Ashes of Democracy

This is a personal reflection on recent events in Nepal, not a definitive account. I welcome thoughtful disagreement.

On 8th September, youth led demonstrations (Gen Z protests) erupted in Nepal’s capital and soon spread across the country. They were driven by anger at government corruption and a sweeping ban on 26 social media platforms. By evening, the government lifted the ban.

But on 9th September, the protests escalated. Parliament, the Supreme Court, the Prime Minister’s Office, and other government buildings were torched. People cried out against corruption; a problem too deep to be solved in a day. It is a century old issue, so ingrained in society that real change must begin with individuals transforming themselves.

To be honest, I anticipated the protests, because similar youth led demonstrations had happened before, during Covid, when people condemned the government’s inefficiency and corruption. I thought this one would be peaceful and righteous. But I was wrong.

Just a week earlier, I had seen videos circulating on LinkedIn of people criticizing the “nepo babies” of politicians for flaunting their lavish lifestyles, funded by taxpayers’ money. At the same time, Nepal’s youth were leaving for the Gulf, forced into harsh migrant labour where dignity is a fictional word.

For a long time, I believed the problem lay with the Gulf nations. If only working conditions there improved, perhaps Nepali workers could live with peace. But then I asked: if Nepal knows this reality, why does it not negotiate better conditions? Yes, Nepal has drafted policies like the Foreign Employment Policy, pushed for bilateral agreements, and supported projects such as the Labour Migration Governance Project. Yet conditions remain dire. Worse still, recruitment agencies at home exploit their own people: some are fraudulent, others make false promises, and many demands exorbitant fees. In the end, Nepalis prey on fellow Nepalis, driven not by solidarity but by greed.

I remember writing a report for the Communist Party’s convention where Prachanda promised rural development, insisting that supporting agriculture meant actively participating in it. Since then, he has repeated the same slogans: urging Nepal’s 753 local levels to adopt soil suited farming, citing token efforts like the Avocado Campaign, calling for rice self-sufficiency, and preaching a self-reliant economy rooted in agriculture. He ties it all to socialism and youth employment, yet nothing changes. Farmers remain neglected, youth still migrate, and “self-reliance” exists only in speeches. His words feel less like solutions and more like recycled slogans.

Nepal’s greatest failure is its inability to generate jobs. As a small, landlocked nation between China and India, it struggles to negotiate from a position of strength and often finds itself caught in power tussles between the two giants. Given Nepal’s geostrategic location, major nations, both openly and covertly, have sought to influence its domestic affairs. The conflicting geopolitical interests of these powers often affect development projects, which in turn weaken Nepal’s economy and strain its relations with other countries.

The economy depends heavily on remittances and foreign aid, leaving it vulnerable to outside pressures. Instead of building sustainable industries, the country relies on donations and short-term fixes, trapped in a cycle where development feels borrowed rather than homegrown.

And so, dignity becomes a privilege. Only those with money, connections, or influence are respected, while cheap labourers are stereotyped and dismissed. Employers cram ten workers into a single room, knowing desperation will silence them. Dignity is not denied because it must be, but because society chooses not to grant it. From corrupt recruitment agencies at home to abusive employers abroad, exploitation has become normalised.

So, I ask: is the problem the country, or is it human nature itself, to suffer and to make others suffer? Is it an innate tendency to stereotype and look down on people because of their background, rich or poor, powerful, or powerless? Is this a human problem or a national problem? I wonder, and it leaves me unsettled.

Still, there are a few who prove that deeds matter more than words. I once worked with someone who not only spoke but delivered tangible results. He reached out to people, saying, “I need your help to improve the situation, to generate employment in Nepal at the grassroots, in villages, in rural communities, let us do it.” Unlike most, he backed his words with action. Through incubation and acceleration programmes, he helped people turn ideas into realities. I witnessed this spirit first-hand, in initiatives like Mission Asha, which sought to bring dignity, not charity, to rural communities by creating jobs, building enterprises, and nurturing hope. In a landscape clouded with empty promises, these efforts may have seemed small, but they were real. And that is what made them matter.

On 9th September, after speaking to my father in Kathmandu, I reinstalled Instagram and began scrolling. Friends in Nepal and abroad were posting in solidarity. Then came the videos of riots, blood rushing, eyes tearing, heart shrinking. The clips were overlaid with patriotic songs like “Gau Gau Basti Basti Ma Utha” and “Rato Ra Chanda Surya.” The music stirred protectiveness toward my country; art has that power. Yet when images of vandalism at Singha Durbar and the Supreme Court appeared, passion gave way to sorrow. Fire may feel righteous in anger, but in truth, to burn is to burn one’s own home.

Social media showed both sides. Some posted selfies while vandalising, others begged for restraint. Former Home Minister Rabi Lamichhane, taken from custody without judicial process, was paraded like a hero, waving to cheering crowds. Walls screamed with graffiti: “F**k the Government.” Yet the tone online began to shift: “Please go home now. The message has been received. Stop destroying. Stop this mayhem.” Soon hashtags called it a black day in Nepal’s history. Lately, as of 10th September, my feed is full of posts that say the vandalism was not done by Gen Z protesters at all, but by opportunists who slipped into the crowd to loot and burn. Some say they were hired; others say they simply smelled advantage. I cannot know from a screen what is true. Until there is careful investigation, claims remain claims, and in the smoke of confusion the loudest story often wins. Yet even if the vandals were outsiders to the protest, they were not outsiders to the nation. They are Nepali too. That is the most painful part. The fire then is not only political but also moral.

Violence wears many faces; one of them is a comment section. Curious, I looked up the Instagram page of a former Miss Nepal, the daughter of a former health minister, a figure many have branded a “nepo baby.” Her comment section was flooded with lewd, derogatory, and abusive remarks. I asked myself: is this really justified? Is degrading a woman’s dignity the measure of protest? Are my people this low? Then I thought: this is a moral failure above all, and who can control the smallness of thought or the mob instinct of online shaming?

And yet, another question followed. She is a public figure, an entrepreneur, married into privilege, with a large following, yet she chose silence before and during the crisis and remains silent now. Does public anger against her, then, carry some justification? Is she to be seen only as her father’s daughter, bound forever to his shadow? Or can she stand as an individual in her own right, an educated, independent woman, free from bias and public assumption?

Here, another silence weighs heavy. Where are the feminist voices? Where is the outrage from organisations that claim to defend women’s dignity? For now, silence. Perhaps the issue is too politically charged. To speak risks being accused of siding with corruption or power. So, silence becomes easier than truth. Plato warned in The Republic that when truth is silenced out of fear, democracy becomes theatre, a stage where actors wear masks, pretending to defend the good while hiding from it.

The anger against her is framed in the language of “nepo babies.” The world despises privilege, claiming those born into wealth and influence are handed everything without struggle. But who is really to be blamed for being born into privilege, into a country with a strong passport, wealthy or famous parents? Would I not have welcomed such a birth? Wouldn’t anyone?

And yet, society thrives on ego, anger, jealousy, money, capitalism, and greed. Rousseau argued that man is born free but everywhere in chains. Perhaps privilege is one such chain. It binds some to resentment, others to defence, and all to endless comparison. Hobbes argued in Leviathan that self-preservation is humanity’s law: first oneself, then family, then tribe, and only later strangers. Nations act the same: citizens first, outsiders if resources remain.

But we are not tribes. We are meant to be democracies, governed by leaders chosen to serve the people. Instead, politics in Nepal has become a game of musical chairs. Coalitions form out of convenience, leaders trade power like bargaining chips, and policies collapse as soon as they are drafted. Just as momentum begins to build, the chairs change, and the people are left waiting yet again.

And so, I ask: what was the civil war for? Was the communist revolution not fought to abolish monarchy, to build secularism, inclusion, and justice? They shed blood for social inclusion and federalism. But where is the flesh on that skeleton? How can those who once fought oppression now perpetuate the same injustices?

Now I sit and wonder, as I always do.

Buildings of governance hold meaning beyond stone and mortar. They are symbols. To burn them is to reject order, rule, foundation. It is revolt made visible, the political made visceral. Camus wrote in The Rebel: rebellion is not only refusal but also the creation of meaning in fire and blood. Yet here lies the paradox: does burning liberate, or does it destroy one’s own house? Fire is cleansing and consuming. It warms, but it also destroys. In revolution, the flames may feel holy. But when the smoke clears, the people are left cold.

Who decides when enough is enough? Who has the rational mind to know when protest becomes chaos? Do humans carry within them that wild force that, once unleashed, cannot be controlled? And if control is necessary, is control itself good?

If there must be a leader, who is the right leader? Nepal craves a hero, one balanced enough to calm the storm, to know when to stand firm and when to yield. But is leadership too easily swept away in the same tide of anger?

This is what troubles me: volatility risks eroding credibility. Is anger, in excess, justifiable? Is it ever right to burn homes, or worse, take lives through mob justice? My answer is no.

And so, I return to the ultimate question: is anyone truly good? Or are we all corrupt in measure, driven by self-interest, hunger, power, ruthlessness? Revolution is never clean. It is chaos. It begins as a gust of discontent and grows into a whirlwind that spares nothing.

Perhaps Aristotle was right: anger is not inherently evil; it is a demand for justice. Yet when anger is left untamed, it burns justice with it. I saw photos of Gen Z joining a cleaning drive after the protests, united and sweeping the streets, which is admirable. It also made me think that the protest seemed to hold two kinds of people in the same frame: those who destroyed, and those who now rebuild. Is this not the same picture inside our politics, a few trying to do good, many doing harm, and a system that still struggles to make a nation whole? If so, the question comes back to us: what kind of people are we choosing to be?

And so, I remain divided, between pride and sorrow, between hope and despair, between the dream of democracy and the tragedy of how men wield power. The reality of the world feels heavy. And I confess: most of the time, I feel only sadness.