Nepal Prime Minister Resigns Following Deadly Protests That Claimed at Least 19 Lives
Nepal, a small Himalayan nation nestled between India and China, has long struggled with political volatility. But the second week of September 2025 marked one of the country’s most turbulent episodes in recent memory. What began as a government decision to block 26 popular social media platforms including Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, YouTube, and X spiraled into a youth-led revolt that culminated in the resignation of Prime Minister Khadga Prasad Sharma Oli. Within forty-eight hours, the streets of Kathmandu had transformed into a battleground, with thousands of protesters defying curfews, storming government institutions, setting parliament ablaze, and attacking the homes of senior politicians. By the end of September 8, at least nineteen protesters lay dead, shot by security forces using live ammunition, and hundreds more were wounded. The scale of the unrest shocked not just Nepal but the wider region, as images of burning government buildings and defiant crowds circulated across the world.
The resignation of Oli on September 9 was as abrupt as it was symbolic. For years, he had embodied Nepal’s political establishment: a veteran communist leader, repeatedly elected, who promised stability and reform but instead presided over corruption scandals, economic stagnation, and rising public frustration. His government’s decision to silence dissent by cutting off social media platforms was seen as the final straw, especially by young Nepalis already angered by inequality and unemployment. The deaths of nearly twenty young men and women at the hands of security forces transformed a political protest into a national trauma, fueling the flames of an uprising that demanded more than just the ouster of a prime minister. It demanded an end to decades of unaccountable governance, entrenched corruption, and generational exclusion.
The Spark That Ignited the Uprising
The Oli government defended its decision to impose a sweeping social media ban as a regulatory measure. Officials claimed platforms had failed to comply with new laws requiring registration and local offices in Nepal. They cited concerns over misinformation, online scams, and divisive content. Yet few citizens were convinced. For months, young Nepalis had been airing grievances online about corruption, especially mocking the lavish lifestyles of political elites’ children, derisively nicknamed “nepo kids.” Images of luxury cars, overseas education, and expensive parties, often posted by politicians’ families, spread like wildfire on TikTok and Instagram. To ordinary Nepalis struggling to make ends meet, these posts represented not just privilege but outright mockery.
The ban, then, felt personal. For young people, social media was more than a pastime. It was a place for activism, a tool for small businesses, a bridge to relatives working abroad, and a space for expression in a country where mainstream media often toed the government line. Cutting off these platforms was akin to silencing their voice. The move was interpreted not as regulation but as censorship and worse, as an attempt to protect elites from public embarrassment. Within hours of the ban’s enforcement, students began sharing VPN tutorials, coordinating protests via encrypted apps, and mobilizing offline networks. By September 8, thousands were gathered in Kathmandu, carrying placards that read “Stop Killing Our Future” and “End Nepo Politics.”
The movement spread quickly. Civic activists, labor unions, and older citizens joined, creating a rare coalition that crossed age and class lines. The mood was defiant but also creative. Protesters painted graffiti mocking politicians, blasted rap music, and waved the Nepali flag. The protests were unmistakably driven by Gen Z, but the anger resonated far beyond their cohort. By the time riot police confronted the demonstrators, it was clear that the government had underestimated the depth of resentment it faced.
Blood on the Streets
What could have remained a noisy but largely peaceful demonstration turned into a national tragedy when police escalated their response. As crowds grew near the parliament building on September 8, security forces fired tear gas and rubber bullets. Protesters resisted, hurling stones and chanting defiantly. Then came live ammunition. Witnesses reported seeing officers aim into crowds, bullets striking young men and women who had been waving flags or chanting slogans. Hospitals soon overflowed with the injured. Doctors described treating gunshot wounds to the head, chest, and legs. By evening, nineteen deaths were confirmed, most of them under the age of thirty.
The killings sent shockwaves across Nepal. Families gathered outside hospitals, wailing as news spread that their sons and daughters had been shot while protesting peacefully. Social media, still accessible through VPNs, filled with videos of bloodied demonstrators carried on stretchers and relatives begging for accountability. International human rights groups immediately condemned the violence. Amnesty International called it a “disproportionate and unlawful use of force,” while UN human rights chief Volker Türk demanded an investigation. Yet the government appeared unmoved, imposing a curfew and insisting the violence had been provoked by unruly crowds.
Rather than intimidate the protesters, the bloodshed deepened their determination. On September 9, even larger crowds defied the curfew. Students marched side by side with older citizens who carried photographs of those killed. Chants shifted from calls against corruption to outright fury at the state: “Punish the Murderers in Government,” “Justice for the Dead,” and “Oli Must Go.” What began as outrage over censorship had become a reckoning with a government willing to shoot its own youth.
The Storming of Institutions
The day after the killings, Kathmandu resembled a city under siege. Thousands of protesters stormed the Singha Durbar administrative complex, smashing gates, breaking windows, and eventually setting parts of the parliament building ablaze. Smoke billowed over the capital as crowds waved flags and danced around bonfires in scenes both jubilant and unsettling. Some wore stolen police helmets or carried shields taken from officers, chanting that Nepal now belonged to them.
The fury spread beyond parliament. Residences of senior politicians, including former prime ministers and cabinet ministers, were attacked and torched. Media houses accused of colluding with elites were set alight, forcing newspapers to rely on emergency social media updates to continue publishing. In western Nepal, prisons were breached as guards fled the chaos, leading to mass escapes. By nightfall, Kathmandu was scarred by flames and rubble, its symbols of power reduced to ruins.
For some, the scenes evoked hope: a corrupt system finally collapsing under the weight of popular anger. For others, they sparked fear of anarchy. Analysts warned that leaderless movements risked sliding into violence without direction. While the protests carried a generational energy, they lacked structured leadership or a clear political program beyond rejection of the existing order. That vacuum made the following events inevitable.
The Fall of K. P. Sharma Oli
By the afternoon of September 9, Oli’s position was untenable. His ministers had begun resigning one after another, citing moral responsibility for the killings. His private residence had been attacked, his authority evaporating. Under immense pressure, he submitted his resignation to President Ramchandra Paudel, declaring he was stepping down “to facilitate a constitutional solution to the current crisis.” The announcement was met with jubilation in the streets. Protesters cheered, chanted, and posted celebratory videos online. For many, it was proof that their movement had succeeded where decades of frustration had failed: toppling a leader they saw as corrupt and indifferent.
Yet Oli’s resignation solved little. Fires still smoldered in Kathmandu, protesters vowed they would not disperse until corruption was eradicated, and the army issued a chilling warning that it might intervene if destruction continued. President Paudel scrambled to consult political parties, but no single figure commanded legitimacy. Some protesters demanded a technocratic caretaker government. Others called for fresh elections. Still others insisted on youth-led interim leadership. The collapse of Oli’s government created not stability but a vacuum, one that risked dragging Nepal into deeper chaos.
The uncertainty underscored a troubling truth: while the uprising had the power to oust a leader, it lacked a clear roadmap for what came next. The absence of structured leadership meant the movement could easily fragment or be co-opted by the very elites it opposed. Oli was gone, but the system that produced him remained intact.
Historical Echoes and Regional Parallels
Nepal’s September uprising did not occur in a vacuum. The country has a long tradition of people’s movements reshaping its political order. In 1990, mass demonstrations forced the monarchy to accept multiparty democracy. In 2006, another wave of protests ended the monarchy itself, ushering in a republic. Each time, citizens mobilized to demand change and each time, hopes of clean governance and stability gave way to disappointment. Since 2008, Nepal has cycled through thirteen governments, none completing a full five-year term. Oli was only the latest casualty of a system plagued by factionalism, corruption, and broken promises.
But the September protests also resonated with a broader regional trend. Across South Asia, youth-led movements have toppled entrenched leaders. Bangladesh’s government fell in 2024 after a student uprising, while Sri Lanka’s president fled in 2022 amid mass protests over economic collapse. In Indonesia, demonstrations have highlighted frustrations with unresponsive elites. The common thread is generational: large, youthful populations confronting governments that appear corrupt, out of touch, and indifferent to their struggles. Nepal’s Gen Z uprising was part of this wave, fueled by the same blend of frustration, creativity, and defiance.
These parallels offer both inspiration and warning. Bangladesh and Sri Lanka’s uprisings succeeded in removing leaders but struggled to deliver the systemic reforms protesters demanded. Corruption persisted, economies stumbled, and disappointment set in. For Nepal, the danger is repeating that cycle: celebrating Oli’s resignation only to see new leaders emerge from the same political class, recycling the same failures. Without structural reform, the protests risk becoming another chapter in a long cycle of hope and disillusionment.
A Generational Reckoning
At its core, the September uprising was a generational revolt. Gen Z, born after the monarchy’s fall, had grown up with democracy as their only reference point. Unlike their parents, they had no nostalgia for royal rule or tolerance for excuses about instability. They had watched politicians rotate in and out of power while corruption scandals multiplied, jobs disappeared, and opportunities dwindled. Many of their peers migrated abroad for low-paying work, leaving remittances to sustain the economy. Those who stayed often faced unemployment or stagnation. For them, Oli’s resignation was not just about removing one man it was about reclaiming their future.
The demands now echo beyond the streets: justice for those killed, independent investigations into police violence, genuine anti-corruption reforms, and youth inclusion in decision-making. Protesters have called for new institutions that actually function, digital-era governance reforms, and protections for free expression. These are not easy fixes, but without them, the anger will persist. Already, there are signs of fragmentation: some groups calling for maximalist demands like dissolving parliament entirely, others trying to steer the movement toward pragmatic reforms. The risk of leaderless uprisings is that momentum can dissipate before real change takes hold.
Yet the protests have also awakened a sense of agency. For a generation accustomed to being sidelined, the events of September proved that mass mobilization can yield results. Whether that energy is channeled into lasting reform or lost to chaos will determine Nepal’s trajectory for decades. The resignation of Oli was not an end but a beginning the start of a generational reckoning that could either rejuvenate democracy or expose its fragility.
A Nation at a Crossroads
Nepal’s September uprising began with a social media ban and ended with a prime minister’s resignation, but its significance runs far deeper. It was an eruption of generational anger, a rejection of corruption and stagnation, and a demand for accountability. The deaths of at least nineteen protesters seared the moment into national memory, transforming outrage into resolve. For now, Oli is gone, but the political vacuum he leaves behind threatens instability as much as it promises renewal.
The challenge for Nepal is clear. Can its institutions rise to the moment, addressing corruption, youth unemployment, and the demand for transparency? Or will they retreat into the same cycles of repression and recycling of elites that have haunted the republic since its birth? The answer will shape not just Nepal’s future but also the trajectory of youth-led movements across South Asia. As one protester outside the burned parliament declared, “Now, the work will be led by the youth. The files of their corruption will be exposed.” The world is watching to see whether this promise becomes reality—or whether Nepal’s Gen Z will be forced back into the streets once again.