Thanks for inviting me—it’s a pleasure, absolutely.

Yes, as you say, the trigger—or at least the pretext—was the social media ban. The Nepal government had announced the banning of 26 social media sites—so, the familiar ones: Facebook, Instagram, even WhatsApp. That was the spark, and that’s how it’s been portrayed in much of the media. The government gave these corporations a week to register locally, and of course most of them didn’t. So the government was about to institute the ban when the protests broke out—and very quickly, within days, they reversed course. I would call it an uprising. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a revolution, but it was certainly an uprising.

Of course, you have to look at the context in which this is taking place. I think what’s clear—even in the mainstream press—is that it wasn’t just about social media. This movement was coming off the back of decades of anger and resentment toward the political elite and the mainstream political parties. That includes the three main ones: the Nepali Congress; the UML, or Unified Marxist-Leninist Party; and the Maoists, the Communist Party of Nepal. The anger was particularly directed at KP Oli, who was the prime minister and came from the UML. His leadership style was extremely authoritarian. Under his rule, dissent was routinely cracked down on, corruption flourished, and he himself was widely implicated. The gap between rich and poor widened significantly—Nepal saw its first billionaire just over a decade ago, while life for the vast majority of people hasn’t really improved.

Nepal is, of course, famously dependent on remittances. It’s one of the top remittance-receiving countries as a share of GDP. That inflow has kept people surviving, but it hasn’t led to transformative change in people’s lives. Remittances are used largely for daily survival. Some families have managed to buy land and so on, but the vast majority remain deeply dependent on this system. Meanwhile, there’s a jobs crisis. There hasn’t been any serious outlet for people—no sense that things are improving, or that the future looks more promising. So I think all of that anger and resentment exploded—and yes, it was among young people, especially in urban centers.

Yes—first, on remittances and the investment in education—I think that’s a crucial part of what’s going on. What we say in the article is that there’s a kind of desperation—a search for a way out of the experience of work, particularly agricultural work. Many families don’t want their children to continue farming, and young people themselves often don’t see a future in it, at least in terms of stable livelihoods. So there’s been a huge investment in education, and a lot of remittances are channeled into that. You have many young people from rural areas moving to cities—not just Kathmandu but also district headquarters—to study. Nepal has a young population, and the growth of educational institutions reflects that demographic. A much smaller group, of course, goes abroad. But the general sentiment is that if we invest in education, our children will have better lives—and of course, that’s a universal hope, not unique to Nepal. In some cases, this investment pays off, but structurally there’s a deep jobs crisis. There simply isn’t enough employment to absorb the growing ranks of educated young people.

A lot of this is rooted in the decimation of domestic industry and the failure to develop what was possible. Like many countries, Nepal underwent neoliberal economic reforms beginning in the early 1990s—privatization, liberalization, and so on. Much of its industry was sold off, primarily to Indian capital, and wasn’t allowed to grow. Nepal once had a relatively well-developed garment sector, as well as jute, rubber, and other industries. More could have been done, but because of trade arrangements and economic policy choices, that potential was never realized. As a result, there’s been a serious structural failure to create jobs at scale.

In 2024 alone, about 870,000 people left the country for work. Most families have at least one member working abroad—often not even in Kathmandu, but directly from the village to India, the Gulf, or elsewhere. This kind of migration is incredibly common. And it’s not just that people are going abroad—they’re doing some of the worst jobs, under very harsh conditions. The government has largely facilitated this process. It provides passports and oversees the bare minimum, but there’s not nearly enough regulation to protect migrant workers from exploitation by middlemen and recruitment agencies. It’s a system that enables people to leave but doesn’t create the conditions for them to stay. There hasn’t been any concerted effort to develop the domestic labor market or expand industrial employment.

To be clear, some things have changed over the past 20 to 30 years. Nepal is now a service economy, and there’s been some growth in small businesses and entrepreneurship. But this isn’t the result of proactive government policy. The welfare state is extremely basic, and there’s been no serious effort to address the structural crisis of employment. So what you see is a government deeply disconnected from the reality facing most people.

The decision to ban social media is emblematic of that disconnect. It reflects a profound misreading of how people live, communicate, and participate in political and cultural life. The idea that you could just ban major platforms—Facebook, WhatsApp, TikTok—and expect no backlash is baffling. It’s not even clear why they gave companies just a week to register. Maybe it was an attempt to flex their muscle, to show the state still had authority. But it backfired, massively. KP Oli himself was particularly arrogant and authoritarian. He mocked the Gen Z activists, suggesting they should be focused on their studies instead of wasting time online. He failed to see that it was he who would end up eating his words.

So, what happened in 1990 was a mass movement—I would call it a revolution. The party-less Panchayat system, an authoritarian political system, was abolished after several hundred thousand people took to the streets demanding change. This was part of a broader global wave in the early 1990s, not unique to Nepal, that ushered in or restored democratic systems in many places. But very soon after that, the Maoists recognized that the promises of democratic transition were not transforming people’s lives in meaningful ways—socially, politically, and especially economically. So they launched what they called the People’s War.

Maoism has a long history in Nepal. The first Communist Party was established in 1949–1950, following in the footsteps of comrades in India. Organizing had already begun even earlier, dating back to the 1930s. The Maoists were the first political force to go deep into rural areas, to speak to people directly, to introduce ideas of rights and human dignity—human rights in the broadest sense. They built an organizational vehicle that people could actually join, fight with, and use to demand those rights from a government that was, by and large, disconnected from the majority of the population. Politics was mostly happening in Kathmandu. Rural areas, although they had some local governance structures and received some state resources, were not politically integrated in a substantive way. So there was a huge gap between what people expected from the democratic movement of 1990 and what was actually delivered. The Maoists capitalized on that disillusionment—and they became hugely popular.

They fought a ten-year civil war. And while some mainstream narratives claim that ordinary people were caught between the state army and Maoist insurgents—as if both sides were equivalent—that doesn’t really capture what the Maoists were trying to do. Their project had mass support. Now, they ultimately failed to realize that project, and I think a lot of that has to do with Indian influence at the state level. India, of course, has its own Maoist insurgency and is fiercely opposed to such movements. After 9/11, the Nepalese government used the global “war on terror” discourse to frame the Maoists as terrorists. They secured international support, including weapons and funding, to fight the insurgency—much of it facilitated by India.

Militarily, it ended in a kind of stalemate. The Nepalese army was heavily armed and better equipped, but it couldn’t defeat the Maoists. At the same time, the Maoists couldn’t achieve a military victory either. The real defeat came politically. Some sections of the Maoist leadership began looking for a negotiated exit. In 2006, a peace deal was brokered in Delhi, and that was essentially the beginning of the end—though you could argue the turning point came even earlier, when they entered peace talks.

Strategically and theoretically, the Maoist leadership made a profound miscalculation. They concluded that Nepal needed to develop a capitalist economy first, and that socialism could only come later. This line of thinking—that the working class is too small, the unions too weak, the people not ready—isn’t unique to Nepal. But it led them to compromise. Despite still being the most popular party in 2008, when the Constituent Assembly elections were held and the king was forced to abdicate, the Maoists had lost their revolutionary edge. There was no longer a mass movement. No serious space for popular expression. They held a general strike in 2010—that was really the last significant mobilization. After that, things fell apart.

Young people in particular began to lose faith—not just in the Maoists, but in politics more generally. The Maoists had held so much promise, but they squandered it. They got caught up in the elite politicking of Kathmandu. The leadership became just as corrupt as the parties they once opposed. So while the Communist Party still holds a certain symbolic appeal—Nepal is a very left-leaning society, and people vote for communist parties because they associate them with justice and concern for the poor—that trust has been profoundly eroded. People feel utterly betrayed.

I think there’s now a generalized disillusionment across the country. The dynamics are, of course, different between rural and urban areas, but that sense of distrust is widespread. People don’t know who to believe anymore, and that’s largely due to the collapse of the Maoist project. There are still many left-wing parties—probably too many, in fact—operating outside of parliament. But the challenge for them is enormous: How do you build trust again? These parties often have no funding, and organizing requires resources. So the question is: How do we reconnect with a population that’s so disenchanted?

At the same time, I think the mainstream parties are in trouble. This really does feel like a political rupture. I don’t think people want to see any of the current elite in power again. There are six or seven major figures who’ve just been rotating positions for the last 25–30 years. I don’t think they’ll be able to simply return to business as usual. This feels like a new political reality.

It’s complex. There is a vacuum now, yes—but at the same time, the state has responded in the way most states do: by sending in the army to restore order and return things to “normal” as quickly as possible. The first thing Sushila Karki did—she’s the former chief justice who has now been appointed interim prime minister—was to promise to repair the damaged buildings and prepare the country for elections. That makes sense, and it’s necessary at one level. But it raises a deeper question: What’s actually going to change? Who is going to run in those elections scheduled for March? Will the elections even happen? I don’t think the old leaders can make a return—Oli’s resignation was deeply humiliating, and during the demonstrations, people held placards with the faces of all the major political leaders. They were all tarred with the same brush.

That said, the political ties these parties have built over decades won’t simply vanish. These are deep-rooted patronage networks. And of course, we can’t ignore international influences. China, for instance, might intervene and try to broker some sort of unity among the communist factions. You could imagine a scenario where new leaders are brought in under familiar party banners, especially if there are no viable alternatives that people recognize or trust. It’s still very difficult to see a truly radical break emerging. But the space is certainly there for alternative parties and leaders to rise—and many people are hoping that this will happen.

We also need to distinguish between the Gen Z protesters and those who were involved in more violent actions, like burning down buildings. I don’t think they were the same people. It’s hard to know exactly who the arsonists were—perhaps some were linked to the Rastriya Swatantra Party, the National Independence Party—but it’s speculative. It certainly wasn’t the young women in school uniforms or the young men planning the protests online who were storming the homes of politicians. So there may have been an element of provocation or even infiltration. It’s unclear.

What is clearer is the role of external powers. People talk a lot about Indian influence—and it’s definitely there—but the US is also very powerful in Nepal. China, too. Oli was famously pro-China and facilitated major investments from them. But now, under the interim government, three of the most important ministries—finance, home, and energy—are all led by people with links to U.S. support. That suggests this may be a kind of correction, a geopolitical recalibration after a decade or more of strong Chinese presence.

Of course, Delhi is watching all of this closely. Nepal is not the only place where we’ve seen youth-led uprisings in the region. Bangladesh last year, Sri Lanka the year before that. India doesn’t want something similar to happen on its own soil. The inequality exists. The conditions are there. And with social media, young people see everything. That’s part of what makes this moment so combustible—the same internet spaces where ordinary people share their struggles are also filled with images of politicians flaunting their wealth, their lifestyles, their impunity. It generates disgust, anger, and a visceral sense of betrayal, especially when the promises of democracy and development haven’t been fulfilled.

People are suffering—there’s a jobs crisis, there’s mass migration into the most exploitative labor sectors, there’s rural stagnation. The 2015 earthquake, the unmet promises of the constitution, the devastation of COVID—all of that is still part of the backdrop. And while many of these patterns echo what we’ve seen elsewhere, Nepal’s history and conditions are unique. What’s driving this moment is real and widespread rage, particularly among a young generation that has invested everything in the idea of a better future—only to be met with betrayal. That anger is both the engine of protest and the terrain on which external and domestic actors are now maneuvering.

Something like three-quarters of the population in Nepal has a mobile phone, and just over half have access to the internet. So a significant portion of the population is connected to these digital spaces. That said, yes—it’s been primarily an urban movement, not just in Kathmandu but in other urban centers as well. Still, I haven’t seen any strong evidence that the rural population feels excluded from what happened. If anything, I think they probably support it—because it was a clear blow against the political elite, which they absolutely deserved. Rural communities have been enduring the same neglect and hardship for years.

In many rural areas, the young men have already left for work abroad. There’s a phenomenon people refer to as the feminization of agriculture—women are now doing much of the labor men used to do. They manage households, they work the fields, often with less help than before. In some places, people are returning to older, cooperative labor practices—like bartering work between households. But in general, a lot of agricultural land is simply being left fallow. There’s reforestation in areas where farming has been abandoned. So rural life is hard, and it’s mostly older people, women, and children who remain. That creates its own forms of social tension and loss.

Many rural residents do feel left behind. They don’t want to leave their homes—but they’re being forced to migrate, often into exploitative and dangerous labor abroad. Most migrants don’t want to go. They want jobs at home. So there’s a deep resentment that after 35 years of democracy, a decade of this new constitution, and over a decade of being a republic, life still hasn’t changed in any fundamental way. Yes, there have been improvements. But even seasonal migration doesn’t transform household incomes, and long-term migration, while more significant, still doesn’t radically improve the lives of most families.

So there’s a sense of shared anger. People may not miss Oli’s rule—certainly, I don’t think anyone’s lamenting his departure—but the bigger feeling is: Finally, something has shifted. A space has opened. One thing we haven’t mentioned yet is the pro-monarchy movement, which had been gaining some traction, particularly since 2023. I think this Gen Z uprising has undercut that momentum somewhat, which is a good thing. The monarchy isn’t widely seen as a viable future, and this protest moment likely reinforced that rejection.

Of course, urban and rural dynamics remain different. But this wasn’t just an urban tantrum—it was a blow to the elite from a frustrated population more broadly. I think older generations, even in urban areas, resonate with that feeling. While it’s youth-led, I don’t think it’s purely a youth movement in the sense that young people alone have a vision or plan for what comes next. The movement is largely leaderless. It lacks structure. That’s part of what makes it so dynamic, but it could also become a problem—especially in terms of transparency, internal democracy, or articulating a clear vehicle through which people’s demands can be channeled.

So yes, people have been politicized. Social media has played a role in that. But social media alone isn’t politics. It can’t replace political parties. Under capitalism, that remains the system we have. Voting still matters. So Gen Z activists—and others—will have to figure out how to relate to parliamentary politics. Do they support a new force in Parliament? Can they become one? That’s part of the short- and medium-term challenge.

But we also need extra-parliamentary forces—especially on the left—to ensure this energy isn’t hijacked by right-wing populism or the remnants of the monarchy. There’s always a danger that resentment is redirected into hatred, division, and violence—along lines of ethnicity or other identities. So the goal should be to connect this generalized politicization—the awareness of inequality, the recognition that life isn’t getting better for most people—with new political formations that can express that anger constructively.

The real question is: How do we put this all together into a mass political vehicle that reflects people’s actual concerns, and how do we connect that with Parliament?

I don’t see any single political formation right now that’s advancing a comprehensive national vision for what needs to happen in Nepal. That’s not to say they don’t exist—there are left parties out there, some of them with very good ideas. But the issue is unity. None of them have a strong enough national presence to command widespread attention, and even if they do have good ideas, they’re still very small, fragmented, and extra-parliamentary. That makes it hard to be visible, to be trusted, to be believed when you say you have a vision for the country.

Some of these parties are involved in broader movements—for example, campaigns against loan-sharking and exploitative microcredit. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people are trapped in usurious lending schemes they can’t pay back. There was a major march to the capital in recent years, with people coming from rural areas—especially from the southern plains—to demand that the government regulate or eliminate these predatory practices. Some of the smaller left parties have been quite vocal in those efforts. But again, unity is difficult when you’re small, when resources are limited, and when trust is lacking between different formations. Without adequate funding, they can’t campaign widely, can’t travel to every district, can’t build a mass presence.

Still, I don’t think the challenge is insurmountable. One way to break through is through mass campaigns. Corruption is an obvious starting point. But the critique can’t stop there. If all people demand is an end to corruption, there’s a risk that change is interpreted narrowly—just replacing some leaders with others within the same political framework. That’s what some of the liberal intelligentsia might prefer: new faces, same system. But that’s not enough.

There are efforts underway to strengthen coalitions, to build toward unity. But the March 2026 elections will be an important test. It’ll show us to what extent the old guard can reorganize and reassert themselves. I suspect most of the same leaders won’t return—but the parties themselves may survive, even if under new leadership. The deeper question is whether the political vision has changed. Because what Nepal needs, at the very least, is a genuine social democratic program—strong welfare policies backed by real political will. And from there, I’d say even more radical change is needed: structural transformation of the economic system and political order.

There are plenty of anti-corruption laws and bodies already in place in Nepal. They’re just not implemented. That’s the problem. And then there’s the question of the constitution, which has been a major political fault line for decades. In many ways, the 2007 interim constitution was more progressive than the 2015 version, which was rushed through after the earthquake. It was almost opportunistic—people were reeling, and the elite took advantage of that moment to push through a more conservative document.

The restructuring of the state into a federal republic was supposed to make resources more accessible at the local level. But in practice, that hasn’t happened. Local governments don’t have real autonomy or capacity. So the promises of federalism, like the promises of the new constitution, remain unfulfilled. It’s been ten years. That kind of broken promise—especially in a place where people have waited so long for change—is fertile ground for anger. Something like this Gen Z uprising was bound to happen, regardless of the specific trigger.

Yes, the new government must investigate corruption. Yes, they must protect freedom of expression and respond to the demands of the Gen Z movement. But we also need radical change, urgently. The question is: Who will provide the leadership for that? What kind of political formation will take it forward?

It’s a process. I never expect these things to happen overnight. And I know there are people on the left working day in and day out to build unity, to draft a real vision, to prepare to contest elections. They’re not sitting on their hands. But we don’t know yet how far they’ll get.

At the same time, we shouldn’t dismiss the Gen Z movement just because it’s leaderless or lacks formal structure. That’s part of its context, part of what gives it its strength. Still, if the left can reach out to the movement, and if the movement itself commits to democratic transparency—to creating structure, to electing accountable leaders—then I think something genuinely new could emerge. Something that breaks with the past.

It’s a very good question. And it’s quite challenging to follow the splits and mergers in Nepal’s left landscape—there are about a dozen or more extra-parliamentary left parties. Some are splits from the Maoists, formed by people who disagreed with what they see as a capitulation—the decision to enter mainstream parliamentary politics. Others critique Maoism itself and want to forge a different path. Some of these groups don’t even call themselves communist, but they are undeniably left-wing.

Often these parties have particular bases or associations—with Dalits, indigenous peoples, and other marginalized groups. But I think among at least a section of them, there’s a real recognition that things haven’t gone as they’d hoped. They believe what happened with the Maoists wasn’t just about entering parliament. It was a betrayal of class struggle. A betrayal of revolutionary politics. These parties genuinely want to do things differently. And part of that means reconnecting with the mass of the population around the issues that matter most to them—loan-sharking, migration, gender inequality. Issues rooted in people’s everyday experiences.

Now, I really hope they move toward unity. Because one of the biggest challenges is sectarianism. These parties don’t always agree on seemingly small points—and I don’t want to downplay that, because to them, those disagreements are significant. That’s why they organize separately. But the reality is that this moment—right now—is an opportunity. The Gen Z movement proved it’s possible to oust political elites quickly. People have seen that. And there’s real urgency: It’s been over a decade since the republic was declared, more than 15 years since the Maoists’ last real show of force in 2010, and the public is fed up.

This moment shouldn’t be wasted. It’s essential that these parties take seriously the role of trade unions, the role of the working class—not just the peasantry. They must treat the working class not just as a category but as a political force, capable of withholding labor and demanding change. That means taking Marxist politics seriously again—not in a nostalgic way, but in a way that is attuned to the present.

We can’t afford the idea that socialism is some far-off dream, and what we need right now is to build capitalism first. That idea is outdated. And yet, that’s what some leaders are still saying in the press—that the ideas of abolishing private property or the dictatorship of the proletariat are irrelevant now. But I’d argue the opposite. What Nepal needs is unity on the extra-parliamentary left that can eventually express itself within Parliament. Not because Parliament is the solution, but because that terrain can’t be ceded either.

That requires learning from the Maoist experience—both practically and theoretically. There’s a lot to revisit and clarify, organizationally too. And people are thinking on that level—it’s just a question of whether unity can be built, whether the public’s trust can be won.

The past two weeks have shown that the political space is open. Many things could happen. If the left doesn’t step in, then the right will, or the status quo will reassert itself under new forms. That’s inevitable. So it’s absolutely essential that the left respond, and I think the conditions are ripe. People aren’t just asking for social media access and freedom of expression—although those matter. They want something more. They want a different kind of economy, and they want institutions that can actually deliver on the promises they’ve heard so many times before—but never seen fulfilled.

It’s a bit of a million-dollar question. Why don’t I call it a revolution? Mainly because what happened in 1990 and 2006 were complete restructurings of the state. In 1990, Nepal transitioned from the Panchayat system to a democratic constitutional monarchy. Then in 2006, it abolished a 240-year-old monarchy altogether, moving from monarchy to republic. That was a real, substantive transformation in the form of the state. What we saw this time was the dismissal of a prime minister. That’s not to say it couldn’t develop into a revolution—and I hope it does, eventually—but right now it was a change of government, not of state form.

Nepal faces a very specific, objective difficulty: It has two major powers, India and China, right on its borders, and they are in tension with one another. Geographically, Nepal is divided by the Himalayas—Everest literally separates it from China—while to the south, it shares an open border with India. Historically, ethnically, linguistically, Nepal has been closer to India. But China has increasingly asserted influence—investing heavily through the Belt and Road Initiative, which Nepal joined in 2017. So Nepal has to play an extremely difficult balancing act. I don’t underestimate that, and I certainly don’t underestimate the challenges that any government—especially a left government—would face in that geopolitical context.

Economically, Nepal remains one of the world’s least developed countries, and yes, it needs funds. But there are internal possibilities too. I remember very clearly when the Maoist government came to power in 2011—three years into the republic. Baburam Bhattarai was the finance minister, and for the first time, he managed to collect taxes in a serious way. Elite families, who had never paid their fair share, were suddenly shocked to find they actually had to comply. That moment showed that it was possible to generate internal revenue and begin redistributing resources. It’s true the funds weren’t always spent the way they should have been, but the broader point is that fiscal policy is a tool. A government that’s ideologically committed—willing to tackle corruption, implement a progressive taxation system, and prioritize redistribution—can do something meaningful.

There’s no inherent reason Nepal can’t industrialize. If industry existed here in the 1970s and 1980s, it can exist now. A few decades ago, Nepal was a rice-exporting country; now it imports rice. That speaks to broader issues—land use, agricultural labor shortages—but they’re not unsolvable. You can invest in mechanization. You can redistribute land. These aren’t even radical ideas; they’re just smart social democratic policies. This isn’t unique to Nepal. In many parts of the world, just implementing basic redistributive and developmental measures would be a massive step forward.

And of course, addressing the jobs crisis is essential. Industry and agriculture are both part of that. But there’s also a broader reconstruction and development agenda—roads, electrification, infrastructure. There’s no shortage of work to be done. The key is to make sure that donor money, if it comes, is accepted on Nepal’s terms. Any support has to be aligned with a national plan. And that plan should reflect the priorities of the people, not the logic of the market.

In this sense, economic sovereignty is inseparable from political strategy. I would even argue—just as I’ve argued for nationalization in the UK—that targeted public investment can work extremely well. If you invest wisely, in sectors that matter, you can build capacity. That, in turn, allows you to stabilize geopolitically. Neither India nor China may like such a direction, but they might tolerate it if a left administration has deep popular legitimacy. That’s why maintaining a connection to the mass of the population is so important. One of the most important interfaces for that connection is the mass movement itself—movements that give voice to people’s desires and concerns. The moment a left government becomes disconnected from those movements, it risks doing things that people don’t understand or support. That’s what breeds resentment and anger.

It’s not that difficult to not be corrupt. It’s not impossible to implement at least some of these reforms. I’m not underestimating the challenges—Nepal’s terrain, its history, the geopolitical pressure—but the task is not insurmountable. What’s required is a very strong and ideologically committed political force, one that stays rooted in the people and is willing to govern on that basis. If that exists, it becomes possible to begin building something different.

Pleasure. Thanks a lot.