As a young doctor, I spend a lot of my days listening to pain—chest pain, stomach pain, and the quiet ache of anxiety hidden behind tired eyes. But lately, there’s another kind of pain echoing outside the hospital walls. It’s the chants, the footsteps, and the raw voices of my generation—Nepal’s Gen Z—rising in protest.
The Restlessness We All Feel
I look at my patients, many of them young like me, and I know the truth: our illness isn’t just physical. It’s the fear of not knowing if hard work will ever pay off. It’s the pain of seeing talent wasted while corruption thrives. It’s the feeling that no matter how much we study, struggle, or sacrifice, the system is stacked against us.
I see this in my friends too—doctors, engineers, and students. They are brilliant minds with passports ready, eager to leave the country we all love because hope feels like something we can’t afford.
The Protest Is Personal
When I see Gen Z in the streets shouting for dignity, jobs, and justice, it feels personal. It feels like they’re carrying words I haven’t said. Their signs aren’t just cardboard; they are mirrors reflecting our frustrations, dreams, and our desperation to be heard.
I've been trained to read symptoms and look for causes. What I see is that protests are not the disease; they are the fever. A fever burns when the body fights something toxic. Our country is burning because the youth are pushing back against years of neglect, corruption, and broken promises.
The Conflict in My Heart
As a doctor, I worry. I worry about clashes and about tear gas inhaled by lungs that should be breathing freely. I worry about young lives scarred in ways no medicine can heal. But as a young Nepali, I also feel proud. Proud that my generation refuses to stay silent. Proud that they are bold enough to demand a future, even when it feels uncertain.
What I Hope
I hope our leaders listen—not with half-hearted speeches but with real action. Just like untreated disease, ignored voices always return, stronger and harder to control.
I hope my generation remembers that this energy is valuable. Real change is slow, frustrating, and exhausting—but it is possible. This fight is not just for cheaper tuition or better jobs, but for the dignity of being heard and respected in our own country.
A Doctor’s Final Thought
In medicine, we say healing starts with acknowledgment. You can’t cure what you refuse to diagnose. The protests are Nepal’s diagnosis. The youth have placed a stethoscope on the nation’s chest, and the heartbeat is restless, irregular, and crying for care.
As I stand between my white coat and my identity as a Nepali youth, I feel both fear and hope. Fear of what might happen if nothing changes. Hope in the spirit of a generation that refuses to be silent.
Maybe this is the moment we finally stop surviving and start living.