Nepal in flames: Dawn of a new order

President’s Office in flames

KATHMANDU: On Tuesday, Nepal’s streets became the stage for an extraordinary upheaval—nearly cinematic in its intensity and devastating in its implications.

Simultaneously, Singha Durbar, the Supreme Court, Parliament, and even the President’s Office went up in flames. These were not symbolic acts but visceral testaments to a generation’s frustration with institutions that failed them for so long.

Flames lit the sky over Nepal’s power centers, and with the smoke came a clear signal: the old order was burning, and must be rebuilt from its embers.

This uprising, led by Gen Z, began as a stand against a draconian social media ban, targeting platforms like Facebook, X, and YouTube. But it quickly evolved into a rebellion against decades of corruption, stagnation, and elite privilege.

Youth unemployment had hovered around 22%, half the population lived in poverty, and a sense of exclusion had metastasized. The digital shutdown wasn’t merely censorship—it was the spark in a tinderbox of suppressed rage. (reuters.com, politico.com, economictimes.com).

What we saw next was a catastrophe: smoke billowed from halls of power; fire trucks stood idle and overwhelmed; archives—temporal anchors to national memory—went up in flames.

Authorities admitted on Tuesday that without full mobilization, it might take days to stem the flames. Meanwhile,

Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli’s resignation came in the afternoon—an admission of defeat by a “political survivor” who had once seemed unshakeable. In a brief letter invoking Article 77 of the constitution, Oli bowed to public will, signaling that the moral foundation of his rule had eroded. The moment underscores how protests, sparked by digital repression, can culminate in a revolution that topples a government.

Yet resignation alone won’t reignite national hope. President Ram Chandra Paudel has called for dialogue, stitching urgency with civility. But the call lands on a landscape scorched by fear and disillusionment. Nepalese youth want structures rebuilt, not political recycling.

The Nepali Army’s appeal to protect cultural heritage while extending a hand to calm is commendable, but a society that watches its Supreme Court burn won’t be soothed by rhetoric alone.

This protest’s scale is unprecedented. In a nation where protests already numbered nearly 4,000 over ten months, the normalization of dissent has bred a volatile citizenry conditioned to escalation. But this is different. It’s not just rage—it’s a structure-shaking revolution that burned icons of state power.

At the movement’s heart lies a new energy: social media-savvy, leaderless, insurgent, and digital-first. Slogans like #NepoBabies and videos exposing elite lifestyles went viral. The protest was decentralized, fueled by solidarity, not party lines or ideology.

Even former King Gyanendra urged peace, calling for the movement to remain peaceful and authentic, a rare moment of royal moderation in a crisis of republican legitimacy.

As protests turned destructive, the need for justice, accountability, and democratic reinvention became apparent. Police killed at least 19 protesters, shocking the nation into moral reckoning. Three officers were later killed after surrendering—evidence of total institutional breakdown, as was the mass jail escape in Jaleshwar amid chaos.

Adding to this turmoil, protests spread into rural outposts, social movements grew beyond Kathmandu, and protests intersected with broader societal currents—from anti-Israel rallies to teacher strikes. Nepal’s protest culture had been simmering; now it is volcanic.

Meanwhile, as buildings burned, the real battle became clear—between a future enslaved by nepotism and one drawn by democratic renewal. Balendra (Balen) Shah, Kathmandu’s young mayor, became a fleeting symbol of hope. Protesters carried the anime flag of One Piece’s Straw Hat Pirates—a banner for freedom, not just chaos.

Now Nepal teeters: will it rebuild institutions that ignore its youth, or will it refashion the state into something inclusive and forward-looking? Dialogue must go beyond convening. It must root in constitutional reform, youth inclusion, anti-corruption action, and rejuvenated civil liberties.

Nepalis deserve stability, but not stability of suppression. Rebuilding isn’t slowing down protests—it’s giving them purpose. If future generations can say their voice mattered, then perhaps this uprising will yield not a burnt state, but a reborn republic.

Nepal’s September inferno: The day Kathmandu burned

Fire rages through the Singha Durbar, the main administrative building for the Nepal government, in Kathmandu on September 9, 2025, a day after a police crackdown on demonstrations over social media prohibitions and corruption by the government. (AFP)

This piece originally appeared in the DAWN. It is being republished with permission from the DAWN with updates.

KATHMANDU, Nepal–The week of September 8, 2025, was just another week for RC Gautam, an errand boy at Kantipur Television. In two decades of employment at the station, he had seen street protests, dire political situations, a civil war, shootouts, violence and even an attack on the channel’s headquarters. But September 9 panned out differently for him.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how many people stormed our station. It all happened so quickly,” he told me over the phone.

An irate mob rushed into the Kantipur TV building on Tuesday, set fire to three buildings on its premises, and torched two dozen bikes and more than a dozen cars. The station was just one of hundreds of buildings and homes that came under attack in the wake of what is being dubbed the “Gen Z protests” in Nepal, which quickly spiraled out of control September 8.

Triggered by a recent social media ban, demonstrators took to the streets against corruption and nepotism. Every day, about 2,000 Nepalis leave for the Gulf, Malaysia and other countries for work, and while the country runs on a remittance economy, the children of leaders and politicians lead lavish lifestyles — something Gen Z has criticized on social media.

When the protesters first gathered Monday, they expected peace. There was music and dancing, and some local celebrities showed up to support the movement. But things quickly spun out of control when older men in the crowd targeted Parliament. Thus began the rioting.

The Kathmandu chief district officer ordered security forces to open fire, which killed 22 protesters. Some were in school uniforms. By September 12, the death toll had risen to 51. More than 1,000 people injured in the protests were being treated in hospitals, though officials admitted those figures were conservative estimates. Many remain missing and unaccounted for in similar events in other parts of the country.

The inferno

On September 9, violence escalated as arsonists showed up on the streets, vandalizing and torching private homes of ministers and businesses linked to those in power. Entire ministerial quarters, government buildings, police stations, the Supreme Court and Singha Durbar, the main administrative block, were among those set on fire.

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On Tuesday, Kathmandu burned and smelled of rage. The air was so thick, it was choking.

When smoke filled the air in Budanilkantha, north of the capital, where I live, and army choppers circled above me, my instinct as a former reporter was to step out. The home of former Prime Minister Sher Bahadur Deuba and his wife, former Minister Arju Deuba, had been attacked. I watched a plume of smoke rise from their residence and drift toward Shivapur hill. Choppers made several rounds trying to airlift the couple, who had been manhandled by the mob, but failed. Gunshots were heard. Neighbors said two men had died, though their deaths were not verified. The Deubas, injured, were eventually evacuated through the back door.

Across the street from my home, smoke fogged houses — the air stank. When I arrived, the arsonists had just left. The public had open access to the blazing home of former President Bidhya Bhandari. Outside, a crowd lingered and chatted.

What I overheard:

“What did you take?”

“I didn’t really get my hands on anything.”

“There were 240,000 Nepalese rupees, and some USD. Some people took it.”

“Someone took a mattress.”

“I only took a cake.”

On my evening walks past Bhandari’s home, I would often scan the residence, and guards stood armed at security posts. On Tuesday, as the house burned and residents evacuated, the guards remained outside the gate. “This is our duty,” they said.

The scene at Bhandari’s home repeated across Kathmandu as arsonists shifted from neighborhood to neighborhood, torching and looting homes of ministers and administrators, beating and stripping them.

Kathmandu was an inferno on September 9. Fire brigades were forbidden by police to move for security reasons. Even if mobilized, they were unprepared for such scale. No one foresaw violence of this nature.

The lull of sleeplessness

Most Nepalis have slept poorly since the killings on September 8. Many are seething, grieving, tired and scared. While initial anger was directed at the KP Oli government and ruling coalition for killing unarmed protesters, confusion spread the next day. People no longer knew who was backing the arsonists or why specific homes and establishments were targeted, almost as if by a premeditated list.

Men on motorcycles went door to door, torching homes, leaving behind what sounded like victory cries. Some wielded guns stolen from police stations. In Maharajgunj Chakrapath, where I grew up, a high-ranking policeman was beaten to death by the mob. Some policemen were rescued and airlifted by army choppers on slings. This was the station my family and neighbors once looked to for security.

By the time Gen Z, who launched the protest, called for calm on social media and disavowed responsibility for the riots, too much damage had been done. Their call had been for peaceful protests against corruption, but their movement was hijacked.

When the army chief addressed the nation the evening of September 9, offering security and prohibitory orders, people sensed respite. Army trucks patrolled the city, but residents still spent the night in fear. Unknown groups broke into private homes in some places; looting was reported in others. Prisoners escaped in mass breakouts.

As the mayhem unfolded, I texted a young journalist friend in Kathmandu. She said she felt scared. I told her I would probably sleep with scissors tucked under my pillow, just in case. Rumors spread of rapes, later confirmed by the army.

Smoke rising from former PM Sher Bahadur Deuba’s residence in Budanilkantha, Kathmandu (September 9, 2025) Photo @ Pratibha Tuladhar

Media during anarchy

During the attack on Kantipur TV, my former colleague Gautam escaped to safety. But with the army clampdown and curfew, he sheltered with an acquaintance instead of returning home.

“What will happen next, didi?” he asked me. “How am I going to feed the kids? How will I educate them? The office I worked at is gone.”

I had no answer. I mourned with him the loss of my former workplace. Kantipur TV, the largest private legacy media, was an institution that stood its ground. While media houses are about owners and advertisers, they are also about journalists — especially the nonpartisan ones who dedicate their lives to high standards.

Kantipur Media Group has had many such journalists over the years. During the April 2006 street protests, hundreds stopped outside its complex in Tinkune to clap and show gratitude for its journalism. Those of us inside looked out the windows, tears streaming down our faces. This week, the same establishment received the opposite treatment.

For many journalists, Kantipur was home — a place to launch treatises, ask difficult questions and urge the Nepali people to think. Its burning marks a troubling point in Nepal’s history, where dedication to journalism has been vilified. Free and fair journalism is the foundation of democracy. Pulling down a media house like Kantipur signals the close of a period that trusted independent media. If one of the demands of this movement is restoring free speech, then attacking a media house is a symbolic contradiction.

What’s next?

Where does Nepal go from here? There’s no clear answer. Are foreign elements at play? Dormant political groups? Who instigated the riots? Who should lead next?

As of September 12, former Chief Justice Sushila Karki accepted Gen Z’s request to lead an interim government, with army backing. Preparations were underway to swear her in as interim prime minister. She would become Nepal’s first woman executive.

Until then, we remain in anticipation. International media and friends flood us with messages of care and curiosity, but people here are too tired. We’ve seen homes burn, loved ones die, colleagues shot and beaten, friends and family robbed. We’ve watched property and institutions destroyed. We’ve seen men brandishing guns and khukuris, threatening innocents.

Who are these men? Who mobilized them? Where have the former ministers fled? Who is being sheltered at army barracks? What will the army’s role morph into? How will an interim government be instated? Will the Constitution be amended? Who will comfort the mothers of the dead? What about the jobs lost because workplaces burned?