Frederick Forsyth ’s Icon gave an interesting insight into how the Western-backed powers-that-be elicit regime changes in countries that don’t buy into the “rules-based international order.”
In the book, published in 1999 – which almost reads like prophecy today – an ex-MI6 spymaster recruits a former CIA operative to go deep into Russia to destabilise the rise of a powerful Kremlin politician eerily similar to Vladimir Putin . In the fictional plot, the plan is to install a Czar of All-Russia to bring back stability, a poetic turning of the page from communists getting rid of the Czars.
Similarly, since abolishing the monarchy in 2008, Nepal has seen a host of leaders of various communist leanings come to power, though purists would argue no true communist would participate in democracy instead of an armed revolution.
Since bidding adieu to the monarch, the country has seen sustained instability – with more than 10 prime ministerial changes but no proper “regime change.”
The latest Gen Z protests have led many on social media to question whether the uprisings are organic or part of a larger script.
A popular social figure tweeted in late 2024 that Nepal would see protests “soon” demanding a return of the monarchy, which would intensify the following year. The theory was that the unrest was part of a “deep state” attempt to engineer regime change in South Asia.
Users pointed out that India’s neighbourhood – Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Myanmar, and Nepal – had all seen regime changes in recent years, with one even cheekily calling it the “Asia Cup of regime change.” Another popular handle wondered if “regime change via street protests” was “organic.”
Some pointed to a viral video of a student in March 2025, referencing King Birendra’s famous quote: “Even if I die, shall my country live on.”
The speech came in the backdrop of citizens demanding the return of the Hindu monarchy amid political instability, corruption, a cost-of-living crisis, unemployment, and lack of economic development.
Others disagreed. One pointed out that the Nepalese were increasingly disillusioned with their democratic options and that the social media decision was a trigger.
Sceptics, however, cautioned that linking every South Asian protest – from Pakistan to Sri Lanka to Nepal – to spy agencies was nothing more than confirmation bias.
Brewing Discontent: The Rise of the “Nepo Kids” TrendLong before the protests erupted in Kathmandu, Nepali social media had been simmering with anger.
A “Nepo Kid” campaign dominated platforms, exposing how children of politicians flaunted lavish lifestyles – foreign degrees, luxury cars, holiday villas – while ordinary citizens struggled. Viral TikTok and Reddit posts contrasted privilege with poverty, feeding the sense that corruption and nepotism were suffocating opportunity.
Hashtags like #NepoKid, #NepoBabies, and #PoliticiansNepoBabyNepal trended relentlessly.
One TikTok video amassed over a million views, showing “nepo babies” partying abroad while youth unemployment at home forced hundreds of thousands to migrate each year.
This digital rebellion reflected long-standing grievances – corruption scandals, elite capture, and a bleak job market. Over 740,000 Nepalis left the country for foreign employment in the past year alone, a staggering figure that summed up why an entire generation had lost hope. The sense of betrayal was real: as one protester put it, “We want our country back.”
While the social media ban was the spark, Gen Z ’s fury runs deeper. Corruption is seen as the thread tying together unemployment, migration, and inequality. Scandals like the $71m Pokhara airport embezzlement and the fake refugee scam – where politicians took money to disguise job-seekers as Bhutanese refugees – showed how elites escape accountability. For ordinary Nepalis, corruption means unaffordable health and education, fertiliser shortages, and rising prices in Kathmandu, where the young move for study and work.
The Social Media Ban: Catalyst, Not Cause
The spark came in late August 2025. Nepal’s government abruptly blocked 26 major social media platforms – Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, YouTube, X, Reddit, and more – after they failed to register with authorities within seven days. Officials claimed the directive was to curb “misuse” of online platforms for hate speech, fake news, and cybercrime.
At midnight on September 4, Nepal went dark online. The only major global app left untouched was TikTok, owned by China’s ByteDance, which had complied by setting up a local office. A handful of smaller services – Viber, WeTalk, Nimbuzz, Poppo Live – also remained accessible.
For many young Nepalis, this selective ban smacked of censorship.
Around 90% of the country’s 30 million people use the internet, and the sudden loss of daily digital lifelines enraged a generation that lives online. TikTok’s exemption was especially controversial. The app had once been banned in Nepal, only to be restored after agreeing to local compliance. Its survival, while Western platforms were silenced, reinforced perceptions of Kathmandu’s growing closeness to Beijing.
For Gen Z, the ban was the final insult – not the root cause of anger, but the straw that broke the camel’s back. “It added fuel to the fire,” one activist said. Within days, calls for protests spread across the very platforms the government tried to silence, often through VPNs and the still-functioning TikTok.
From Online to Offline
On the morning of September 8, Nepal’s capital became the stage for one of the country’s largest youth-led protests in decades. Thousands of students and twenty-somethings, many still in school uniforms, flooded Maitighar Mandala. They carried flags, placards, and slogans: “Shut down corruption – not social media.” “Unban social media.” “No More Nepo Babies.”
An Instagram page called Gen.Z Nepal had circulated instructions in advance, stressing non-partisanship.
Protesters were told: no party flags, no political leaders, no monarchist infiltration. Organisers even disavowed pro-royalist figures like Durga Prasai and members of the former royal family who tried to attach themselves to the movement.
Initially, the march had an almost festive energy – singing, chanting, even reminders not to trample flower beds. But the demands were serious: end the social media ban, punish corruption, secure a future for Nepal’s youth.
Then came the crackdown.
Bloody Monday
As marchers neared Parliament at New Baneshwar, they were met by heavy lines of police and paramilitary forces. When a section of protesters pushed past barricades, the response was brutal. Tear gas, water cannons, rubber bullets – and then live ammunition.
By evening, Nepal had suffered its deadliest day of unrest since the civil war. Nineteen people were killed. Hundreds more were injured, many of them teenagers in school uniforms. Hospitals overflowed. Witnesses described scenes of indiscriminate firing. A protester recalled how a bullet aimed at him struck his friend instead.
On social media – accessed via VPNs – accounts of horror spread rapidly. Influencers accused police of storming hospitals, attacking the wounded, even sexually assaulting women in their homes. Sareesha Shrestha, Miss Nepal Earth 2022, posted a tearful video: “Students, even minors, were shot.” TikToker Dristhi Adhikari accused the government of answering peaceful marches with live gunfire, calling it a violation of international human rights.
Hashtags like #HatyaraSarkar (“Murderer Government”) and #ResignKPOli trended, amplifying outrage. By nightfall, the narrative online was clear: the Oli government had crossed a red line.
Fallout: Resignations and the China Angle
The government scrambled to contain the crisis. That same night, Oli lifted the social media ban, hoping to pacify protesters. It was too late. The next day, fresh rallies erupted, this time more defiant and more violent.
Mobs torched or attacked the homes of top leaders across party lines: former PM Sher Bahadur Deuba, President Ram Chandra Poudel, Home Minister Ramesh Lekhak, and even the private school owned by Foreign Minister Arzu Rana Deuba. Portions of the Parliament building were burned. Kathmandu airport was shut down.
Resignations followed swiftly. Lekhak quit first, taking “moral responsibility” for the killings. Two other ministers followed. By September 9, Oli himself stepped down, ending his fourth term in humiliation. At 73, he had presided over a shaky coalition tilting increasingly toward Beijing. His exit was cheered on the streets as a victory for people power.
The geopolitics linger. TikTok’s survival highlighted Nepal’s alignment with China’s regulatory approach. Oli had just been photographed in Shanghai days before the protests. Western governments condemned the violence and called for restraint, while China kept its public reaction muted. Analysts speculated that the registration drive mirrored Chinese influence, but the rapid collapse of the ban suggested it was internal anger – not Beijing or Washington – that dictated events.
Organic Uprising or Regime Change?
So, were these protests organic or orchestrated?
On the ground, the evidence pointed to a spontaneous youth revolt: decentralised organisation, disavowal of party politics, and anger rooted in corruption and joblessness. At the same time, Prime Minister Oli claimed the violence was fuelled by “vested interest groups” who had hijacked the demonstrations.
On Reddit and Twitter, conspiracy theories swirled about CIA-backed “colour revolutions” and Western attempts to destabilise China-friendly governments. Others pointed to Beijing’s influence, noting how TikTok survived the ban while Western platforms were blocked.
What is clear is that Nepal’s Gen Z, connected by VPNs and hashtags, managed to topple a government within days. What remains unclear is whether this was purely an organic eruption or part of a larger geopolitical chessboard. For now, the protests stand as both: a visceral expression of a generation’s frustrations, and a reminder that in Nepal, every upheaval invites the question – who, if anyone, is really pulling the strings?
Forsyth’s Icon imagined a Russia where a monarchist restoration was plotted to counter the rise of a hard-edged Communist. Nepal’s trajectory has been almost an inverted satire of that script: from monarchy to Maoist-led republicanism, once rebels in the hills now sitting in the palaces they once vowed to torch.
The revolution that was supposed to uproot feudal rot ended up birthing its own brand of corruption, nepotism, and decay. If Forsyth wrote of a monarchy-to-Communism-to-monarchy arc, Nepal today looks like monarchy-to-Communism-to-collapse, with social media rather than revolutionaries writing the next chapter.
In 1971, Gil Scott-Heron warned that “the revolution will not be televised.” In Nepal, 54 years later, the revolution didn’t need to be. It was o social media, streamed, hashtagged, and VPN-routed. And when the government tried to ban the feed, Gen Z showed that revolt finds its own broadcast – with or without television, with or without permission.
In the book, published in 1999 – which almost reads like prophecy today – an ex-MI6 spymaster recruits a former CIA operative to go deep into Russia to destabilise the rise of a powerful Kremlin politician eerily similar to Vladimir Putin . In the fictional plot, the plan is to install a Czar of All-Russia to bring back stability, a poetic turning of the page from communists getting rid of the Czars.
Similarly, since abolishing the monarchy in 2008, Nepal has seen a host of leaders of various communist leanings come to power, though purists would argue no true communist would participate in democracy instead of an armed revolution.
Since bidding adieu to the monarch, the country has seen sustained instability – with more than 10 prime ministerial changes but no proper “regime change.”
The latest Gen Z protests have led many on social media to question whether the uprisings are organic or part of a larger script.
A popular social figure tweeted in late 2024 that Nepal would see protests “soon” demanding a return of the monarchy, which would intensify the following year. The theory was that the unrest was part of a “deep state” attempt to engineer regime change in South Asia.
Users pointed out that India’s neighbourhood – Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Myanmar, and Nepal – had all seen regime changes in recent years, with one even cheekily calling it the “Asia Cup of regime change.” Another popular handle wondered if “regime change via street protests” was “organic.”
Some pointed to a viral video of a student in March 2025, referencing King Birendra’s famous quote: “Even if I die, shall my country live on.”
The speech came in the backdrop of citizens demanding the return of the Hindu monarchy amid political instability, corruption, a cost-of-living crisis, unemployment, and lack of economic development.
Others disagreed. One pointed out that the Nepalese were increasingly disillusioned with their democratic options and that the social media decision was a trigger.
Sceptics, however, cautioned that linking every South Asian protest – from Pakistan to Sri Lanka to Nepal – to spy agencies was nothing more than confirmation bias.
Brewing Discontent: The Rise of the “Nepo Kids” TrendLong before the protests erupted in Kathmandu, Nepali social media had been simmering with anger.
A “Nepo Kid” campaign dominated platforms, exposing how children of politicians flaunted lavish lifestyles – foreign degrees, luxury cars, holiday villas – while ordinary citizens struggled. Viral TikTok and Reddit posts contrasted privilege with poverty, feeding the sense that corruption and nepotism were suffocating opportunity.
Hashtags like #NepoKid, #NepoBabies, and #PoliticiansNepoBabyNepal trended relentlessly.
Power belongs to the people, not the privileged few politicians. It’s time to kick out politicians who have enjoyed power and the people’s money for the last 30 years. #NepoKid pic.twitter.com/xZ4GGAX3Rj
— Vikram Tripathi 🇳🇵 (@mr_spy04) September 7, 2025
One TikTok video amassed over a million views, showing “nepo babies” partying abroad while youth unemployment at home forced hundreds of thousands to migrate each year.
This digital rebellion reflected long-standing grievances – corruption scandals, elite capture, and a bleak job market. Over 740,000 Nepalis left the country for foreign employment in the past year alone, a staggering figure that summed up why an entire generation had lost hope. The sense of betrayal was real: as one protester put it, “We want our country back.”
While the social media ban was the spark, Gen Z ’s fury runs deeper. Corruption is seen as the thread tying together unemployment, migration, and inequality. Scandals like the $71m Pokhara airport embezzlement and the fake refugee scam – where politicians took money to disguise job-seekers as Bhutanese refugees – showed how elites escape accountability. For ordinary Nepalis, corruption means unaffordable health and education, fertiliser shortages, and rising prices in Kathmandu, where the young move for study and work.
The Social Media Ban: Catalyst, Not Cause
The spark came in late August 2025. Nepal’s government abruptly blocked 26 major social media platforms – Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, YouTube, X, Reddit, and more – after they failed to register with authorities within seven days. Officials claimed the directive was to curb “misuse” of online platforms for hate speech, fake news, and cybercrime.
At midnight on September 4, Nepal went dark online. The only major global app left untouched was TikTok, owned by China’s ByteDance, which had complied by setting up a local office. A handful of smaller services – Viber, WeTalk, Nimbuzz, Poppo Live – also remained accessible.
For many young Nepalis, this selective ban smacked of censorship.
Around 90% of the country’s 30 million people use the internet, and the sudden loss of daily digital lifelines enraged a generation that lives online. TikTok’s exemption was especially controversial. The app had once been banned in Nepal, only to be restored after agreeing to local compliance. Its survival, while Western platforms were silenced, reinforced perceptions of Kathmandu’s growing closeness to Beijing.
For Gen Z, the ban was the final insult – not the root cause of anger, but the straw that broke the camel’s back. “It added fuel to the fire,” one activist said. Within days, calls for protests spread across the very platforms the government tried to silence, often through VPNs and the still-functioning TikTok.
From Online to Offline
On the morning of September 8, Nepal’s capital became the stage for one of the country’s largest youth-led protests in decades. Thousands of students and twenty-somethings, many still in school uniforms, flooded Maitighar Mandala. They carried flags, placards, and slogans: “Shut down corruption – not social media.” “Unban social media.” “No More Nepo Babies.”
An Instagram page called Gen.Z Nepal had circulated instructions in advance, stressing non-partisanship.
Protesters were told: no party flags, no political leaders, no monarchist infiltration. Organisers even disavowed pro-royalist figures like Durga Prasai and members of the former royal family who tried to attach themselves to the movement.
Initially, the march had an almost festive energy – singing, chanting, even reminders not to trample flower beds. But the demands were serious: end the social media ban, punish corruption, secure a future for Nepal’s youth.
Then came the crackdown.
Bloody Monday
As marchers neared Parliament at New Baneshwar, they were met by heavy lines of police and paramilitary forces. When a section of protesters pushed past barricades, the response was brutal. Tear gas, water cannons, rubber bullets – and then live ammunition.
By evening, Nepal had suffered its deadliest day of unrest since the civil war. Nineteen people were killed. Hundreds more were injured, many of them teenagers in school uniforms. Hospitals overflowed. Witnesses described scenes of indiscriminate firing. A protester recalled how a bullet aimed at him struck his friend instead.
On social media – accessed via VPNs – accounts of horror spread rapidly. Influencers accused police of storming hospitals, attacking the wounded, even sexually assaulting women in their homes. Sareesha Shrestha, Miss Nepal Earth 2022, posted a tearful video: “Students, even minors, were shot.” TikToker Dristhi Adhikari accused the government of answering peaceful marches with live gunfire, calling it a violation of international human rights.
Hashtags like #HatyaraSarkar (“Murderer Government”) and #ResignKPOli trended, amplifying outrage. By nightfall, the narrative online was clear: the Oli government had crossed a red line.
Fallout: Resignations and the China Angle
The government scrambled to contain the crisis. That same night, Oli lifted the social media ban, hoping to pacify protesters. It was too late. The next day, fresh rallies erupted, this time more defiant and more violent.
Mobs torched or attacked the homes of top leaders across party lines: former PM Sher Bahadur Deuba, President Ram Chandra Poudel, Home Minister Ramesh Lekhak, and even the private school owned by Foreign Minister Arzu Rana Deuba. Portions of the Parliament building were burned. Kathmandu airport was shut down.
Resignations followed swiftly. Lekhak quit first, taking “moral responsibility” for the killings. Two other ministers followed. By September 9, Oli himself stepped down, ending his fourth term in humiliation. At 73, he had presided over a shaky coalition tilting increasingly toward Beijing. His exit was cheered on the streets as a victory for people power.
The geopolitics linger. TikTok’s survival highlighted Nepal’s alignment with China’s regulatory approach. Oli had just been photographed in Shanghai days before the protests. Western governments condemned the violence and called for restraint, while China kept its public reaction muted. Analysts speculated that the registration drive mirrored Chinese influence, but the rapid collapse of the ban suggested it was internal anger – not Beijing or Washington – that dictated events.
Organic Uprising or Regime Change?
So, were these protests organic or orchestrated?
On the ground, the evidence pointed to a spontaneous youth revolt: decentralised organisation, disavowal of party politics, and anger rooted in corruption and joblessness. At the same time, Prime Minister Oli claimed the violence was fuelled by “vested interest groups” who had hijacked the demonstrations.
On Reddit and Twitter, conspiracy theories swirled about CIA-backed “colour revolutions” and Western attempts to destabilise China-friendly governments. Others pointed to Beijing’s influence, noting how TikTok survived the ban while Western platforms were blocked.
What is clear is that Nepal’s Gen Z, connected by VPNs and hashtags, managed to topple a government within days. What remains unclear is whether this was purely an organic eruption or part of a larger geopolitical chessboard. For now, the protests stand as both: a visceral expression of a generation’s frustrations, and a reminder that in Nepal, every upheaval invites the question – who, if anyone, is really pulling the strings?
Forsyth’s Icon imagined a Russia where a monarchist restoration was plotted to counter the rise of a hard-edged Communist. Nepal’s trajectory has been almost an inverted satire of that script: from monarchy to Maoist-led republicanism, once rebels in the hills now sitting in the palaces they once vowed to torch.
The revolution that was supposed to uproot feudal rot ended up birthing its own brand of corruption, nepotism, and decay. If Forsyth wrote of a monarchy-to-Communism-to-monarchy arc, Nepal today looks like monarchy-to-Communism-to-collapse, with social media rather than revolutionaries writing the next chapter.
In 1971, Gil Scott-Heron warned that “the revolution will not be televised.” In Nepal, 54 years later, the revolution didn’t need to be. It was o social media, streamed, hashtagged, and VPN-routed. And when the government tried to ban the feed, Gen Z showed that revolt finds its own broadcast – with or without television, with or without permission.
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