“A nation with a young population but an aging dream is not young at all.”
According to Nepal’s 2021 census, the median age of the population is just 23, a figure that suggests a vibrant, youthful nation poised to reap its demographic dividend. Sounds promising, doesn’t it?
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: what good is a young population if half of it is abroad? If our brightest minds are fueling foreign economies and most have no intention of returning, that median age becomes a statistical illusion. Nepal may be young on paper, but it is hollowing out in reality.
We are not sitting on a demographic dividend. We are staring at a demographic and existential crisis, one we’ve disguised behind remittance figures and passport stamps.
Every year, thousands of young Nepalis pack their hopes into suitcases and fly off to Australia, USA, Canada, or the Gulf chasing a future they believe they cannot build at home.
This exodus isn’t only about better jobs or education. It’s about belief, a deep-seated conviction that Nepal isn’t enough. That life must begin elsewhere. That one’s story matters only if it bears an international stamp.
In an earlier reflection, I called this the ADS Effect — the American or Australian Dream Syndrome. What began as a trickle has turned into a tide. If we don’t pause to reflect now, this may not just become a demographic crisis it could evolve into an identity crisis.
Underpayment and underemployment
“When your education bill outruns your first salary, frustration isn’t a choice, it’s a certainty.”
A university graduate in Nepal earns less than a dishwasher abroad. A qualified nurse may end up working at a reception desk for pocket money. The frustration lies not merely in the paycheck, but in the absence of meritocracy.
Take my own daughter, for example. A graduate in Culinary Science, she was offered just $200 a month by a prestigious five-star hotel in Kathmandu. For the same position in the Maldives, the offer was $1,150, with food and accommodation included. That’s nearly six times higher, along with dignity and career growth. Can we really expect our youth to choose patriotism over parity?
Here’s the bitter truth: it takes roughly 22 years of study from nursery to MBA to secure a job that pays Rs 20,000 a month.
That’s the starting salary for many postgraduates in Nepal. Twenty-two years of education. Millions invested. And the reward? A paycheck that can’t even cover the interest on an education loan.
Forget savings. Forget dignity. Forget dreams.
Most young professionals begin their working lives in debt, struggling not to move ahead but simply to stay afloat.
Is it any wonder, then, that young Nepalis choose Dubai over Dilli Bazaar, or Melbourne over Maitidevi? Abroad, they may still struggle but at least they struggle with fair pay, functioning systems, and, most importantly, hope.
Many are willing to sweep floors overseas not because they love the job, but because their labour is valued there.
No dignity of labour at home
“The value of work should never depend on the shine of your shoes or the color of your collar.”
Ironically, the same youth who clean toilets in Australia would never do so in Nepal, not because the work is different, but because the treatment is. Abroad, they are respected. At home, they are pitied.
In Nepal, a mechanic, plumber, chef, or baker, no matter how skilled or sincere often struggles to find a bride.
“He doesn’t have a decent job.”
“He works with his hands.”
“He doesn’t wear a tie.”
Here, “decent” is defined not by honesty, usefulness, or stability, but by how a job sounds at a family gathering.
And here’s the cruel irony: the same young man flies abroad, does the exact same job, and suddenly becomes marriage material. The apron becomes respectable, the uniform attractive. The same hands that once fixed pipes or kneaded dough once ridiculed at home become symbols of success under foreign skies.
It’s not the job that changed. It’s the postcode and the passport that did.
Rootlessness and the quiet collapse of home
“When the house you grow up in never feels like home, any land with a promise becomes a country.”
Many who leave Nepal aren’t just chasing opportunity, they’re escaping emptiness. Not economic emptiness, but emotional.
They flee from broken families, cold homes, and childhoods spent between silent dinners and whispered arguments. Children observe more than we imagine. They sense distrust, absorb bitterness, and often grow up vowing never to repeat their parents’ unhappiness. For many, leaving becomes symbolic a way to escape not just a country, but a pattern of pain.
But even abroad, emotional utopia is an illusion. In the United States, nearly 13% of adults are on antidepressants. Prosperity doesn’t erase loneliness. The difference? In developed nations, rootlessness is cushioned by functioning systems, dignity of labour, and a strong sense of belonging. Even when families fracture, the country holds you.
In Nepal, rootlessness collides with social judgment, economic despair, and emotional neglect all at once. There are no cushions. Only hard ground beneath. “In some countries, the system becomes your family when your own family fails. In others, you’re left to rebuild from rubble with bare hands.”
The filtered reality of migration
“Instagram shows the journey, not the bruises on the feet that walked it.”
Social media worsens the illusion. Everyone abroad appears happy. Nobody posts the loneliness, the 14-hour shifts, the missed festivals, or the quiet tears. Those who struggle remain silent; those who return, defeated, rarely speak.
This silence breeds a dangerous myth that everyone who leaves, succeeds.
The real cost to Nepal
“Exporting dreams and importing remittance is not a development strategy.”
Nepal is not just losing manpower it is losing its future. Bright minds are packing boxes. Innovators are delivering parcels. Nurses are mopping floors. A youthful population is an asset only when it is active, present, and productive within the country. Otherwise, we’re exporting our potential and importing remittances as consolation. That’s not a dividend, it’s a trade-off. And a dangerous one.
What can be done
A nation that disrespects its farmers and mechanics cannot grow its future. The scent of the soil in childhood is the glue that holds adults to their homeland. If a working adult still needs pocket money, the economy isn’t broken, the dignity is.
If someone has invested two decades in education and holds an MBA, they deserve more than Rs 20,000 a month. A fair starting salary at least Rs 60,000 would give young professionals both financial stability and a sense of self-worth.
Imagine a young graduate, educated and well-dressed, still asking their parents for pocket money. Imagine the silence that follows. That quiet humiliation is where frustration begins — and where self-worth starts to erode.
Change the narrative
“When only departures make headlines, staying starts to feel like failure.”
We must build a culture that celebrates those who stay the ones who choose to fight for change from within. Nepal needs policies that create jobs with dignity, industries that absorb talent, and narratives that inspire pride in homegrown success.
A country that builds bridges for commerce must also build ladders for its children to climb. Don’t wait to welcome them at the airport. Build the kind of Nepal where they never want to leave.
