TikTok, Tear Gas, and the Fall of a Prime Minister

On Monday afternoon, September 8, in Kathmandu, university students marched in uniform with books under their arms. They weren’t on their way to class. They were heading toward parliament, chanting slogans against corruption and carrying handmade placards that declared: “Gen Z will not be silenced.”

By nightfall, police had fired live rounds into the crowd. Smoke curled into the sky from the Singha Durbar complex, home to Nepal’s prime minister’s office. Motorbikes sped through the capital’s narrow streets, their riders waving flags and honking horns. Twenty-two people were dead, hundreds injured, and by Tuesday evening Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli had resigned.

The trigger was a decision last week to ban twenty-six social media platforms, including Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and WhatsApp. Officials said the companies had failed to register with the government. Young Nepalis saw it differently. To them, it was a blunt attempt to stifle dissent at a time when accusations of corruption were already boiling over.

The ban lasted barely a few days before it was revoked, but the damage was done. TikTok and Instagram had been the main venues where frustration over poverty, inequality, nepotism, and unemployment spilled out. When politicians’ children flaunted designer outfits and luxury cars online, those images spread like wildfire, contrasted with ordinary students struggling to afford rent or searching for scarce jobs. The hashtags #NepoKids and #NepoBaby turned into rallying cries, painted onto walls and echoed in chants outside parliament.

For many protesters, the ban confirmed what they already believed: that the state is run for the few at the expense of the many. Nepal’s per capita income is about $1,400. Youth unemployment hovers near 20 percent. Millions of young people have left to work construction jobs in the Gulf and Malaysia, sending remittances home that make up nearly a third of Nepal’s GDP. Those who remain see potholes on their roads, erratic electricity, and stalled development.

That sense of betrayal is not new. Nepal abolished its monarchy in 2008, but politics since then has been defined by coalition collapses and aging leaders unwilling to step aside. Promises of reform have come and gone. Corruption scandals have piled up. For a generation raised online, with global reference points and the ability to mobilize through memes as much as through manifestos, the breaking point was inevitable.

The protests spread quickly beyond Kathmandu to cities like Pokhara and Biratnagar. Schoolchildren joined in. Civil servants whispered support even as they watched from behind barricades. Local media reported ministers being airlifted from their burning homes. The military chief appeared on television warning against “anarchy,” but also inviting dialogue.

What happens next remains uncertain. Oli’s resignation has left a vacuum at the top, and no clear successor. The army is on alert, parliament has been torched, and ministers have fled. Yet on the streets, there is also a sense of possibility. “This is about our future,” said 19-year-old Binu KC, who had carried her college books to the protest as a symbol told the BBC. “They promised us democracy, but all we see is corruption.”

For now, Nepal’s Gen Z has forced their elders to listen. Whether the movement delivers new leadership like in Tunisia (2011) and South Korea (2016–2017), or slips into deeper instability like in Libya (2011) and Myanmar (2021) will depend on how both sides respond in the days ahead. But one thing is already clear: the youngest generation has declared that they are no longer willing to wait quietly while their country is stolen from them.