The Spark and the Drought

On paper, the protests erupted over internet access. In reality, they were years in the making.

Nepal boasts one of South Asia’s youngest populations, with over 60 percent under thirty-five. But the so-called demographic dividend has curdled into despair. The economy limps along on remittances from Gulf migrant workers, while graduate unemployment nears 26 percent and underemployment runs even deeper.

“The only growth industry here is leaving,” said twenty-four-year-old Dipesh, who graduated in economics last year and now drives a ride-share scooter twelve hours a day. “I studied how whole economies work while applying for Canadian visas.”

Corruption fuels the disillusionment. Nepal ranks among South Asia’s most corrupt countries, according to Transparency International. Its politics are routinely marred by procurement scandals, cash-for-citizenship rackets and entrenched nepotism.

Government contracts often go to relatives and jobs go to party loyalists. For the youth who grew up in the shadow of Nepal’s 2006 democratic revolution, this feels like betrayal.

“We are not apathetic,” said student Priya Gurung. “We are exhausted from watching these people switch chairs while nothing changes.”

So when the government abruptly ordered telecom companies to block social platforms on September 4 — citing “national security threats” after rumors of planned anti-government rallies — it wasn’t just about access to Instagram or TikTok.

The Left’s Dilemma of Becoming the Ruling Class

To understand this revolt, one has to confront the paradox at the heart of Nepal’s politics: the same left forces that once fought to remake the country are now the establishment its youth are rebelling against.

The Maoists who waged war in the hills promised to uproot caste hierarchies, redistribute land, and make workers and peasants central to governing. Their allies in the mainstream communist parties vowed to build a “people’s democracy” that would break Nepal free from feudalism and foreign domination. And to their credit, they did achieve historic transformations: the monarchy was abolished, Nepal became a secular federal republic, and once-excluded communities gained new constitutional rights.

But once in power, these movements collided with the hard limits of governing a poor, aid-dependent country tethered to the Indian and Chinese economies. Millions of young Nepalis left to work in Gulf construction camps, hollowing out the labor base the Left had once claimed to represent.

Instead of resisting these pressures, Nepal’s left parties adapted. They embraced the patronage politics they had once condemned — handing out contracts, licenses, and state jobs to maintain fragile coalitions. The state became less a tool for change and more a prize divided among factional barons.

As one of the protesters we spoke to put it, they fought to abolish the monarchy — “and then built a new monarchy of parties.” Nepal’s current crisis stems from a republic born of revolution, now governed by former revolutionaries who speak the language of the poor while presiding over elite capture.

This contradiction fuels the youth revolt. These aren’t liberal youth seeking Western freedoms; they are the children of a leftist dream gone sour, demanding that the republic fulfill its radical promises.

From Revolution to Stagnation

The Maoist insurgency (1996–2006) killed over 17,000 people and reshaped Nepal’s political landscape. After a bloody stalemate, the rebels signed a peace accord. In 2008, Nepal abolished its centuries-old monarchy and declared itself a federal democratic republic.

In the early years following the 2008 peace accord, expectations soared. The new constitution promised federalism, secularism, and affirmative action, sparking hope among Dalits, Janajatis, Madhesis, women, and youth who had rallied to end royal rule.

By the mid-2010s, the revolution had calcified into an oligarchy. Former Maoist commanders traded their fatigues for tailored suits, joining the mainstream parties they had once denounced. Parliamentary politics became a carousel of cynical coalitions.

This transformation sparked disillusionment among the youth who had once rallied for change. The promises of a new republic seemed increasingly hollow as the political elite consolidated power, leaving many to question the revolution’s true legacy.

Corruption probes are weaponized to settle factional scores and then quietly buried. Funds for rebuilding after the 2015 earthquake were looted. The COVID response descended into procurement scams.

“Our fathers fought for a republic. We inherited only ruins,” said Bishal, a nineteen-year-old protester from Pokhara, one of Nepal’s major cities.

“They got the throne. We got the ashes.”

“We Are Not Afraid!”

The ban that sparked the uprising was both sudden and surreal. The September 4 order was sweeping and abrupt. Overnight, Nepal’s most popular platforms were shut down, cutting off millions from their daily routines.

By the next morning, cafés sat eerily silent, their usual glow of phone screens gone dark. Influencers and freelancers lost their income overnight. Students could not submit university assignments.

“It was like waking up in the 1980s,” said Anuj Shrestha, a freelance graphic designer who relies on Instagram for clients. “And the government thought we’d just shrug and go back to sleep.” Instead, word spread through VPNs and encrypted chats: gather at Ratna Park, Kathmandu, at noon. Bring masks. Bring courage.

On September 5 and 6, protests spread well beyond the capital. Crowds gathered in Pokhara, Lalitpur, Biratnagar, Butwal, and other towns. None were led by parties or unions. Instead, they were self-organized through offline word of mouth and QR-coded flyers posted on street poles.

Slogans fused personal anguish with political fury: “We want jobs, not jails! Stop killing our future.” Police cracked down fast. Water cannons swept the streets. Dozens were beaten with batons. More than three hundred were arrested.

Yet the crowds only swelled, driven by a rare unity across class lines — unemployed degree-holders marched beside delivery riders and garment workers. The government tried to paint them as “digital hooligans” manipulated by “foreign interests.” But this only deepened the anger.

Protest leaders framed the ban as the latest sign of an authoritarian drift under Prime Minister Pushpa Kamal Dahal, known as “Prachanda,” and the ruling coalition, which includes the Nepali Congress and former monarchist parties. “They shut our mouths because they fear what we might say,” shouted one masked speaker through a megaphone as tear gas hissed nearby. The crowd roared back: “We are not afraid!”

The Crackdown and the Climbdown

Facing mounting pressure, the government backed down. On September 9, the ministry quietly announced it would “temporarily lift the social media restrictions pending further study.” When apps flickered back online that night, protesters marked with defiance posted photos of their bruises and court summons under the hashtag #NeverAgain, which trended across Nepal within hours.

“We forced them to blink,” said Aayusha, who had spent three nights sleeping on cardboard. “But this fight isn’t over.”

That same day, September 12, Prime Minister K. P. Sharma Oli resigned and former chief justice Sushila Karki was sworn in as Nepal’s first female prime minister, leading an interim government tasked with restoring order and preparing for elections in March 2026.

Nepal’s blackout shocked many because the country had long been viewed as a democratic outlier wedged between two authoritarian giants. But the move was in line with a regional playbook. India has repeatedly shut down internet access in Kashmir, most infamously during the 2019 abrogation of Article 370. Bangladesh has similarly weaponized its Digital Security Act to jail critics and throttled social media during the 2018 student protests. Pakistan, too, has blocked platforms during anti-government marches and imposed sweeping bans amid the 2023 political unrest.

The logic is the same: control the internet to control dissent. But Nepal’s youth revolt showed the limit of this strategy. The blackout backfired, magnifying discontent and uniting a generation across class and region.

The Aftermath — and What Comes Next

Since the ban’s reversal, authorities have shifted from censorship to criminalization. Protesters now face charges under Nepal’s vague cybercrime and public order laws. Dozens remain in pretrial detention.

Yet the momentum has not ebbed. New youth-led groups have sprouted almost overnight, demanding legal protections for internet access, transparency in digital regulation, and a youth quota in civil service hiring.

For now, the streets are quieter. But something fundamental has shifted.

The youth have seen their own power — and seen the state blink. They are starting to imagine how that power might be used for more than just restoring internet access.

Since September 12, candlelight vigils have flickered across Nepal, phones raised like lanterns. A cardboard sign leaned against a wall reads: “We are the children of a broken revolution.”

Nepal’s youth grew up on promises of a new republic, only to inherit disillusionment. Facing a stagnant elite that has forgotten its radical past, they are forcing the country to remember.

The ban is gone. The anger remains. And if Nepal’s rulers are not careful, this spark may yet light a second revolution — one born not in jungles or palaces, but in the glow of cracked phone screens raised defiantly against the dark.