They are called the ‘brain rot’ generation—addicted to memes, short videos, and endless scrolling. Political elites dismiss them as apathetic, glued to their phones while the country’s problems piled up. But last week in Nepal, this so-called brain rot became a force that toppled the government.
From TikTok clips exposing the extravagant lives of politicians’ children to Discord servers coordinating marches and VPNs bypassing social media bans, young Nepalis turned the tools of their digital lives into instruments of political power. We spoke to protesters, organisers and on-the-ground witnesses to capture the reasons and the spirit behind what is now called the September 8 uprising of Nepal.
Though some trace the revolt to a school student’s speech in March 2025 when 16-year-old Avishkar Raut declared that Nepali youth would no longer be silent, the anger had been simmering for years. Avishkar’s TikTok-viral speech about corruption and stolen futures struck a chord, but it was only one of many triggers. “We are bound by the chains of unemployment, trapped by the selfish games of political parties. Corruption has woven a web that is extinguishing the light of our futures,” he had said.
Thousands of young people were leaving Nepal for work, families were breaking apart because of migration, and corruption was seen as the glue holding the whole system together.
The immediate trigger came in an unlikely form: the viral photo of the son of a minister standing next to a Christmas tree made entirely of Louis Vuitton and other luxury brand boxes. In a country where one in four people live in poverty, the photo became the perfect symbol of a system rotten with nepotism. Posts spread quickly under hashtags like #PoliticiansNepoBabyNepal and #NepoKids across TikTok, Instagram, and Discord. Some videos garnered over a million views, sparking outrage and conversation that quickly turned into action.
For 25-year-old Tanuja Pandey, one of the protest organisers, the moment felt inevitable. “The Gen Z community of Nepal had already been following similar trends in the Philippines and Indonesia,” she said. “When the photo went viral here, that became the tipping point.”
On September 4, the government led by then Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli made a move that would backfire spectacularly: it ordered a shutdown of 26 social media platforms, including TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook, citing registration non-compliance. With over 40% of the country’s population between 16 and 40, the move was widely perceived as suppression.
For many young Nepalis, whose social, political, and even economic lives unfold online, the shutdown felt personal. Nepal’s economy runs on migration: more than 8% of its citizens work overseas, and the money they send back accounts for a third of the country’s GDP, one of the highest remittance rates in the world. For families split across continents, WhatsApp and Facebook aren’t just apps, they are lifelines. To cut them off was to sever conversations between parents and children, husbands and wives, siblings scattered in Gulf countries and Malaysia.
“The ban was like pulling the plug on daily life,” said Sunita, 27, whose brother works in India. “My mother talks to him on WhatsApp every night. Suddenly, they put a stop to that. We felt that the government was cutting us off from our families.”
At the same time, opportunities at home were drying up. Young people faced the impossible choice of leaving the country or staying behind with little promise of a future.
“That was the final straw,” said Anish Rai, 24, a Kathmandu-based computer science graduate who posts under the Instagram handle Chamlinganis. “We already knew our leaders were corrupt, but when they tried to censor us, it felt like they were taking away our freedom to even speak.”
Within hours of the ban, youth across the country began finding workarounds. VPNs allowed them to bypass restrictions, and private networks on Discord and Telegram became the new town squares.
As Tanuja pointed out, “The government was posting updates and announcements on the very platforms they blocked. So basically they were using social media illegally too.”
The lead-up to September 8 was a mix of careful planning and improvisation. Even amid chaos, the organisation was decentralised. There were no formal leaders; decisions emerged from consensus or as close as possible to a consensus in a digital forum buzzing with thousands of voices. Discord moderators, some barely out of high school, found themselves acting as de facto coordinators, passing suggestions from the server to those on the ground.
“Things happened very quickly,” said a 22-year-old from Kathmandu who participated in the Discord discussions and didn’t want to be named. “It often felt like a random social media call, but it worked. Everyone was trying to do their part.”
Priyanka Bhatt, a 21-year-old social media influencer with 14,000 followers, shifted from lifestyle videos to documenting the protests. “We are always called the unhinged generation. But this time, that energy actually meant something. We were angry, we were scared, but we were also standing up for our country,” she said.
Mamata Tamang, 18, who just cleared class 12, described her own decision to join the protest. “The social media ban was so sudden. I didn’t even know about it at first,” she said. “But people were talking online – about corruption, about politicians’ lavish lifestyles while ordinary Nepalis struggle. I decided to participate on both days of the protest.”
TikTok clips juxtaposing the blatant opulence displayed by politicians against the pain-points of common citizens circulated widely, reigniting outrage. A particularly viral image was the one that showed Saugat Thapa, son of a provincial minister, standing next to a Christmas tree created with boxes from luxury brands such as Louis Vuitton and Gucci.
Two days before the deadly demonstrations on September 8, Tanuja uploaded a video showing a mining site in Chure, one of the region’s most fragile mountain ranges. Nepal’s resources should belong to the people, not politicians’ private limited companies, she wrote, calling on her peers to “march against corruption and the misuse of our nation’s wealth.” The video garnered more than 61,000 views on Instagram and was quickly shared across TikTok, Telegram groups, and Discord servers where it went viral and sparked conversations.
By September 8, the anger boiled over. The streets of the capital Kathmandu became a place of revolt. The gathering was large, loud and decentralised, according to Tanuja. Coordinated largely through social media, thousands assembled with a focus on anti-corruption slogans. For much of the day, the mood was determined but peaceful. Then, as the crowd approached government buildings, police opened fire with live rounds. The violence escalated quickly after that. By the next day, parts of the city were in flames.
Government offices, private homes of politicians, even the Hilton hotel that had opened only weeks earlier, all were damaged or burned. The wife of a former prime minister was critically injured when their residence was set ablaze. In total, 72 people were killed in what was the deadliest unrest Nepal has seen in decades.
For organisers like Tanuja, the violence was a gut punch. “We wanted this to be peaceful. But others came in with their own agendas,” she said. “That was never what we stood for.”
A protest as much digital as physical
Social media was more than a platform for disgruntlement; it was a coordination tool. “The in-person gatherings helped build solidarity,” Anish explained, “but online platforms allowed us to share updates, coordinate, and amplify our message to a much wider audience.”
Every participant seemed to carry cameras, phones and GoPros to capture moments of defiance and even compassion. Videos and photos flooded social media, blending spectacle, humour, and outrage in a way that only Gen Z could orchestrate.
Young people filmed themselves standing atop government buildings waving flags, danced to TikTok routines in front of burning buildings, and even recorded themself returning stolen goods. One viral clip showed a protester lying under a military truck, yet still scrolling on his phone. Another video showed a boy dancing to a TikTok routine, his shoulders jerking to the beat, while behind him an office block coughed black smoke into the sky. Trendy couple reels such as ‘Who fell in love first?’ pairing young demonstrators with police and military personnel emerged.
Some images showed demonstrators standing atop Singha Durbar, seat of the Nepalese government, waving the national flag. Visuals also showed crowds breaking into PM Oli’s private residence, overturning furniture and setting parts of it alight. The fire, the chaos, the out-of-control crowds, all were documented in short-form videos.
There were also drone shots that featured wide, sweeping views of the mayhem, edited with melancholic music, as though the revolution was seen through the eyes of a wedding videographer.
Flags became a language of rebellion. Protesters waved the Nepali flag alongside banners that read “The Time is Now” and #WakeUpNepal. Some waved the black pirate flag from the Japanese anime One Piece, flown by the Straw Hat Pirates as they challenge the authoritarian World Government.
Meanwhile, a British travel vlogger who goes by Harry stumbled into the middle of the upheaval. Known for his lighthearted motorbike vlogs under the name We Hate The Cold, Harry had arrived in Nepal a day before the protests. He documented the unrest outside Nepal’s Parliament. His video, viewed over 3.8 million times, showed flames rising from the building, vehicles being smashed, and looters fleeing with computers.
“I just happened to be there with my camera,” Harry said. “The sudden curfew left me in the middle of the crisis. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.”
Indian media’s reportage called out
Amid the chaos, the anger toward Indian media covering the protests was unmistakable. Videos quickly went viral of protesters shouting “Godi media, go back!” — a phrase borrowed from India to mock television channels seen as lapdogs of those in power.
In one clip, young Nepalis surrounded a reporter, demanding, “What is godi media doing in Nepal?” Another video showed a Republic TV journalist being slapped, the moment ricocheting across TikTok and Instagram almost as quickly as the broadcasts it was meant to counter.
Also read: ‘Foreign hand, Gen Z data addiction’: 5 ways Indian media missed the Nepal story
A clip on X showed an NDTV reporter’s live telecast being drowned out by protesters banging steel plates. Another showed a TV9 reporter being chased mid-broadcast.
“The resistance to some Indian media outlets comes from their history of unreliable reporting,” said Anish. “Many channels were spreading false news about the protest without research or verification. They failed to practise journalism and didn’t show the truth of what was happening on the ground.”
Aftermath
In the power vacuum left by PM Oli’s resignation, the movement returned to its native terrain: Discord. A server created by the civic group Hami Nepal ballooned to over 1,45,000 members, becoming a chaotic digital parliament.
Text, voice, and video chats allowed young people to debate, organise, and even propose candidates for interim leadership. Through grassroots digital polling, the youngsters coalesced around former Chief Justice Sushila Karki, a candidate ultimately endorsed by the establishment.
“I don’t think it’s right to say Discord selected the prime minister,” Tanuja said. “Yes, there were thousands of votes and suggestions, and some names like Balen Shah, the Mayor of Kathmandu, were floated. But the ultimate decision rested with the army and other authorities, not our online server.”
The protests claimed over 70 lives, many of them young participants like Mamata and Anish’s peers. Nepal became a republic in 2008, but in the 17 years since it has had 14 governments. No leader has completed a full five-year term. With a GDP per capita under US$ 1,500 and widespread youth unemployment, the frustrations that spilled onto the streets had been simmering for years.
Families are still grieving, while the survivors work to rebuild damaged streets, homes, and public spaces.
Tanuja reflected, “People are still mourning those they lost, and as citizens of this country, we have a responsibility to remember them. Right now, the media keeps showing the vandalism that happened in Nepal every other second, but rarely do we see the faces of those who died. I am genuinely afraid that people will forget, because we are quick to move on. Mental health is important, but at this moment justice is more important. The media has a major role to play in shaping how this is remembered and understood.”
