KATHMANDU
What began as a protest against a corrupt and repressive government has spiralled into one of the gravest political crises in Nepal’s modern history. On September 8, security forces brutally suppressed the Gen Z movement, leaving at least 19 protesters dead and more than 400 injured. By September 10, Kathmandu’s sky was shrouded in thick smoke as demonstrators set fire to Singha Durbar, Nepal’s historic administrative centre, while the political order began to unravel. Prime Minister K.P. Sharma Oli resigned under immense pressure, Kathmandu’s mayor Balendra Shah called on demonstrators to prepare for direct negotiations with the army chief, and President Ramchandra Paudel appealed for calm and dialogue. Yet, the fire and fury on the streets suggest a nation lurching towards an uncertain future.
The Gen Z protests had been building momentum for weeks, rooted in anger at rising inequality, corruption and what many youth call the “broken promises of democracy”; the social media ban was merely the tigger. The September 8 crackdown was intended to crush that momentum. Instead, it became the spark for a conflagration. Eyewitnesses described scenes of chaos in Kathmandu and other major cities as security forces opened fire and deployed tear gas against crowds that had swelled into tens of thousands. Videos circulating on social media—the ban was lifted post the protest—showed protesters carrying bloodied companions, streets littered with shoes and broken shields and makeshift clinics overwhelmed with the injured. Far from dispersing, the protests have expanded, with workers, students and even disaffected members of ruling parties joining in.
The Gen Z movement began as a loose youth coalition. Born out of frustration with chronic political instability, unemployment and corruption scandals implicating top leaders, the movement quickly gathered strength online before spilling on to the streets. Unlike traditional political forces, the movement has no official leadership, no party banner and no single manifesto. What binds its supporters is a conviction that Nepal’s current political system—dominated by Oli’s Communist Party of Nepal (United Marxist-Leninist), the Nepali Congress and Maoist parties—has failed. “Gen Z is not about left or right, it is about survival and dignity,” said Saurav Thapa, a 23-year-old protester interviewed before the September 8 crackdown. “Our parents fought for democracy, but what we got is corruption, nepotism and repression. We are saying, enough.”
The September 8 bloodshed proved politically untenable for Oli. By afternoon of September 9, he announced his resignation, acknowledging that the protests had escalated beyond the government’s control. His resignation, however, has only deepened the uncertainty. Parliament remains paralysed, with opposition parties demanding its immediate dissolution and protesters vowing not to negotiate until the legislature is gone. Mayor Balendra Shah—popularly known as Balen, a rapper-turned-politician who swept to office on an anti-establishment wave—urged Gen Z demonstrators to “be ready to negotiate with the army chief. Remember—parliament should be dissolved before negotiating,” he posted on social media. The comments underscore a growing sense that traditional political institutions have lost legitimacy, and that the military may emerge the ultimate arbiter.
As political manoeuvring unfolded, events on the ground took a darker turn. By September 9 evening, protesters stormed the gates of Singha Durbar, the historic Rana-era palace that houses Nepal’s most important ministries and the parliament. Fires quickly engulfed several buildings, and thick plumes of smoke billowed over central Kathmandu.
“The sky turned black,” said a shopkeeper near the Durbar Marg area. “You could smell burning wood and chemicals. It felt like the whole state was on fire.” Security presence inside the compound was surprisingly thin, with only a handful of soldiers attempting to hold back the crowd. Looting was reported inside ministry offices. There were reports of former prime minister Sher Bahadur Deuba and his wife being attacked and the house of former prime minister Jhala Nath Khanal being set afire, leading to the death of his wife. Amid the chaos, President Paudel appealed to protesters to “exercise restraint, prevent further damage to the country, and come to the talks”.
Perhaps the most telling political development came not from the streets but from within Nepal’s dominant parties. In the wake of the crackdown, several youth leaders from the ruling CPN(UML) and the opposition Nepali Congress announced they were quitting their parties in solidarity with the Gen Z cause. “This government killed our brothers and sisters,” said one CPN(UML) youth leader. “We cannot stand with murderers.” The defections highlight a widening generational divide within Nepal’s political class. Younger cadres, many of whom face joblessness and disillusionment, see senior leaders as complicit in perpetuating corruption and repression.
As the civilian government collapses, attention is shifting to the Nepal army. With parliament in disarray, ministries in flames and police forces overwhelmed, the army is the only institution seen as capable of restoring order. But its role is fraught with an uncomfortable history. The army has long been viewed with suspicion by pro-democracy forces, given its ties to the monarchy and its controversial actions during the Maoist insurgency. “The army holds the key, but if it oversteps, we could see an authoritarian turn,” warned political analyst Indira Shrestha. “The danger is that in the name of stability, democracy itself could be suspended.”
For ordinary residents of Kathmandu, the crisis has brought fear and paralysis. Shops remain shuttered, schools have closed indefinitely, and transport services have ground to a halt. Many families are stocking up on essentials, fearing further escalation. Hospitals report an influx of injured protesters, straining already limited facilities. Human rights groups have condemned the government’s use of lethal force and called for an independent investigation into the September 8 crackdown. Meanwhile, the city itself is scarred. The fires at Singha Durbar, though partially contained, have damaged priceless historical architecture and critical government infrastructure. For many, the image of smoke billowing over the palace encapsulates the fragility of Nepal’s political order.
Nepal’s crisis has begun to draw international attention. Neighbouring India expressed “grave concern” and urged restraint on all sides. China, which has significant investments in Nepal, called for “stability and protection of state institutions”. The west including the United States and the European Union, condemned the use of lethal force against protesters and urged dialogue.
Nepal now faces a perilous set of choices. Protesters demand nothing less than the dissolution of parliament and a new political order. Established parties are haemorrhaging legitimacy. The army stands as both potential saviour and potential usurper. For many, the crisis feels like the culmination of decades of unfulfilled promises.
Since the overthrow of the monarchy in 2008, Nepal has cycled through unstable coalitions, corruption scandals and constitutional crises. The Gen Z movement, though amorphous, represents a generation unwilling to accept business as usual. “This is our revolution,” said protester Nisha Maharjan, 19, standing near a barricade on September 9. “Not with guns, but with our voices and our bodies. They can’t kill us all.”
The immediate future remains uncertain. Analysts warn that prolonged instability could devastate Nepal’s already fragile economy, deter tourism and deepen emigration among young people. What is clear is that Nepal has entered uncharted territory. The resignation of a prime minister, the burning of its administrative heart and the defection of party youth mark not just a political crisis but a systemic reckoning.
The writer is a journalist in Kathmandu.