Standing on the back of the pick up van marching our way towards New Baneshwar from Maitighar , I looked at the ocean of young faces, voices rising in unison, and thought, “This is history in the making.”
We were restless, fearless, ready. For a fleeting moment, I believed we had cracked open a new chapter for Nepal’s democracy. And in the anti corruption movement. And I was right, but not in the way I imagined. Or we had anticipated Within minutes, hope turned to horror. Gunshots rang out, panic surged, and the movement that began with chants and peaceful manners ended in blood.
For many outside Nepal, it may sound absurd, a TikTok trend mocking “Nepo kids” from the political dynasties who dominate our power structures became the spark for the country’s most significant youth uprising in decades. But to us, it was not absurd. It was inevitable. Those viral clips carried years of bottled-up rage. They mocked not just nepotism, but the stagnation of a democracy held hostage by the same three leaders recycling power like a cruel game of musical chairs.
And when the government banned social media, our classroom, workplace, public sphere, the simmering anger boiled over. September 8, 2025, became our reckoning.
I still remember a message from Saroj Dai in our Nitishala’s group chat which read “In front of Parliament building is not the place to protest. Some bunch of people are planning to do it there. You guys need to convince them and bring it to Maitighar Mandala and make sure it happens peacefully.”
That single line became our lifeline. My friend Yujan Aditya took charge, coordinating with students and setting up channels. Frustration was boiling over, and more friends began connecting. By the evening of September 7, as a small group of us gathered, one thought kept repeating in my mind, whatever happens tomorrow, it must remain peaceful.
Parallels written in protest
What unfolded on the streets of Kathmandu was not unique. It was our version of Tunisia’s 2010 uprising, when a single act of defiance lit a revolution across the Arab world. It was our echo of Sri Lanka’s 2022 protests, when economic collapse sent thousands into the streets, forcing a president to flee. It was our mirror to Hong Kong, where leaderless young people, armed with technology and sheer determination, confronted overwhelming state power.
And, in its moral urgency, it resembled India’s 2011 anti-corruption wave led by Anna Hazare. That movement, too, was raw and moral, rooted in frustration with a political class rotting from within. But there was one crucial difference: ours was not led by an elder statesman but by Gen Z itself , impatient, digital-native, and unprepared for what awaited. What was supposed to be our strength later became our biggest weakness.
Calm before the crackdown
At Maitighar Mandala, where the protest gathered, we carried hope like armor. From the Tata Sumo when we marched, I shouted to the crowd( fellow zen z ) : Don’t throw stones! Don’t destroy plants! Let’s prove Gen Z can stay peaceful. We handed out water bottles. We sang songs. Some called their parents to reassure them: “Don’t worry, it’s safe.” For a moment, we believed it.
Until the first gunshot
The crack of live rounds tore through the chants like lightning. Panic swallowed us whole. Students in uniforms, children ran in every direction. We scrambled to pull them to safety. Just minutes earlier, we had begged the crowd to sit down, to end it peacefully. Suddenly, we were running for our lives.
One dead. Then another. Then dozens. Hospitals overflowing. Parents wailing in the streets. Phones buzzing with images too gruesome to process. My own family was in panic, like thousands of others.
And in the silence of my own head, one question looped endlessly: For what crime are we treated like this? Our only act was to stand an unarmed question: where did the taxpayer’s money go in a democracy, but the government’s response came brutally through bullets.
When history hijacks you
The trauma of that day should have been the climax. Instead, it was only the beginning.
By the next morning, Parliament was in flames. Private property of major political leaders and more was on fire. A power vacuum widened into chaos once the PM resigned. Opportunists hijacked our cry for justice, twisting it into vandalism and political theatre. We never wanted this. We were strictly against all of it. But suddenly, we were being held responsible for it.
Some of our friends were pulled into meetings with the Army chief. Others were cornered by political actors looking to use us as their ladder. Overnight, students who once debated book lists on Discord were negotiating constitutional amendments. Every word we spoke, every decision we made, felt like it could alter the fate of a nation.
It was surreal, and terrifying.Yet we stood strong in the line of democracy.
Nation in discord
The speed at which history moved was dizzying. In a span of a few days the unthinkable happened. Decisions once reserved for Parliament were now debated on Discord servers. Should Shushila Karki become Nepal’s first female Prime Minister? Could we steer the country back toward democracy before chaos consumed us? But against all odds, we did. After decades of stagnation, Nepal had its first female Prime Minister, propelled by a movement that began with memes.
From textbooks to history-making, the journey was breathtaking. And yet, beneath the pride was unbearable grief. 72 lives lost, many injured families shattered, businesses destroyed, a generation marked by trauma.
Weight of responsibility
To the world, this looks like victory. They congratulated us, placed us in the lineage of Arab Spring protesters, Sri Lankan demonstrators, Hong Kong youth, Anna Hazare’s India. They see triumph.
But standing here, I still cannot celebrate. Not when the cries of parents still echo. Not when the blood is still fresh. Not when the responsibility pressing on our generation feels heavier than the bullets we survived.
The truth is that the real struggle begins now. The leaders we once accused of failure will now hold us accountable. The system we tried to disrupt will test us, tempt us, and if we fracture, it will corrupt us.
If Sri Lanka taught us anything, it is that chaos after victory can destroy the very hope that fueled a movement. If Anna Hazare’s India taught us anything, it is that without structural change, corruption can outlast even the strongest wave of protest.
We cannot afford to repeat their mistakes.
Unfinished struggle
Yes, we made history. But history is merciless. If we stop here, if we let the story end with hashtags and martyrdom, the 72 lives will have been lost in vain.
This movement has given Nepal a rare chance to reset, to finally move beyond a broken political culture, to reimagine democracy as more than just musical chairs for power-hungry men. But that chance comes with a heavy price and an even heavier responsibility.
We owe it to the dead not to squander it. We owe it to the living not to falter. We owe it to the Nepal we still dare to dream of, not the one we inherited, but the one we will build.
Because if fate has thrust our generation into history, then we must do more than survive it. We must shape it.
