Every dawn in the Himalaya, before anyone else wakes up, women set out with empty vessels to collect <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepals-silent-emergency-springs-going-dry">water from the springs</a>. They know these springs as intimately as their own breath.
They can tell you when the flow began to slow, how the taste subtly changed, often after a <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/the-road-out-of-nepal">new road was built </a>nearby or some development took place upstream. They feel these changes long before anyone comes to measure them. And yet, women are almost always left out of the conversations when “experts” gather to talk about <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/people-and-mountains-are-thirsty-in-eastern-nepal">saving the springs</a>.
Having spent years studying the science behind Himalayan springs, especially i<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/the-climate-crisis-is-a-water-crisis-in-the-himalaya">n rural hills and mountain regions</a>, I am certain it is the women who know the springs best.
Springs are not just hydrogeological features, they are vital social spaces woven deeply into the daily lives and identities of the communities that depend on them.
Women often walk long distances to collect water, wash clothes, and bathe at the springs, but the journey is even more arduous for the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/dalits-disasters-and-discrimination">Indigenous and Dalit </a>women who are denied equal <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/access-to-water-changes-the-face-of-rural-nepal">access to water</a>. Yet, often without recognition, these women become the custodians of the springs – intuitively sensing, and monitoring changes in water quantity and quality.
But recognition rarely translates into real participation. In many water user committees, women are appointed to leadership roles, but their actual influence is quite minimal. They are often not given space to speak during meetings, <a href="about:blank">excluded from key planning discussions</a>, or merely asked to sign off on decisions already made. This is not empowerment but tokenism, and happens also at the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/women-first-in-2027-wfnchctq">institutional and policy levels</a>.
In many community meetings I attended, few women spoke even though they were the primary users of water. This gap between scientific planning and lived community realities made it clear that without inclusive processes, even the best restoration plans fall short. This exclusion is not only unjust, it is one of the primary reasons why multi-million-dollar spring revival projects often fail. Solutions designed without the sight of those who use and monitor the springs daily are bound to miss the mark.
Understanding recharge zones and aquifer dynamics is essential for springshed management. But so is the critical insight into who accesses the spring, when, how often, and for what purpose. Technical professionals often focus on the ‘where’ and the ‘how’ of water, but we must also ask for whom? Who uses this water? Who monitors it? And crucially, who is excluded from the conversation?
Read also:<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/the-heat-beneath-our-feet"> The heat beneath our feet</a>, Sahina Shrestha&nbsp;
Moving beyond tokenism requires embedding Gender Equality and Social Inclusion (GESI) into the core of springshed management, not as a box-ticking exercise, but as a foundational approach.
It means the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/female-migrant-workers-hold-up-half-the-sky">active engagement of women</a>, Indigenous communities, and Dalits from the very beginning – mapping their access and dependence on springs, prioritising springs based on their needs, and creating safe spaces for dialogue and discussion, training them as Community Resource Persons (CRPs) and para-hydrogeologists, encouraging women to take meaningful leadership roles in local spring water user committees, and ensuring that interventions are designed to promote equitable sharing of benefits. We must monitor how spring depletion and revival affect women, children, and marginalised groups.
When these groups are involved in mapping, monitoring, and decision-making, the outcomes are more equitable. There is better local ownership, the data is more consistent, and solutions are more grounded in the lived realities of the people dependent on springs.
TOKENISM TO EMPOWERMENT
Using simple digital tools, women, youth, and marginalised groups trained as CRPs have mapped over 6,600 springs across two districts: seven municipalities of Kavre and two more in Dhankuta, tasks that were once only the domain of technical experts.
This change was made possible by engaging female trainers, scheduling sessions at times that suited participants, and fostering <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/inclusiveness-not-just-theory-in-this-school">inclusive learning spaces</a>. Their work proved that locally led science is not just inclusive, it is highly efficient. This would not have been possible if GESI was an afterthought, it was a guiding principle shaping every step of the process, from planning to implementation.
“In the beginning, I was unsure how to proceed with the training, but as I got involved, I learned that using a mobile app makes it much easier to understand and document everything. We can survey all the spring sources directly by downloading the app,” says Ganga Badal Tiwari from Panchkhal Municipality, one of the female participants in the spring source mapping training session held in April 2024.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/kathmandu-s-liquid-landscape">Kathmandu’s liquid landscape</a>, Sudiksha Tuladhar
Ganga and other women in the community now actively participate in technical tasks traditionally dominated by men, building their skills and confidence in water resource management and strengthening their role as key contributors to community-led springshed conservation. What might have taken technical team months to map was achieved in record time, driven by local knowledge and ownership.
In line with the theme for this year’s World Water Week – Water for Climate Action – we must recognise that <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/mountain-women-on-the-climate-frontlines">climate action</a> begins when we move from tokenism to meaningful participation and leadership.
As a woman in geosciences, I understand the transformative power of inclusion. We need more than open doors – we need to redesign the space for women, Indigenous Peoples, and other marginalised groups in the technical and policy spaces.
Sustainable and effective <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/water-for-life">springshed management </a>enhances water availability and directly supports community resilience against climate impacts. But it demands equity and inclusion at its core, making gender equality and social inclusion essential for <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-needs-to-plan-for-plenty-and-scarcity-of-water">managing water resources </a>that serve everyone.
Goma Khadka is a geologist whose work focuses on fostering community engagement and participatory approaches to promote GESI-responsive springshed management in the Himalaya. She currently works at ICIMOD on a project supported by the United Kingdom International Development.

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Saving our springs

There was a time not long ago when Nepal had a female president, a female Speaker of the House and a female Chief Justice. Women accounted for <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/GUEST-COLUMN/politics-power-women,773">33% of seats</a> in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/parliamentary-arithmetics">Parliament</a> following the provision in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/the-letter-and-spirit">the 2015 Constitution</a> that mandated at least one-third female representation. It looked like Nepal was way ahead of everyone else in the region and much of the world. But by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-local-election-gives-power-back-to-people">the 2022 elections</a>, the country regressed. Women were token figures used by male party bosses to use Proportional Representation seats. The increase in <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/editorial/autumn-of-the-patriarchy,3149">numerical representation of women</a> has not necessarily resulted in substantive changes for citizens.&nbsp; In the 2017 elections, political parties primarily assigned women to the deputy position in local governments with less authority than male chiefs. They treated their nominations as a mere formality, rather than a genuine commitment to <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/placing-nepali-women-first-past-the-post">female leadership</a>. The Local Level Election Act 2017 mandated that half the chairpersons/chiefs, vice-chairpersons, or deputy chiefs of municipalities, as well as the chief and deputy chief of District Coordination Committees must be women. However, in the 2022 elections, the parties blatantly disregarded the quotas and deliberately fielded more male candidates. <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/voters-cynical-about-electoral-alliances">Electoral alliances and coalitions</a> were more important for party bosses than female representation. The alliance of the Nepali Congress (NC) and CPN (Maoist) parties meant that male candidates got the preference. Women’s representation in municipal positions declined by 20% between the two elections.&nbsp; <a href="https://www.alignplatform.org/sites/default/files/2023-10/nepal_-_jwas.pdf?utm_source=chatgpt.com">A briefing note</a> on gender norms in local government and women leaders by Janaki Women Awareness (JWAS) highlights the exceedingly low <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/female-foreign-envoys-on-gender-gap,1189">representation of women </a>in 2017 and 2022. Out of 753 local units, only 18 women were elected as mayors or chairpersons, some of the municipalities just ignored the provision for the deputy to be a woman. Much like other sectors where women face <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/vow-against-vaw">gender-based discrimination and challenges</a>, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-enterprising-women-in-politics">female politicians in Nepal</a> experience the same treatment, if not worse. Many are openly disrespected, not allowed to speak or are barred from performing their duties. Those who are doing well are barely recognised while the likes of Balen Shah and Harka Sampang hog the headlines. All that may be about to change. A group of Nepali feminists have come together to empower<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/latest/women-leaders-set-example-for-rest-of-nepal"> local women leaders</a>, amplify their influence within political parties and electoral structures to ensure the constitutional right to inclusion is not just promised but realised. The Inter-Generational Feminist Forum (IGFF) has launched a nationwide campaign to <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-power-to-have-a-say-in-her-story">secure equal representation for women</a> at all levels of governance, and raise awareness about women’s role in local elections while challenging gender-based discrimination.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025030713030_0e66faccc85b8e821ed7ac9113d7616e3c17c2dcb2cf61e2b48f7ce38400d363.jpg" data-media-id="editor_13" data-image-id="2025030713030_0e66faccc85b8e821ed7ac9113d7616e3c17c2dcb2cf61e2b48f7ce38400d363" data-rendition-name="original" width="1599" height="975" loading="lazy" alt="Anupam Abhiyan 2 "> </figure>  Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/women-leaders-seen-but-not-heard">Women leaders seen, but not heard</a>, Shristi Karki “Everyone, including women and men, must jointly work for this initiative if we are to have a better future ahead. Everyone must think of what our responsibility is and what contributions we must make for our upcoming generations,” says Rita Thapa, founder of Tewa and member of IGFF. A travelling caravan called <a href="https://www.studiofreedom.org/women-leadership-anupam.html">Anupam Abhiyan</a> will follow the East-West Highway, visiting grassroots communities to promote women’s empowerment and political participation. <a href="https://www.studiofreedom.org/">Freedom Studio</a>, the campaign’s creative partner, has been producing graphics and multimedia content, documenting the journey through social media platforms. Locally-led parades and marches are being organised in Taplejung, Mustang, Sindhuli, Jumla, Parsa, Ramechhap and other districts. Their slogan ‘८४ मा महिला पहिला’ (Women First in 2027) highlights the focus on bringing judicial, inclusive, and equitable representation of women at all levels in the 2027 elections. Rajya Laxmi Shrestha was one of many women who found their voice and independence. With training from the Women Empowerment Center in Kirtipur, Shrestha began <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=14779">sewing</a> bags, turning her <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/diaspora-diaries/the-return-of-a-master-baker">skills into a source of income </a>and managing her household on her own terms, unlike in the past when she relied on her husband. As the Anupam rally moved through Kirtipur, Rajya Laxmi played the flute and used music to communicate the movement’s message forward. The campaign spreads love and kindness so people are prioritised over power, building a sense of community and emotional attachment to those involved. “Leadership is not a position, it is an attitude. Being a leader and performing leadership duties regardless of being in a leadership position is true leadership,” explains activist Sharu Joshi Shrestha, another IGFF member. Shrestha likens the campaign to a sacred duty, and hopes that it will empower women from all walks of life, especially those from <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-marginalised-on-the-margins">marginalised communities</a>. Regardless of legal provisions, politics is inclusive for women only on paper. In reality, it follows an entrenched patriarchal script. The campaign is an example of how women can organise themselves in solidarity and with a sense of purpose to change the way this country is governed.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250308020356_6825169952209d739aa156515636ac901cbb3dac491ee7b569e55c79ef97b51e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_20" data-image-id="20250308020356_6825169952209d739aa156515636ac901cbb3dac491ee7b569e55c79ef97b51e" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Anupam Abhiyan NT"> </figure>  When rallying women step into leadership and claim decision-making power, real change goes a step ahead. Nepali women have already proven to be as good, if not better, managers and leaders. In the rare few wards and municipal councils where both the chair and deputy are women, they have demonstrated better governance and service delivery — even if the two are from different parties. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/can-nepal-elections-change-its-male-stream-politics">Can Nepal elections change its male-stream politics?</a> Aditi Adhikari Elsewhere, the lack of women and indigenous engagement in decision making has set back action in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/support-for-reproductive-health-of-nepali-women">reproductive rights,</a> wage equity, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepalis-are-dying-because-they-are-poor">healthcare access</a>, and <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/from-the-nepali-press/alarming-rise-in-violence-against-women">violence against women</a>. Between 23-24 March, the campaign will gather in Padmalaya in Nawalpur with a focus on <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Accountable,842">community health and well-being</a>. The team also holds virtual meetings every Sunday, apart from their grassroots messaging. One of the coordinators of Anupam Abhiyan and founder president of Mitini Nepal Laxmi Ghalan says they also focus on intersectionality such as whether it is a <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/double-affirmation-dalit-women-elected-to-local-bodies-Nepal,3743">Dalit woman</a>, a member of the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-is-ahead-of-many-countries-in-lgbtqi-rights">LGBTQIA+ community</a>, or someone from any political background to ensure participation without any bias. “If women can run households, why can’t they run the country?” Ghalan says as she highlights the importance of political engagement: “If we don’t step in at the party level, our voices will go unheard and our issues unresolved. In the upcoming elections, why settle for 33% representation when we can aim for 51%? Women deserve not just token positions but real leadership.” &nbsp;&nbsp;

Women first in 2027

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111412118/637221e39c7e80680e0c02ddjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2851" height="1901"/><figcaption>All photos: AMIT MACHAMASI</figcaption></figure>The mountains of Palpa in central Nepal are famous for <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/from-heads-to-toes/">dhaka weaves</a>. Besides the colourful handcrafted fabric, Palpa is now also the centre of lemon cultivation in the country, thanks to an enterprising couple.Goma Bhandari with her husband Hum Nath run the Bhandari Lemon Farm in Kutedanda of Tinau Rural Municipality which does not just supply lemons to surrounding market towns, but grows saplings to encourage others to switch to this cash crop.Over the years, the two have cultivated a piece of land that was considered too arid for farming, and made money grow on trees.“If you are disciplined, have a support system and the drive to continue pushing forward, nothing is impossible,” says Goma, who is fondly known in the area as ‘Kagati Didi'.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QgKeNuFA1IFor someone who did not even know the ABCs of farming till the age of 19, Goma has come a long way to carve a niche in Palpa’s booming <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=19349#.YqNa845BxpQ">agro-business</a>. She was raised in a family that valued education, even for girls.Busy with school, Goma never had to work in the fields. At her maternal home in Riddhikot, she was the youngest of the three siblings and her father, a schoolteacher, made sure she completed high school.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111412118/637221e69c7e80680e0c02dejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="166" height="168">Over 20 years ago, she married Hum Nath, who was a teacher in a local government school. His salary was not enough to support the new family with two children. Goma wanted to find a salaried job but with ageing in-laws much of the household chores fell on her shoulders.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111412118/637221e79c7e80680e0c02dfjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2738" height="1826">She would help her father-in-law in the fields, as he patiently taught her the basics of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/back-to-the-future-of-farming/">farming</a>. In the terraced farm at the edge of a hill near their home, the two would work the soil to grow maize, millet, buckwheat as well as vegetables.When her first son was born a year after marriage, Goma knew she had to do something to augment the family income. By now, she had enough confidence to know that farming was the way forward.“I asked my father-in-law what if we planted two saplings instead of one. He laughed and said that it wasn’t about the number but the care we give to it that yields fruits,” recalls Goma.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111412118/637221eb9c7e80680e0c02e0jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2497" height="1665">Taking all she had learned from her father-in-law, she tried her hand in commercial farming, producing vegetables like cauliflowers and tomatoes and fruits like litchi and mangoes.This brought in decent earnings, but it was hard work. There was no irrigation, and the monkeys would raid the crops by day, and rabbits and deer would destroy it at night.“I often thought what the use was of working so hard for months only for all of it to be eaten by wild animals. We had to look for alternatives,” Goma says.There was an old lemon tree at the edge of their field that her father-in-law had planted decades ago. It did not need much water, nor did they need to tend to as carefully as the other crops. Yet, the tree would yield enough lemons to earn up to Rs10,000 every season.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111412118/637221ef9c7e80680e0c02e1jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2707" height="1805">Goma and Hum Nath studied the lemon market and did some back-of-the-envelope calculations. “We found out there was a huge demand, but Nepal imports millions of rupees worth of lemons every year from India." The couple was sure they could meet at least a part of the demand locally.So, in early 2013 they planted ten saplings along with the other vegetables. The acidity and sourness in the fruit and the thorns in the plant meant that the animals would not destroy it. It also did not require much care or water which made it perfect, explained Hum Nath.Neighbours laughed at them, and the family was not happy with the decision. They all expected the couple to fail.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111412118/637221f69c7e80680e0c02e2jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="3162" height="2108">But Goma added more lemon saplings, and by the third year, they were selling their first harvest in the market in Dumre and Butwal. Today, her lemons go to Chitwan, Kathmandu, Pokhara and further afield.“No one believed me at first. My in-laws were very worried. As a woman it was difficult navigating the market. But the quality of my produce spoke for itself,” says Goma. “And once things started picking up, our parents were very proud. I am happy they got to see us succeed before they passed away.”And now, people who once mocked the Bhandaris have started planting lemon themselves. Goma has sold over 10,000 lemon saplings. Annual sales of lemons have crossed 9 tonnes, giving Goma’s company a profit of over Rs1.2 million two years ago.They also sold 150 litres of concentrated lemon juice to test the market, and they want to add that and lemon pickle to the range of value-added products on offer.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111412118/637221fa9c7e80680e0c02e3jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2075" height="1383">“Farming is not easy but if you work hard there are good returns,” assures Hum Nath. The couple’s oldest son has enrolled in a Bachelor of Science in Agriculture on a full scholarship in Bhairawa. Their younger one is also majoring in science.When she is not busy on her farm, Goma spends time in community work. She has served as the chair for a local women’s agricultural cooperative, as well as in the management committee of two local schools.“For the society to progress it is important that women come out of their homes and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/women-hold-up-more-than-half-the-sky/">take ownership of the space around them</a>,” says Goma. “This can only happen when they are financially independent and develop leadership skills.”She worries about cheaper saplings and lemon from India, but the couple is confident that with economies of scale they can compete. Goma says much of her success is due to her husband and family.Adds Palpa’s famous Kagati Didi: “If my in-laws and husband were not supportive, I would not be where I am today.”This is the first in the series Striking Roots, where we feature the stories of entrepreneurs from across the country. If you know someone whose story needs to be shared, email us as editors@nepalitimes.com

Sahina Shrestha

Money grows on trees here

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"

Among the songs GenZ protesters were chanting at the Mandala on 8 September was Amrit Gurung’s folk-rock rendition of the Panchayat-era patriotic song, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iXnL31W93c">रातो र चन्द्र-सुर्जे जङ्गी निशान हाम्रो</a>. But amidst waving double pennants that day in Kathmandu were strands of Gopal Yonjan singing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7D8P-g3Uw4" target="_blank">बनेको छ पहराले</a> and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=57SlGf4m7R4" target="_blank">देशले रगत मागे</a>. The irony is that the message of Nepali nationalism the musician was trying to convey 50 years ago with his lyrics carries a new resolute relevance in today's context: I am a son of Nepal who will never kowtow to anyone.&nbsp; You can behead me, but I will never bend the knee. &nbsp; I can withstand fire, but will not stand injustice.&nbsp; If the nation demands blood, I will sacrifice myself. My mother will not weep, for she is the daughter of a Nepali. This was pure patriotic poetry that only someone like Gopal Yonjan could write. They are inter-generational and immortal — speaking as much for the GenZ today, as it was for the early days of nation-building when they were recorded in vinyl and broadcast over Radio Nepal.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025092210094_4d5f65bf3ba2d2823e3da8aff6a77f2b9aa4eff4b1e1b6a8eeed8c0bcb58e47b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="2025092210094_4d5f65bf3ba2d2823e3da8aff6a77f2b9aa4eff4b1e1b6a8eeed8c0bcb58e47b" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Gopal Yonjan NT 1"> <figcaption>Gopal Yonjan was an adept flautist from a young age in Darjeeling.</figcaption> </figure>  Those two songs together have over 20 million views on the Music Nepal YouTube channel, and many of the comments have been posted after the 9 September massacre and the raging conflagration at the epicentre of the Nepali state&nbsp; They attest to the emotional depth of Nepali nationhood and love of motherland in every citizen of every generation no matter how dreadful the circumstances — and especially when the future looks fragile and uncertain.&nbsp; The release of Gopal Yonjan: The Man &amp; His Music by his wife Renchin could not have come at a more momentous time in Nepal’s history to celebrate this iconic legend of modern Nepali music. Yonjan would have been 82 today, and as a poet, lyricist, singer innovated and improvised using Nepal’s folk traditions to infuse modern arrangements, meld melody with harmony, and lend them words that made the songs eternal.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025092308098_76c4e4df756de0c1bea9858e1da0bcb6acb8145f27963e1679f5509a6ac2f078.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="2025092308098_76c4e4df756de0c1bea9858e1da0bcb6acb8145f27963e1679f5509a6ac2f078" data-rendition-name="original" width="2712" height="3900" loading="lazy" alt="Gopal Yonjan Narayan Gopal"> <figcaption>Narayan Gopal with Gopal Yonjan, the ‘Gopal Duet’ at Swayambhu circa 1963.</figcaption> </figure>  HOMECOMING Renchin Yonjan brings us an intimate family album of historic photographs of Gopal growing up in school in Darjeeling, his arrival in Kathmandu and the decision to make Nepal his home. She quotes Gopal: ‘I was deeply moved by the very glimpse of Nepal. I was enchanted by the greenery of Kathmandu, the gentle nature of the people, their pure thoughts, and their hospitality … how wonderful it would be to spend my live in such a beautiful and serene place.’ It was a kind of homecoming for Gopal Yonjan, the land his ancestors left to migrate to British India. In Kathmandu he found kindred spirits and musicians as passionate about their craft as himself: Narayan Gopal, Nagendra Thapa, Ratna Shumsher Thapa, Shiva Shanker, Pushpa Nepali  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250922100920_99a97f6cd76c130d5df91a38ac236906bcb21ba6fc2d2d693ba51e0a97c045d4.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20250922100920_99a97f6cd76c130d5df91a38ac236906bcb21ba6fc2d2d693ba51e0a97c045d4" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1071" loading="lazy" alt="Gopal Yonjan"> <figcaption>Gopal Yonjan arriving at Kathmandu airport in 1963 and greeted by Nepali singers Pushpa Nepali, Dilmaya Khati, Shiv Shanker Shrestha, among others. </figcaption> </figure>  Gopal Yonjan and Narayan Gopal hit it off right away, complementing and inspiring each other with their shared love for meaningful music. They came to be known as the ‘Gopal Duet’, and Yonjan wrote in Nepali in his diary on 21 April 1963 about their first meeting: ‘I was immediately struck by his talent and presence. There was something in both his artistry and demeanour that drew me in. It didn’t take long for us to draw close.’ Towards the end of his life, Gopal Yonjan drifted away from themes of patriotism and unity to celebrate music in its purest form in his Gopalaya Studio in Kathmandu. It became art for art’s sake.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250922100912_f9aeec8d96049c580a4b63789664e1ae80971d3be3c7809acfe51b84e3e31cd1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20250922100912_f9aeec8d96049c580a4b63789664e1ae80971d3be3c7809acfe51b84e3e31cd1" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1304" loading="lazy" alt="Gopal Yonjan"> <figcaption>Gopal Yonjan at his Gopalaya Studio in Kathmandu in 1992.</figcaption> </figure>  The words of his song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8ZHg3wkvzw" target="_blank">मेरो गीत मेरै प्रतिविम्ब होइन</a> immortalised by Narayan Gopal has lines that give goosebumps to anyone who listens to them: मेरो गित भन्ने अधिकार छैन, गित को पो म हूँ मेरो गित होइन (I have no right to call this my song. This song does not belong to me. I belong to this song.) &nbsp; In Nepal, Gopal Yonjan also found a more complicated story. There were grand historical narratives of nationalism, bravery and glory, but there was an undercurrent of fear and control. Renchin writes in the chapter, Tell Me Where My Country Lies: ‘[Gopal saw] national pride slowly erode in the face of social exclusion, political silence, and economic disenfranchisement.’  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250922100912_57578ebebc7e405cf6ad3080611366893bee30cfc071567e6509038da866b2f2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="20250922100912_57578ebebc7e405cf6ad3080611366893bee30cfc071567e6509038da866b2f2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1043" loading="lazy" alt="Gopal Yonjan"> <figcaption>Renchin and Gopal Yonjan in their garden in Kathmandu in the late 1980s.</figcaption> </figure>  Gopal Yonjan’s song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zru8yWSuRCI" target="_blank">भनिदे नेपाली दाइ मेरो देश कहाँ पर्यो</a> is ‘as much an elegy as a manifesto’ with searing lines like ‘Where is the river that ran red with Nepali blood? Where is the battlefield where our defenders wiped their khukri?’ Gopal Yonjan sings this song himself, reminding Nepalis of the sacrifices made to forge this nation, and for us not to squander them.&nbsp; In his song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pVKpsK6Wy8" target="_blank">लाहुरे</a>, Yonjan celebrates Nepal’s illustrious history written in blood both to keep the nation free and then spilling it to defend other countries. Today, the same song takes on added meaning of Nepali lahure shedding not blood but sweat and tears as they toil abroad to send money to families back home. It evokes the pain of separation, and an anger at an uncaring state that drives them to leave. Gopal Yonjan died aged 53 in 1997 in a New Delhi hospital, leaving a legacy that still defines the Nepali nation in ageless musical compositions. The US-based <a href="https://www.gopalaya.org/" target="_blank">Gopayala</a> and the Gopal Yonjan Foundation have worked to remaster some of the tapes and recordings that are in safekeeping at Cornell University’s Carl A Koch Library.&nbsp; Renchin Yonjan has collected some of that valuable documentation in her book, Gopal Yonjan: The Man &amp; His Music. Her concluding paragraph sounds prescient because of what Nepal has just been through: ‘Gopal’s patriotic compositions remain timeless not because they repeat old slogans, but because they ask new questions, and demand that we answer not with our voices, but with our lives.’  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025092210090_3d0b5ecad2313b09e83e0de91bf510004f1ff836d7e66f0543ccd49432bb6386.jpg" data-media-id="editor_12" data-image-id="2025092210090_3d0b5ecad2313b09e83e0de91bf510004f1ff836d7e66f0543ccd49432bb6386" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="518" loading="lazy" alt="Gopal Yonjan"> </figure>

Gopal Yonjan’s immortal songs

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;