Dear reader,
Hello from a Nepal transformed. You must have heard about the extraordinary (and that’s putting it lightly) week that the country has gone through. Last Sunday, it was still ruled by the same political order that had held sway since Nepal exited civil war and monarchy almost two decades ago (and many of the names and faces in charge had been around for even longer than that). This Sunday, that old order has been swept away, and an interim government is just starting to take shape under the country’s first female prime minister.
For Nepalis it’s been a week of incredibly intense emotions: grief, rage, worry, and now a mix of uncertainty and limited relief. From the window of my home office, I’ve watched dark columns of rising smoke and army helicopters airlifting ministers from their besieged homes, heard the roar of the crowd and then the silence of curfew. Through it all, Himal has brought out in-depth, informed coverage of the crisis to help Southasia and the world make sense of what’s been going on. See the latest edition of Southasia Weekly for everything we’ve done so far, and watch your inbox for more to come – including a podcast on the Gen Z movement that sparked the change.
It hasn’t been easy. We’re a very small team, working remotely from our homes across Southasia, and crises like these mean all hands on deck and ungodly hours. But we did the same thing when Bangladesh and Sri Lanka rose up in recent years, and we’ve done it again now for Nepal. This is why you need to support independent journalism, especially in times like these: so that good journalists can put out reliable information and credible analysis even as disinformation and confusion threaten to take over. It takes just USD 5 a month for you to join the good fight and support Himal.
You know the story of Nepal’s fateful five days. (And if you don’t, see Himal’s piece here.) But here’s the story of those five nights.
- Night 1: By nightfall, the death toll from the day’s massacre by security forces stands at 19. Graphic footage of the dead spreads and spreads on social media (many platforms had earlier been blocked, but enough remain active). Public shock gives way to mounting outrage. Unable to sleep, I stay up speaking and scrolling on my phone for almost the whole night, and I’m back at my desk at dawn. In the morning, we publish a searing account of the massacre by Pranaya Rana and Kalam Weekly.
- Night 2: The prime minister is gone. Politicians have fled their homes, been beaten on the streets. The parliament, the Supreme Court, my neighbourhood police station and much more is still burning. The army deploys at 10 pm to take the streets back from the mob. Nepal is gobsmacked by both the political change and the violence. Me too. I stay up all night writing as a way of trying to make some sense of it all. In the morning, we put up my piece on Nepal’s reckoning with its failed political class.
- Night 3: Limbo. Uncertainty. All kinds of speculation swirls as to what will happen next. Where’s the president? Is the army now in charge? I’m exhausted and finally get some sleep.
- Night 4: Past dinner, the first panicked phone call: the army is taking over, the monarchy is coming back, martial rule at midnight. More calls, more messages. It cannot be. We can’t go back to that. Can we? But people who would know, people close to the transition negotiations, seem convinced. Adrenaline coursing, I try to write a statement, a piece, something, anything – some message to get out to the world if the worst comes to pass and we’re cut off. Midnight comes and goes. Nothing. Hours of doubt. News that an interim prime minister, a civilian, will be sworn in by the morning. I barely sleep. Already checking the news again by daybreak.
- Night 5: New prime minister still not sworn in, but it’s close. I’m scrambling to edit a long report – perhaps the clearest piece anywhere yet – chronicling what we can know for certain at this point about everything that has happened since Monday morning. No dinner, must finish. News comes that the prime minister is sworn in. Update the piece, finalise, proof and publish. Finally, for now at least, relief. It’s Friday night. Some time to breathe. Asleep at 1 am.
There are plenty of journalists who’ve done similar when they’ve found themselves in the middle of a crisis (ask Himal’s two editors in Sri Lanka how they lived through the Aragalaya in 2022). We do it because it must be done. And we do it because we love what we do.
When the next big political crisis hits Southasia – and in all the times without such crises too – I want Himal to have a larger team: more editors to get more pieces out quickly, and a full distribution team to spray things out on newsletters, social posts, videos and more. For that we need the financial backing of more and more readers like you who understand the value of independent journalism for Southasia. Support us today, and next time we’ll be back even better.
All best
Roman Gautam
Editor, Himal Southasian
Southasia Mixtape 📻🎶
For my music recommendation this month, a treasure trove: Instead of giving you just one great track, I’m recommending a radio show of Southasian music that just keeps on giving.
Monsoon Radio is hosted by Daniel Bass – a friend and Patron of Himal, and a keen follower of Southasia Mixtape – and brings together a discriminating mix of old and new music from across Southasia (and beyond). Tamil hip-hop is a favourite genre, but there’s all kinds here for pretty much any taste. New episodes drop every two weeks, and all episodes are available online here. Tune in!