The Burden of Revolution

One could say that a machine-driven ranking system—in other words, an algorithm—brought about the ‘Nepal Spring’. For months, young Nepalis on Instagram watched with disdain the lives of a handful of youngsters like them. This handful lived abroad or in Kathmandu’s upscale neighbourhoods. Their expensive watches, the shine of wealth on their faces, and the finest a la carte on their tables, seemed to be mocking those who felt they had been left behind. Even within the country, the imported SUVs of the rich seemed to be floating above the congestion and muck of Kathmandu streets. These were mostly children of Nepal’s politicians who, one day, would take over from their parents the destiny of ordinary Nepalis, more than a quarter of whom depended on the remittances of their family members, mostly from the Gulf. 

From their early childhood, the young had faint memories of a band of men (and women) wearing military fatigues, marching with their arms entangled, telling Nepalis that their day of misery was over and they no longer were the poor subjects of a rich monarch. In the ensuing years of Nepal’s civil war, the Maoists took credit for the abolition of the monarchy and for the new republican constitution that they said would give the poor a decent life of dignity. But soon, led by a silver-haired man who had chosen the nom-de-guerre of “the fierce one” (Prachanda), they would become turncoats like the political leaders they had replaced. As an old Indian friend of Prachanda’s, a committed communist himself, told this writer, he could not resist the glamour of money and power and surrounded himself with the same circle which he once wanted the country to get rid of. 

The revolution could have changed the history of Nepal even if a fraction of what the Maoists had promised would have been delivered. But instead, the Maoist leadership chose to squander the lone chance history had put at its disposal. The poor guerrillas, sometimes barefoot, who had once fought for their leaders, taking bullets on their call, were left behind. They continued to languish in places like Rolpa—once Nepal’s Yan’an—with no promise of a good life. The man they looked up to, meanwhile, kept shifting gears from one party to another, not with some vision but with a basal need to stay in power. From their remote Himalayan villages, men continued their journey to Kathmandu, not to the city, but to its airport—to take a flight to an alien country from where they would be able to fend for their families. The money they sent back—more than a quarter of Nepal’s GDP is made up of it—helped families survive; but this fundamental task could not become a catalyst for sustainable economic growth. In the meantime, governments changed rapidly, as if it were a game of musical chairs.

As the Instagram reels of “nepo kids” became viral, it magnified the anger Nepalis were already living with. And then, one day, they woke up to a government ban on social media apps. On September 8, it metastasised into a mass of people storming down the streets, not only in Kathmandu but other cities as well. School and college students bunked their classes and joined the protests wherever they could find one. In the heart of Kathmandu, the biggest mass of protesters made its way towards the parliament. At this point, the crowd constituted all kinds of people—the angry ones, spectators, and a few getting pushy. As this mass tried to storm into the parliament building, police first fired tear gas and used water cannons, but soon afterwards they fired directly into the crowd. 

The first one to be hit was a boy in school uniform. As that footage became viral, violent clashes ensued. At the end of the day, 19 people were reported dead, while hundreds of protesters were injured. After this, there was no turning back. The violence spread uncontrollably by next day, leading to a collapse of the government. There was nobody in control; Generation Z, born after the beginning of the civil war in Nepal in 1996, and constituting half of Nepal’s population, was spearheading the protests. But they did seem to have a leader, a face.  Protesters defied curfew and torched the parliament building, Nepal’s Supreme Court, and they attacked the houses of leaders. The leaders began to run one after another, seeking sanctuary with the army. Shocking visuals from Nepal showed them being beaten up, barely managing to save their lives. The wife of former Prime Minister Jhala Nath Khanal was set on fire and had to be hospitalised with severe burns. The anger against the police for firing on unarmed protesters resulted in protesters chasing policemen on roads and lynching at least three of them. They were chased on the streets, into rivers—there was no escape from the mob. 

On the first day, Home Minister Ramesh Lekhak resigned but Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli decided to stay put. One of his ministers, in an arrogant stance not in line with the sentiment on the street, dismissed the possibility of Oli’s resignation. But the next day, when he saw the fate of his colleagues, Oli made good his escape. That same evening, the army took control of the situation. By this time, there were men lurking around actively pursuing violence. Some of them grabbed the weapons left by policemen, and it seemed they would have no qualms in using them. By the time the violence halted, at least 72 people had died while over 2,000 had sustained injuries. 

The situation created a certain pressure on young Nepalis whose collective name the revolution carried. Many student leaders of political parties resigned; the daughter of a deputy mayor went public, questioning her mother on why she chose to stay with her party, the Nepali Congress. As mainstream leaders went into hiding, the question remained: Who would take over the reins of a nation where there was a serious trust deficit for any kind of leader? Some began to fear that the situation might prompt the return of monarchy, but the dominant sentiment ruled against them. 

As the raging fires turned into a smoulder, conspiracy theories ran amok. Was there a toolkit to this revolution, like the one many felt had led to the toppling of government in Bangladesh? Was it forces from India who wanted to bring the monarchy back as an affront to the previous government’s tilt towards China? Where the Maoists encouraging the violence, taking advantage of the unrest? As Nepal grappled with what looked plausible, some young leaders appeared to be forerunners for leading the country away from the chaos. But it was ultimately Discord, a messaging app primarily used by gamers, that put on the forefront a name a majority of Nepalis, especially Gen Z, had never heard of: Sushila Karki, Nepal’s former chief justice. She immediately took up the chance, appearing in the street, criticising the firing on protesters, and demanding accountability. Three days later, she became the interim prime minister of Nepal. 

The country is now set for fresh elections, scheduled in March next year. But things have not smoothened out completely. One of the representatives of Gen Z appeared to be a man not from that generation but a 36-year-old millennial. Sudan Gurung is the founder of the Hami Nepal group which many, especially in India, believe to be a tool in the hands of Western powers, particularly America’s CIA. Allegations of him being an Indian citizen led him to post a copy of his Nepali citizenship certificate online. 

In the beginning, Gurung kept himself aloof, saying that his organisation would only play the part of a conscience keeper. But even before Karki could settle down, Gurung staged a demonstration outside her residence, accusing her of betraying the Gen Z movement by appointing ministers without consultation. In some of the rather impractical demands put before her, they have asked for cabinet berths for some family members of the deceased protesters. It is bizarre, since the movement had all along said that it wanted able and qualified people in the cabinet. At the time of writing, there are jokes circulating on social media that maybe Karki could have used Discord to conduct a poll as to whom to appoint the next home minister. 

In this rather fluid situation, one cannot be certain how stable Karki will prove to be. Perhaps it is foreseeing this situation that has kept several others from joining the government. It is also a possibility that the new prime minister may not be able to hold elections. The country now faces a daunting challenge of providing a stable government which does not go easy on coherent governance. Nepal cannot afford to slip into another political backslide. The time is little, and restoring the faith of Nepalis in democracy and its institutions will be an uphill task. Protesters are asking for an investigation into the police firing; Karki herself has called some of the violence by protesters part of a conspiracy, investigating which won’t be easy and may ruffle feathers. She has to maintain peace and at the same time bring about reforms. Poverty in Nepal has declined but coupled with a harsh geography and political instability, it remains a big challenge. 

Karki cannot simply afford to be a caretaker head; she will have to take many fractured communities along. After taking over, she has made a few strides, including an announcement to cut thousands of ad hoc projects the previous government had sanctioned for political reasons. There also appears to be a plan for the recovery of the private sector which has been hit badly by the violence. The damage done to landmark buildings and others of importance has also been taken up. As part of her foreign outreach, Karki first chose to speak to Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi. This was after the Indian ambassador to Nepal, Naveen Srivastava, met Karki in her office. 

In Nepal, once the chaos seemed to be in control, Prachanda was seen visiting his gutted party office, symbolically holding a shovel in his hands. It is not even this symbolism that he displayed after assuming power. For him, and for others in the party, it is perhaps too late. The only leader who could be seen at Karki’s swearing-in ceremony was Prachanda’s deputy, Baburam Bhattarai. Both were comrades in their shared dream of Nepal, but the post-revolution vision Bhattarai had for Nepal differed from his general secretary’s. One can, however, say with certainty that no vision of the Maoists—not even Bhattarai’s—will find any takers in Nepal. At least, not in the near future.  

corruptionfuture of NepalGen ZleadershipMaoismNepal politicsNepal transitionPushpa Kamal Dahalyouth