s coup in 2005.&nbsp;
But <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/stemming-asia-s-democratic-decay">when democracy fails to deliver</a>, the public and populists tend to blame not just elected politicians, but also journalists.&nbsp;
The irony is that Nepal’s leadership is reluctant to credit the mass media for helping defend democracy and making it possible for them to get to power. Instead, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/press-for-people">many politicians would like to muzzle the media</a> because of its role in holding their power to account and exposing corruption in high places.&nbsp;
The media is playing its mandated adversarial role in Nepal’s democracy, but click-bait media and <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/democracy-s-discontents">populist politicians</a> see public-interest journalism as competition for public attention.
We in the legacy media therefore find ourselves being distrusted by old guard politicians, and as rivals by YouTubers and TikTokers.
The state itself refuses thus far to recognise the communication enterprise as an industry, and successive governments <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/gagging-the-press-in-installments">have tried to weaken the traditional mass media by laws and policies</a>. The ban on alcohol ads on grounds of public health, even though such goods can be openly bought and consumed, is part of that strategy.&nbsp;
New leaders like Kathmandu mayor Balen Shah were propelled to power by new media. The <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepals-home-minister-vs-the-media">RSP’s Rabi Lamichhane</a> also fanned cyber-populism to get elected, which is why he is so dismissive of the ‘Dirty Dozen’ (१२-भाइ एडिटर) of the legacy media that exposed his wrongdoings.
The lesson from the Bangladesh upheaval for Nepal’s rulers who have been at the helm now for decades is this: clean up your act and start delivering, or else face a similar fate.
<a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/clywww69p2vo">Sheikh Hasina</a> persecuted the press, allowing social pressure to build up until it all exploded in her face. A free press is democracy’s safety valve, and it is in the self-interest of Nepal’s political parties to defend it.
Gunaraj Luitel is the Chief Editor of Nagarik Daily in Kathmandu.
@gunaraj

Selfies on the prime minister’s bed

We often see ourselves reflected in the other. For someone who grew up in Kathmandu Valley in the eighties and nineties, this maxim comes alive with an even greater force. Nepal’s media ecosystem was dismal, the school curriculum was narrow and did not provide opportunities for creative expression. Perhaps that is why I became obsessed with MTV videos and Bollywood films. I saw my developing self reflected in these story-lines and razzmatazz. When the media and education system do not engage the public and reflect myriad interests, aspirations and lifestyles of the population, citizens get detached and disconnected from their roots. I left for America for further studies, and was somewhat determined to never return to Nepal. It was a country full of potholes and black-outs. But foreigners have been fascinated with our country for decades. In the early 19th century, Francis Buchanan-Hamilton led a pioneering expedition and documented more than a thousand species of plants native to the region. Almost a century later, in 1905, Frenchman Sylvan Levi published ‘the first attempt to produce a comprehensive study of Nepal’, drawing on not just indigenous but available Chinese and European sources as well. After Nepal opened up in the 1950s, different kinds of foreigners have traveled here -- most notably, cold-war era spies disguised as diplomats, and later came the hippies. I returned to Nepal in 2013 and was primarily struck by two major demographics - the artists and the expats. Energised by the recent revolution, the creatives were making vibrant, powerful works. The expats, on the other hand, demonstrated a different way to navigate life in Kathmandu Valley. These two groups of people re-introduced Nepal to me and I began seeing my country and my hometown with a renewed perspective. Which is why one particular image from Giovanna Caruso’s ongoing show at the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thekalasalon/?hl=en" target="_blank">Kalā</a><a href="https://www.instagram.com/thekalasalon/?hl=en" target="_blank"> Salon</a> curated by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/facades-and-flowers-from-nepal-to-italy" target="_blank">Sophia L Pandé</a> instantly caught my attention -- rather, it called out to me, as if it was composed for me, framing a key moment from my own life. Its title is, coincidentally, 2013. Like most of her other works, the pen-and-ink drawing is punctuated by an explosion of watercolour: a woman standing confidently in front of a Newa-style house, a leg arched up, as if she is fixing a strap around an ankle before stepping out on an adventure. The watercolour depicts a rainbow streaming out of a pot through a second-floor window. The rest of the details are rendered in realism – clusters of garlic and onion hanging to dry from the rafters, and further down a stack of corn. There are towels drying, even an old water pump.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251201121216_f440de5b5402fe0877dc46d94f41647bd46b00035b61241d46fc9f7ffbd87d0f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251201121216_f440de5b5402fe0877dc46d94f41647bd46b00035b61241d46fc9f7ffbd87d0f" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="3024" loading="lazy" alt="art review Kala Salon"> </figure>  When I walked over to this artwork with Caruso, she chuckled, “Ah, this work is a celebration of my 30 years in Nepal.” It was while trying to calm a restless group of students during her teaching days in Italy that Caruso first came across an iconic image of Kathmandu Darbar Square. She had found an old box of slides and while projecting images from the Himalaya to engage her students, the artist was determined to travel to Nepal. The first flat she rented was close to the square and the view from her rooftop was the same as the one she had encountered inside her classroom. She has been traveling to Nepal every year since. Some of her favourite drawings depict Khokana in morning fog. From 1993-2006, she drew murals at Ram Mandir and Pashupatinath, asking sadhus to guide her and correct her depictions. Caruso received a classical education, which means she was trained to focus on perspective and geometry while capturing mainly portraits and still lives. She is influenced by M C Escher and his explorations of mathematics and symmetry. No wonder she finds the Darbar Square architecture so compelling. She also names as inspiration Gustave Dore, whose style is different from Escher’s and I can see how she has fused these influences in her body of work: Escher’s austerity complimented and slightly dislodged by Dore’s comics and caricatures. “Before starting, the painting needs to be complete in my mind,” she explains as we pass a series of portraits titled Saraswati, Lakshmi, Kali Dancing, and Durga dominated by a roaring tiger. “These are all real people, I ask my friends and family members to sit for me.” The Kali in the drawing has the artist’s fiery copper red hair and she is dancing, surrounded by various men with flowing hair. The artist seems to have experimented here, drawing the revelers from above, and indulging in playful abandon. Depictions of Nepal are often in danger of being exoticised. But Caruso is familiar with her subjects, knows our alleys and temples intimately. Her colours and compositions are passionate and dense. In an essay, Anirudh S Chari writes the artist’s work is splashed with rapturous energy and most drawings have a carnivalesque element. ‘Kali Dancing’ illustrates this idea perfectly in that she has turned Kali’s usual fearsome portrayal on its head by depicting and embracing another feminine principle - the capacity to celebrate and create joy. Apart from drawing inspiration from Hindu goddesses and Nepal’s multi-colored rituals, Caruso has also drawn the Sumerian Ianna and Lillith and the Egyptian Nut. She enjoys drawing Nataraja, and says it is because “Shiva is a good husband”. We stand another painting titled 100 Days a Lion. “There is a saying in Italian, Better one day as a lion than a hundred days as a sheep, but I thought why not 100 Days a Lion?” This sentiment captures this nomadic artist’s spirit spanning four decades, in which she has captured urban energy as well as the sacred imagery of ‘life diaries on canvas’. From Venezia to Kathmandu and Journeys In Between Giovanna Caruso The Kalā Salon Chhaya Centre Mall, Thamel Till 12 December 10am- 8pm

Looking at Nepal from Venice

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

It is quite a feat for just two actors on a darkened stage to hold an audience spellbound for more than one hour. Yet, ‘के? Us.’ at Kausi Theatre does just that. It is a thought-provoking but baffling work that leaves the audience questioning reality, the recurring metaphors in this intriguing and powerful dark comedy haunting us for days afterwards.&nbsp; The unsettling sound of deep breathing mingles with percussive drumming and a driving guitar that pulsates amidst a red glow, dimly illuminating shadowy structures charred by fire. A door leads to what is later revealed to be the ancestral home of two brothers which is ‘under renovation’. One of the brothers Ashim (Bijaya Tamrakar) lives in Nepal caring for a supposedly comatose mother who is only depicted by a tree draped with red LED lights that circulate arterial blood corpuscles. Visiting him is a long-lost brother Aaryan (Eelum Dixit) who has returned (deported?) from America.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071248_d3050fcd38e1ba471ea48e18fde6a8393a086a5b3afeef71eda190f3e01366e2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251202071248_d3050fcd38e1ba471ea48e18fde6a8393a086a5b3afeef71eda190f3e01366e2" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  The stage is littered with scattered paper trash, a run-down motorcycle chassis, a tattered sofa, and beat-up table and chairs. The stage is set for a sinister plot. Are the characters to be punished in perdition?&nbsp; It does not take long for the audience to grasp that this is an apocalyptic Nepal that, following absurdist traditions, could exist at any time in the future or the present day <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/election-vs-escalation">post-GenZ protest state</a>. Ashim and Aaryan Adhikari have reunited after 15 years. Ashim, the younger brother, has been burdened with the responsibility of taking care of their brain-dead mother. Aaryan, returns after having migrated to the US, where he married, had children, divorced, and lost everything. He has been at “minus 20 and is now back to zero”.&nbsp; The brothers have intense back-and-forths that expose their cynicism, the conversation tangentially alluding to Nepal’s unstable political landscape, migration, an economy in shambles, aging population, alcoholism and other mental health issues. Even the sibling argument about the relative merits of momos and burgers seems metaphorical. The stagecraft uses lighting and sound effects brilliantly, transporting the audience to a surreal world in which Tamrakar and Dixit improvise their lines — no two shows are exactly the same, although the overall plotline has continuity.&nbsp; In the first scene, Aaryan approaches the house tentatively, creeping rodent-like, and carrying a briefcase and an old-fashioned lantern. And at the end, Ashim screams, “I am chaos.” Is this the end of the beginning, or the beginning of the end?&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_a49af0960d3f6f61cd8e9d5ea9c5af64655b89865711f5566f3054b701840da1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251202071252_a49af0960d3f6f61cd8e9d5ea9c5af64655b89865711f5566f3054b701840da1" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Choas play review"> </figure>  At one point Aaryan seems perturbed by the sound of protest outside (the Gen Z movement?) and the taut atmosphere grips the audience with fear, shock, and apprehension of the recent death and destruction.&nbsp; Throughout the play there is the sound of breathing, as if through a ventilator, a thumping heartbeat, the morbid buzzing of flies and the glowing red LED veins -- signifying the presence of the comatose Aama. She is featured in a prologue-esque home video at the start of the play in which she reminisces about her two sons and rues her failing memory.&nbsp; The sound of breathing gets accentuated each time a brother gets closer to the tree, and it seems to fuel Ashim’s belief that Aama may be brain-dead but she is still among them. This play can go as deep as each individual in the audience wants it to go.&nbsp; The silenced, comatose mother could be Nepali Aama muted by an entrenched patriarchy. Or, she could be the symbol of a helpless country while her children fight over the ruins of what is left. The cake cutting is a delightfully Shakespearean subplot where we wonder if one of the brothers is going to poison, or knife, the other. The message is clear: how can we move forward if it is brother against brother? The stairs signify political transition (elections, constitutional change, new coalitions) promising upward movement, but eventually lead to falls, leaving the nation exactly where it started, or worse. The mother’s terminal illness evokes an ailing state apparatus, hollowed out by corruption and deep-seated social decay. Yet the brothers cling to an irrational hope — instead of confronting the harsh truth and pursuing radical solutions, suggesting a blind faith in the mother.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_e30df0ea03c2db1759a09e2e3e3111d9d238d5cd5595a68b8052bbbc8e9ec6b3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251202071252_e30df0ea03c2db1759a09e2e3e3111d9d238d5cd5595a68b8052bbbc8e9ec6b3" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  The brothers are lost. Aaryan climbs up stairs that lead nowhere, Ashim holds on to unrealistic hope that somehow Aama will get better. Tamrakar and Dixit deliver powerful performances, even more remarkable for the fact that they are improvising their lines as they go along. When Aaryan breaks a wall and directly addresses the audience, spectators turn from being passive observers to active participants (‘the society’). The audience then become oglers in this drama, suddenly made self-aware of our role as the scrutinising, cavilling voyeurs that society represents. There is some discomfort of being watched and judged.&nbsp; By asking his brother what he is afraid of while pointing at the audience, Aaryan suggests that the brother's (and perhaps the character's core) fear is not just of the house, or the mother's illness, but of external judgment and societal censure. After the stage goes dark, the applause takes some time. Audience members shuffle out in silence, minds reeling from the collective soul-searching they have just participated in.&nbsp; After ‘के? Us.’ the din at Teku intersection outside sounds different as we wait for our Pathao ride below the खरी tree where <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=Shukra+Raj+Shastri&amp;client=safari&amp;sca_esv=75e8315709cd5118&amp;rls=en&amp;sxsrf=AE3TifMJhwukjdBBT0n4QcQWe8IYSaEVsw%3A1764648053799&amp;ei=dWQuaYbIMOy94-EPn4ygyAE&amp;ved=2ahUKEwiU1ciogp6RAxXq3TQHHeo9LBIQgK4QegQIARAB&amp;uact=5&amp;oq=nepal+tree+where+martyrs+were+hanged&amp;gs_lp=Egxnd3Mtd2l6LXNlcnAiJG5lcGFsIHRyZWUgd2hlcmUgbWFydHlycyB3ZXJlIGhhbmdlZDIIECEYoAEYwwRIug5QAFiNC3AAeAGQAQCYAc4BoAHrCKoBBTAuNS4xuAEDyAEA-AEBmAIDoALlBMICBRAAGO8FmAMA4gMFEgExIECSBwUwLjEuMqAHzw-yBwUwLjEuMrgH5QTCBwcwLjIuMC4xyAcM&amp;sclient=gws-wiz-serp&amp;mstk=AUtExfCLIneLVW3SFBzxBc964wFcTJ936tcAPSDcvNKljck0PIqDJddMZ_t8Pg610M98MCx14aNdnyLHs9QM0jWLhI7JYmkPhugX1ZHfSQvdCHZE9E5m2_ZQY5Jr893UcGjQfpabtA_C48NfB9Pg56uYMOmTtEBEcGuvz3d96Qaifyb86sI8mAkrRNo_367cv_xmFjLZ55iQkfHtORuOvZSUkIdMvAdpweuf4jPjjI4anbv9lc-uCImdP0JSvtvEGL8ePxwsWWOzYpIbjNP1zofjcWXK&amp;csui=3" target="_blank">Shukra Raj Shastri</a> was hanged in 1941 by the Rana regime. Language and Literature Students, 2026.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_f2dc03a35cba33b382a66bbd43905206d9d3eb5ec3ebdcf973aeefbb4a50b6b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251202071252_f2dc03a35cba33b382a66bbd43905206d9d3eb5ec3ebdcf973aeefbb4a50b6b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1080" height="1350" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  ‘के? Us.’ Kausi Theatre, Teku Till 7 December (except 2 December) Bookings: +977 9842156109, 9842574607

Staged chaos evokes state of Nepal

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.

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