Nepal at the crossroads: A nation in turmoil and transition
Heramba Nath
Nepal today finds itself standing on a fragile edge, caught between the weight of its past and the uncertainty of its future. The nation that has endured earthquakes, political upheavals, royal massacres, civil war, and democratic struggles is once again gripped by a crisis that threatens to shake its foundations. The immediate spark was the government’s sudden decision to ban global social media platforms such as Facebook, X, and YouTube, citing non-compliance with domestic regulatory requirements. To outside observers, this might have seemed like a routine policy matter, but in Nepal it struck a raw nerve. The internet has long been a lifeline for the youth, the medium through which they connect with the wider world, express their frustrations, and sustain their entrepreneurial hopes. To switch it off, even temporarily, was to silence a generation already simmering with discontent. What began as a measure of state control quickly became the lightning rod for an explosion of frustration, and the present condition of Nepal is best understood not as the story of a social media ban, but as the culmination of years of neglect, corruption, and broken promises.
The protests that erupted in Kathmandu and across the provinces have revealed the soul of a restless nation. Crowds of young demonstrators carrying placards and chanting slogans such as “Stop corruption, not social media” made it clear that this was not simply about digital platforms. This was about the gulf between a generation that longs for progress and opportunity and a political class still entrenched in old games of power and patronage. Violence soon entered the picture. Security forces, faced with swelling numbers and chants that questioned their legitimacy, resorted to live fire in several instances. Within hours, the streets of Kathmandu saw bloodshed, with young bodies carried to hospitals bearing gunshot wounds to the chest and head. By the following days, the official death toll rose close to twenty, with hundreds injured, including police officers themselves. The image of hospitals overflowing with wounded protestors spoke volumes of a state unable to bridge the gap between governance and empathy.
As the situation spiralled, acts of rage took on symbolic form. Parliament buildings and government offices were torched. The homes of influential politicians came under attack. The tragedy deepened when the wife of former Prime Minister Jhalanath Khanal, Rajyalaxmi Chitrakar, perished in an arson attack on their residence. In another shocking development, thousands of prisoners escaped after jails were overrun by mobs, adding chaos to an already unstable environment. Kathmandu, usually bustling with tourists and pilgrims, suddenly resembled a war zone patrolled by soldiers, with helicopters deployed to evacuate ministers and secure strategic locations. The government, led by Prime Minister K. P. Sharma Oli, found itself cornered. His resignation was inevitable, though he remains for now as caretaker, leaving a leadership vacuum at the heart of governance. It was not merely a political resignation; it was the crumbling of authority before the eyes of a people who had long grown tired of empty rhetoric.
The deployment of the Nepali Army marked a turning point. This was not the ordinary sight of police cordons and baton charges; this was the military enforcing curfews, occupying intersections, and securing ministries. The sight of soldiers patrolling the capital reflected a state that no longer trusted its political machinery to contain the unrest. Military involvement in civil affairs has always carried uneasy memories for Nepal, a country that witnessed a decade-long Maoist insurgency and whose fragile democratic structures were only recently cemented. The reliance on soldiers to restore order is therefore a symbol of just how brittle civilian governance has become. And yet, even as the army moves to calm the streets, discontent does not fade. Protesters continue to gather, their demands growing louder, calling not only for accountability but for a complete overhaul of the political culture. Among their unusual proposals is the suggestion that former Chief Justice Sushila Karki be appointed as an interim leader—an extraordinary idea that reflects both desperation for impartial leadership and disillusionment with the established political class.
To understand why this present unrest resonates so deeply, one must turn to Nepal’s economy and the state of its society. For years, Nepal has survived on a fragile balance. Remittances from millions of Nepalis working abroad, particularly in the Gulf states, Malaysia, and India, have kept households afloat and accounted for nearly a third of the country’s GDP. Yet this dependence has hollowed out the country’s own productive capacity. Young men and women, often among the most energetic and skilled, leave in droves after completing their schooling, aware that local opportunities are scarce. The term “brain drain” has become part of everyday conversation. Villages in the hills and plains are dotted with ageing parents and grandparents while the youth toil in foreign lands. The social cost of this outflow is immense, leaving behind communities that feel both proud of their contributions and hollowed out by absence.
Political instability has only compounded these structural weaknesses. Nepal has had a revolving door of prime ministers, with fragile coalitions collapsing under the weight of personal ambitions and shifting alliances. Investor confidence has suffered, as projects are frequently delayed, contracts mired in corruption scandals, and infrastructure initiatives failing to deliver results. Banking stress has grown, with non-performing loans rising and liquidity trapped in a system with limited productive investment. Meanwhile, imports surge and the trade deficit widens, leaving the economy vulnerable to external shocks. The international community, including institutions like the IMF, has provided credit lines and urged reform, but the continuity of policy is often lost amid political drama. The promise of industrialisation remains unfulfilled, and the country continues to depend on the hard-earned wages of its migrant workers.
Against this economic fragility, environmental challenges form another layer of vulnerability. Nepal is a land shaped by its mountains, rivers, and forests, but these very features make it one of the most climate-sensitive regions in the world. The annual monsoon increasingly brings not only life but devastation. Floods wash away villages, glacial lake outbursts threaten valleys, and landslides destroy roads and bridges. The past years have seen hundreds of lives lost to natural disasters, with thousands displaced and cross-border trade disrupted when key routes are blocked by landslides. Kathmandu Valley, the political and economic centre, struggles each dry season with forest fires and choking air pollution, leading to school closures and flight delays. The environmental crisis intertwines with governance failure: poor forest management, unregulated construction, and lack of preparedness all worsen the damage. For ordinary Nepalis, climate change is not an abstract debate but a lived reality, another weight on an already burdened existence.
Yet perhaps the most significant dimension of Nepal’s present condition lies in its youth. It is their voices, frustrations, and energy that define this crisis. This is a generation that grew up in a Nepal free from monarchy, nurtured under the promise of republican democracy, but denied the fruits of that transition. They look at politicians and see corruption, nepotism, and endless quarrels over power rather than vision. They turn to social media as a platform to express, to organise, to create, and to innovate. Cutting them off from it, even briefly, was like severing their connection to the world. Their anger reflects not just a policy disagreement but an existential cry: a demand to be heard, to be included, and to be given a future worth staying for. Their chants against corruption are not only slogans; they are indictments of a political order that has consistently failed to inspire faith.
The humanitarian dimension of the crisis must also be noted. Tourists stranded in Kathmandu, Indian nationals cut off by road blockades, and families anxiously waiting for news of loved ones illustrate how unrest spills across borders. India, Nepal’s closest neighbour and largest trading partner, has responded with concern, setting up emergency cells and monitoring the safety of its citizens. The reopening of Tribhuvan International Airport after temporary closure is a reminder that Nepal’s troubles are not confined within its borders; they reverberate across the region. For India, China, and the wider South Asian neighbourhood, a stable Nepal is not merely desirable but essential. The unrest therefore carries geopolitical undertones, as instability in the Himalayas can have consequences that extend far beyond its boundaries.
Where then does Nepal go from here? The present condition is one of turbulence, anger, and uncertainty, but also of opportunity. The demand for change is loud, and while the unrest has taken a violent turn, its underlying message is clear: the youth will no longer tolerate empty speeches and symbolic reforms. They want accountability, transparency, and genuine opportunities. They want a country that allows them to build their futures at home rather than abroad. They want politics that serves people, not politicians. Whether Nepal’s leaders can rise to this challenge is an open question. The resignation of the Prime Minister offers a chance for a reset, but the vacuum of leadership is dangerous if it is not filled with credibility and consensus. Military deployment may bring temporary order, but it cannot substitute for political legitimacy. In the long term, the only path forward is through dialogue, reform, and the rebuilding of trust between citizens and the state.
The lessons of Nepal’s past are worth recalling. This is a country that toppled an autocratic monarchy, survived a bloody civil war, wrote a republican constitution, and endured devastating earthquakes. Each crisis has tested its resilience, and each time it has found a way to move forward, albeit painfully. The present crisis is no different. It is not the end of Nepal’s story but another chapter in its long struggle to align its politics with the aspirations of its people. The outcome will depend on whether leaders recognise this moment as a call for transformation or dismiss it as another passing storm. If they fail, the anger of the youth will not fade; it will deepen, fuelling cycles of unrest that no army patrol can contain. But if they succeed, this moment could mark the beginning of a new social contract, one in which Nepal finally delivers on its democratic promise.
For now, Nepal stands at a crossroads. Its streets echo with chants of defiance, its political institutions tremble under the weight of mistrust, its economy stumbles under fragile foundations, and its environment warns of looming disasters. The condition of the nation is precarious, but also filled with possibility. Out of the turmoil, a new vision could yet be born, if only its leaders are willing to listen to their people and act with courage. History has given Nepal many trials, but it has also endowed its people with resilience. The test now is whether that resilience can be transformed into renewal. The eyes of the world, and more importantly the hopes of its own youth, remain fixed on what choices Nepal will make in the days to come.