The defiant yet turbulent “Gen Z” protests that toppled Nepal’s government last week demand an analysis that goes beyond the surface narrative of a spontaneous youth uprising. While Gen Z undoubtedly played a leading role, the parallels with Sri Lanka’s Aragalaya in 2022 and Bangladesh’s student-led movement in 2024 are striking. Yet sources inside Nepal—including journalists and close contacts of mine—insist the story runs deeper. They argue the upheaval was not merely an outburst of youthful defiance, but a volatile convergence of legitimate grievances, disastrous policy missteps, and the shadow of possible foreign interference.
Who organized it? Who cultivated the anger? And which nation stood to benefit? These are the million-dollar questions most media outlets failed to ask.
It is true that the now-disgraced Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli’s administration was among the most corrupt Nepal has ever witnessed. It is equally true that years of accumulated anger had been simmering beneath the surface: corruption that never ended, nepotism that strangled opportunity, political dynasties flaunting their wealth, mass unemployment, deepening poverty, and broken promises that left an entire generation betrayed. Young Nepalis had watched their leaders plunder development funds while public hospitals crumbled, scholarships disappeared into the pockets of the well-connected, and rural families were forced to send their sons and daughters abroad as cheap labor. They saw grand promises of federalism and inclusivity twisted into another layer of patronage politics. They saw their mountains sold to foreign investors, their votes bought with empty slogans, and their future mortgaged for the comfort of a few elites. For many young Nepalis, this was not merely a protest—it was an eruption of rage.
But that rage carried dangerous consequences. In their fury, protesters turned against institutions that, however flawed, remain essential to reform. Burning down Parliament and the Supreme Court was an act of self-sabotage. The torching of the multi-million-dollar Hilton Hotel was even more reckless. “The Hilton may recover its losses through insurance,” one business analyst observed, “but the message to investors is disastrous: Nepal is unstable, unpredictable, and unsafe for capital.”
The contrast with Sri Lanka’s Aragalaya is telling. In Colombo, crowds did torch the homes of ministers and parliamentarians, but they drew a line at institutions. They never set fire to Parliament or the Supreme Court. “That distinction matters,” Nepali journalist Jothi told me. “Destroying institutions closes the door to reform; protecting them keeps the possibility of rebuilding alive.”
And yet, to my dismay, Sri Lanka’s far-left fringes circulated images of Nepal’s Parliament in flames on Facebook, decorating them with heart emojis. It was as though they were celebrating a destruction they had failed to achieve during the Aragalaya.
The Spark That Lit the Fuse
Nepal’s crisis erupted on September 4, 2025, when the government abruptly shut down 26 social media platforms, including U.S.-based giants such as Facebook, Instagram, X, YouTube, LinkedIn, Reddit, Signal, and Snapchat. The official explanation was that these platforms had failed to comply with new rules requiring local representation and grievance-handling mechanisms.
On paper, it looked like routine regulatory housekeeping. In practice, it was a reckless political gamble. By cutting off the very platforms where young Nepalis voiced their frustrations, organized protests, and stayed connected with relatives abroad, the government revealed its true intent: not compliance, but the silencing of dissent. The gamble backfired spectacularly, transforming simmering discontent into a wave of open fury.
The Registration Controversy
Under the new rules, the Ministry of Communications and Information Technology required all social media platforms to register locally by early September, appointing in-country representatives and grievance officers. A few companies—such as TikTok and Viber—complied. But major players, including Meta (Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp), YouTube, X, LinkedIn, Reddit, and Snapchat, missed the deadline.
Government officials claim these companies ignored repeated reminders. The companies, however, have offered little public explanation. Some reports suggest that Meta at least sought clarification on paperwork, but negotiations collapsed. Whatever the reason, when 26 platforms failed to register, the government responded with a sweeping ban.
A Catastrophic Sense of Timing
Even so, the timing of the ban proved disastrous. As one Nepali journalist friend described it to me, “If there was a one percent sensible government, they would never have done this at that moment.” Enforcement coincided with the rise of a viral campaign targeting the children of politicians, mockingly dubbed “nepo kids.” On TikTok, Instagram, and Reddit, videos of these elites flaunting luxury cars, expensive restaurants, and foreign vacations spread like wildfire. Meanwhile, ordinary Nepalis faced a youth unemployment rate of 20.8% in 2024, forcing thousands of young people abroad in search of jobs.
Against this backdrop, the blocking of Facebook, Instagram, and other Western platforms was widely interpreted not as a regulatory measure but as a deliberate attempt to silence dissent and shield the ruling class from criticism. Instead of dampening anger, the government’s miscalculated move poured fuel on a fire already burning across Nepal’s frustrated youth.
A Generation’s Desperation
To understand the fury that erupted across Nepal, one must first confront the scale of economic despair crushing its youth. A Nepali journalist friend explained it to me this way: in the fiscal year 2024/25 alone, the Department of Foreign Employment issued 839,266 labor exit permits. For a country of barely 30 million people, that number is staggering.
Put differently: more than 2,000 Nepalis left their homeland every single day, most bound for low-paying, often dangerous jobs in the Gulf states or Malaysia.
The money they send home sustains the economy, with remittances now accounting for 33.1 percent of Nepal’s GDP. On paper, that might look like resilience—a globalized workforce shoring up national growth. In reality, it is a brutal indictment: Nepal’s system survives only by exporting its most valuable resource—its young people.
A young filmmaker friend put it even more starkly: “Most of our friends, our families, our brothers are outside the country. Social media was the only thread that kept us connected across borders. When they cut that, they didn’t just block apps—they severed our lifeline.”
He paused, then asked the question that needed no answer: “Wouldn’t that drive the people of Nepal to lose their minds?”
That is exactly what happened.
When Words Became Fire
On the morning of September 8, 2025, what began as a peaceful demonstration organized by the NGO Hami Nepal in Kathmandu’s Maitighar neighborhood quickly spiraled into chaos. By mid-morning, protesters had torn through police barricades and stormed the Parliament grounds.
The government’s reaction was catastrophically misguided. Convinced it could smother public anger with brute force, the state ordered live ammunition into the crowds, while water cannons and tear gas turned the streets into a war zone. Nineteen people lay dead before the day was over, their bodies carried away as grim proof of a government that had lost all sense of proportion.
Instead of breaking the uprising, the killings detonated it. By the next morning, Kathmandu was in open revolt. Curfews collapsed as Nepalis, young and old, poured into the streets, determined to defy the state. The capital descended into apocalyptic scenes: shopfronts in Thamel smashed apart, electronics stores along Durbar Marg stripped bare, government offices in flames, the homes of ministers reduced to embers. In one viral video, a cabinet minister bolted through the streets pursued by a mob, while another clip showed the unthinkable—an enraged crowd torching Parliament and the Supreme Court.
The violence grew more savage. Eyewitnesses swore that a local minister had been dragged into the street, beaten senseless, and hurled into a river. Another widely circulated claim, though never confirmed, alleged that the wife of a former prime minister perished when her residence was set ablaze. Fact or fiction, such stories traveled faster than fire and magnified the sense of a nation collapsing under the weight of its own fury.
Oli’s China Embrace, America’s Cold Shoulder
Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli’s government dragged Nepal into one of its most reckless foreign policy gambles since independence. Where past leaders tried to maintain a fragile balance between India, China, and the United States, Oli cast neutrality aside and leaned heavily toward Beijing—tightening Nepal’s dependency on China while alienating Washington and unsettling New Delhi.
Under his watch, Nepal fast-tracked participation in the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI), signed in 2017, and revived the long-stalled Kerung–Kathmandu railway, a project designed to tether Nepal directly to China while bypassing India. Chinese firms secured contracts for major hydropower projects such as the 750-MW West Seti, while the government endorsed Beijing’s Trans-Himalayan Connectivity Network, reorienting Nepal’s economic arteries toward Tibet and China.
The tilt went beyond infrastructure. Huawei expanded its 5G footprint despite U.S. warnings. Chinese banks and lenders gradually replaced Western financing. Even the military relationship deepened, with new training programs and joint exercises drawing Nepal further into Beijing’s orbit.
Meanwhile, relations with Washington deteriorated. The $500 million Millennium Challenge Corporation (MCC) compact—once touted as transformative—was recast by Oli’s allies as a Trojan horse for U.S. military influence. Though Nepal grudgingly accepted the grant, it came after years of delay and heavy modification. U.S. criticism of press freedom and governance was dismissed in Kathmandu as interference, while tighter visa rules and scrutiny of aid inflamed tensions further.
For Washington, Oli’s choices looked like a calculated rejection of U.S. influence in favor of China’s authoritarian model. For Beijing, Nepal was becoming a convenient showcase partner in South Asia. But the cost was steep: Oli’s gamble antagonized the United States, unnerved India, and left Nepal dangerously exposed in the very great-power rivalry it had once tried to avoid.
So when the September 2025 uprising erupted, whispers of U.S. involvement—whether true or not—reflected that new geopolitical reality: a Nepal that had drifted too far into China’s embrace, and an America unwilling to simply watch from the sidelines.
The Nepal Operation: A Case Study in Influence
Accusations are now surfacing that Nepal’s deadly protests may have been orchestrated through a sophisticated U.S. influence operation, according to Hong Kong–based journalist Nury Vittachi, an ethnic Sri Lankan of part-Indonesian heritage. Similar concerns, I must note, were also raised by several Nepali journalists and colleagues familiar with the situation. In an analysis circulating among regional observers, Vittachi alleges that the National Endowment for Democracy (NED) spent more than $1.6 million in Nepal over the past year on what he describes as a calculated regime-change project.
Established in 1983 and funded largely by the U.S. Congress, the NED is a Washington-based foundation that supports political and civil society groups abroad under the banner of promoting democracy. While it officially presents itself as an independent nonprofit, critics across Asia and beyond have long regarded it as a vehicle for advancing U.S. foreign policy interests—particularly by financing NGOs, media outlets, and activists in countries where Washington seeks leverage.
Vittachi claims the alleged U.S. intervention in Nepal unfolded along three main lines:
- Training journalists to focus heavily on stories of corruption and abuse of authority.
- Educating Gen-Z activists in political mobilization techniques.
- Amplifying anti-China narratives to counter Beijing’s growing influence.
Vittachi goes further, alleging that the protests were spearheaded by youth networks allegedly trained under NED-backed programs.
“The call for protests came from the media sector—the very sector NED had trained to prioritize anti-government narratives,” he notes. The slogans of “corruption” and “abuse of authority” that dominated the demonstrations, Vittachi argues, echoed almost word-for-word the messaging promoted in NED’s training modules.
The Historical Playbook: From Cold War to Digital Revolutions
The National Endowment for Democracy (NED) was described by its co-founder, Allen Weinstein, who admitted: ‘A lot of what we do today was done covertly 25 years ago by the CIA.’
From Serbia’s Otpor movement in 2000, to Georgia’s Rose Revolution (2003) and Ukraine’s Orange Revolution (2004), NED funding and training helped youth groups mobilize mass protests that toppled governments and reoriented nations geopolitically. The Arab Spring further demonstrated how social media could be weaponized, with U.S.-funded training shaping Egypt’s April 6 Youth Movement and digital platforms being used to coordinate NATO strikes in Libya. Syria and Hong Kong later showcased even more advanced models of digital resistance supported by Western funding.
This history is why Nepal’s crisis is viewed with suspicion. The combination of youth activism, social media mobilization, and civil society organizations linked to foreign funding mirrors techniques refined in earlier “color revolutions.” Critics argue that what appears as organic dissent often overlays a playbook of protest training, digital coordination, and messaging strategies that have been exported globally.
The Broader Pattern: Weaponizing Legitimate Grievances
Modern U.S. influence operations rarely create problems from scratch; instead, they exploit existing tensions and grievances, amplifying them through trained activists and sympathetic media coverage. The strategy lies in steering authentic popular movements so that, in the end, they serve geopolitical objectives rather than genuine domestic reforms. After all, if the goal were truly reform, would anyone set fire to the Supreme Court and Parliament?
This approach maintains plausible deniability while achieving strategic goals. When protests succeed in toppling governments, supporters can point to genuine grievances and organic participation. When they fail, minimal resources are lost compared to traditional military interventions.
The Nepal case represents a particularly sophisticated evolution of this playbook—one that turned digital connectivity and platform dependency into leverage against a smaller nation.
The ultimate tragedy may be that Nepal’s youth, in fighting to reclaim their future, became pawns in a digital empire where sovereignty itself is a mirage — and the future they demanded was once again mortgaged to powers far beyond their borders.
