Thirty-five years ago, in the middle of the night, my family crowded around a borrowed video deck to watch what felt illicit: a documentary about the fall of Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines.

In Nepal, still under the Panchayat system, a partyless autocratic order where speech was tightly controlled, even watching such a film that questioned autocracy could have been interpreted as subversive, even treacherous.

Yet suppression never holds indefinitely. By early 1990, pamphlets and rumours found their way into homes.

Quiet talks spilled into public demonstrations. Crowds marched, demanding change. The king relinquished absolute power, paving the way for a constitutional monarchy and multiparty democracy. For the first time in my memory, we experienced the possibility of press freedom and open criticism.

At fifteen, I felt a cautious optimism embodied by a new democratic generation of leaders like Sher Bahadur Deuba and K.P. Sharma Oli, who had suffered through imprisonment and torture for a new and open society.

The sense of transformation did not translate immediately. Discrimination and exclusion persisted; secure jobs remained out of reach for many. Successive governments were unstable, changing almost every second year, and marred by corruption and impunity. By the mid-1990s, disappointment was palpable among young people across Nepal. 

This sense of betrayal was a fertile ground for rebellion. The Maoist insurgency, led by Pushpa Kamal Dahal (Prachanda), gave that frustration a banner. Thousands who had despaired of parliamentary reform joined an armed struggle against the state. By 1996, Nepal plunged into a civil war.

Then, in 2001, everything changed again: an eruption of violence at the royal palace left King Birendra, Queen Aishwarya, and much of the royal family dead. The country was shaken, rumours abounded, and Nepalis’ faith in the sanctity of monarchy eroded.

When Gyanendra Shah, the late king’s brother, was crowned, people had already begun questioning the monarchy’s legitimacy. At 25, I understood that Nepal’s political foundations were precarious.

If 1990 had promised stability, 2001 proved how fragile that promise was.

A coup and its consequences

In the midst of civil war and after the royal massacre, King Gyanendra declared a state of emergency in 2005. The state shut down independent media. Radios played only music, newspapers published blank spaces in protest, phone lines were cut. Nepal was isolated from the world.

The intention was to restore order through fear. Instead, the crackdown triggered a renewed wave of resistance.

For 19 days in April 2006, protests and strikes roiled the country. As a young journalist, I watched crowds of determined young people face down police barricades. The Maoists entered mainstream politics. 

The monarchy’s grip was severed by the Constituent Assembly in May 2008. A month later, I stood among the crowd and watched the King give his final speech as a monarch before leaving the palace for good. Nepal was now a republic. For a fleeting moment, it truly seemed possible that we would finally secure a more accountable future.

The years that followed strained that possibility. The new republic, meant to be inclusive and just, often failed to deliver on those very promises. Marginalised groups, including Dalits, Madhesis, and other ethnic communities, demonstrated for recognition and equal rights. State repression never truly disappeared. A new phrase, PEON (Permanent Establishment of Nepal), was coined to describe a group resistant to change brought by republicanism and federalism.

Leaders once seen as agents of change, Deuba, Oli, and Prachanda, grew increasingly disconnected and unresponsive to ordinary Nepalis. Corruption deepened. Nepotism became routine. People started to refer to leaders as “the new kings.”

Many from my own generation, once so invested in reform, grew weary of an endless campaign for fair representation. We became cynical and angry. 

Now, at fifty, I am witness to another upheaval. This chapter began, not in the streets, but online.

On September 4, 2025, former PM Oli’s government banned 26 social media platforms, sparking anger and the country’s youth.

Organisers turned to encrypted chats. Yesterday’s distractions became today’s infrastructure for protest.

The underlying anger had been simmering; driven by economic frustration, lack of opportunity, and an elite seemingly immune to hardship. Videos of the ruling elites’ children flaunting foreign holidays and expensive designer items,  juxtaposed with poor Nepali children at home, became internet memes under hashtags like #NepoKids and #ByeNepobabies. 

When Gen Z protestors marched on September 8, the response was swift. Nineteen people were killed in violent crackdowns.

The aftermath saw chaos: parliament, court buildings, and even the historic Singha Durbar, burned. Public infrastructure was destroyed, thousands escaped from jails, and parts of the country descended into lawlessness. Initial organisers were overwhelmed by new, more aggressive factions. Oli resigned on September 9. Political leaders were assaulted; their homes destroyed.

Once again, a movement born from ideals was overtaken by chaos.

The army took charge. Over 70 people have died. Rumours, misinformation, and competing calls for power ricochet across a country on edge.

After two days of negotiation, Sushila Karki, a former chief justice known for her integrity, was appointed as Nepal’s first female head of government. As the first woman in South Asia to lead a government without a political dynasty, she’s truly making history.

While Nepal’s Gen Z led the way to ensure the change of guard, the violence was also a reminder that even the most justified movements can lead to unintended consequences.

The losses of recent days are a painful reminder that the hard-won freedoms of the past can be undone if institutions are hollowed out, or if we confuse change with lasting reform.

As Nepal stands bruised but unbowed, I am reminded, again, that optimism, however cautious, is essential for the work of democracy to continue.