Nepal’s Gen Z Revolution — Why Did This Dream Remain Unfulfilled in Pakistan?
By Raja Zahid Akhtar Khanzada
It was night in Nepal, but no ordinary night. When buildings burned in the darkness, the sky, for the first time, covered its eyes with the smoke of its own city. The streets of Kathmandu were filled with noise, the sky with smoke, and the alleys echoed with the sound of running footsteps. These were the youth of a small state degrees in their pockets and the anguish of unemployment in their hearts. who had suddenly become the central characters of history. When the government imposed a ban on social media, it was assumed that emotions, too, had been locked away. But locks can never contain emotions. Within hours, the crowd had reached the gates of parliament, the walls of Singha Durbar were engulfed in flames, and the Ministry of Information, in a panic, revoked the ban. Police bullets were fired, and the funerals of 19 young men were held. There were protests, curfews were imposed, the army descended onto the streets, and Prime Minister Pushpa Kamal Dahal (Prachanda) resigned silently, stepping away from power. The public held a cleansing of ministers; videos of several government officials surfaced, and then, it was as if a breath held for years was released in a single moment.
All of this happened in two days, and everything happened so swiftly that the world was left stunned. Nepal proved that when the public unites, even the strongest governments can crumble in moments.
This major movement by Nepal’s Gen Z youth was against corruption. They held degrees in their hands, but their eyes were clouded with the haze of unemployment, yet they suddenly became the protagonists of history. They stood together, hand in hand, and raised their voices. Their demand was short yet powerful: accountability, employment, voice. No one called another a traitor; no one turned opponents into enemies. Everyone held up a mirror to the system. That was the secret of this revolution: the “I” receded, and the “we” stepped forward.
In Pakistan, people are now debating on social media why such a revolution cannot happen here. The question is correct, but the answer is bitter. It is because the people of Pakistan cannot speak in one voice, as the establishment has divided them into different provinces, tribes, and fortresses. Here, every party views its opponent not merely as a rival but as an enemy. Large segments of the public remain loyal to their respective parties, whether in power or in opposition. Pakistan’s two major parties, the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N) and the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) are currently standing together and fully supporting the military establishment. In contrast, the Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI), the largest and most popular party, stands alone, with only the Sunni Ittehad Council, the Majlis Wahdat-e-Muslimeen, some independent candidates, and smaller groups in its support. But their strength has weakened against this grand government alliance.
This is where the difference between Pakistan and Nepal becomes starkly clear. In Nepal, the public had one demand, and all parties accepted it. But in Pakistan, the public is divided into two major camps. Imran Khan has millions of supporters, but similarly, millions stand firmly with the PPP and PML-N. When one large segment supports PTI and another opposes it with equal intensity, where will the unity required for a revolution come from? Those who step out are arrested, and the rest of the public remains seated in their homes, playing the role of silent spectators.
Imran Khan made the same mistake during his tenure that Zulfikar Ali Bhutto made in his time. intoxicated by his immense popularity, Bhutto dismissed other parties as “tonga parties” and regarded them with contempt. But after the 1977 elections, nine different parties—including Jamaat-e-Islami, Jamiat Ulema-e-Islam, National Awami Party, Tehreek-e-Istiqlal, various factions of Muslim League, Pakistan Democratic Party, and others—formed an alliance against Bhutto called the Pakistan National Alliance (PNA). They united on one point: removing Bhutto. A public movement grew, strikes occurred, protests intensified, but the army used these parties to seize power itself and then appeased them by sharing a portion of it. The result was that Bhutto’s government ended, but no public revolution occurred.
A similar scenario is now emerging with Imran Khan, reminiscent of what other major parties in Pakistan have experienced in the past. Intoxicated by his immense popularity, he viewed other major political parties not as opponents but as enemies, and during his tenure, he took strong retaliatory actions against them. When he was ousted from power, these very parties despite being rivals, set aside their differences and united against Imran Khan.
Today, the country’s most popular leader is behind bars, but the real issue is not the judicial decisions against him but the language that has fragmented the nation’s politics. For years, every opponent was called a “thief,” and every disagreement was criminalized. When every politician is declared a thief, who will hold whose hand? This language has also built walls among the public, replacing political alliance with personal enmity.
After his removal from power, the relationship between PTI and the establishment has also become a thing of the past. Today, PTI is traversing the same difficult path that the PPP, then the MQM, and later the PML-N once walked. Workers are being arrested, protests are being crushed, and the party is being made a political example. Imran Khan’s supporters number in the millions, but an equal number stand with the PML-N and PPP and fully support the establishment’s decisions.
Currently, Pakistan’s two major parties PML-N and PPP—along with Jamiat Ulema-e-Islam (F), the artificial MQM, and several other political factions are openly aligned with the establishment, while Imran Khan and his party stand alone in the political arena. The sphere of politics has narrowed so much that there is almost no room for dialogue and reconciliation, and only the echoes of conflict and revenge are heard everywhere.
We once saw a path. On May 14, 2006, when Benazir Bhutto and Nawaz Sharif signed the “Charter of Democracy” in London. It was a covenant between two bitter rivals that united politics against military dominance. This was not just a document but a civilizational commitment: “Disagreement will live on, but democracy will not break.” Then came December 27, 2007, when Benazir Bhutto paid the price of that covenant with her life at Liaquat Bagh in Rawalpindi. That evening, Asif Ali Zardari chanted “Pakistan Khappay” (Long Live Pakistan), saving the country from disintegration. For many, this slogan was a declaration of national unity; for others, it was a gateway back into the establishment’s game. But it was settled that one voice had tried to unite a crumbling existence.
The question is not how everything happened in Nepal but why it could not happen in Pakistan. The reason is that we turned political disagreement into moral condemnation. When politics demands prophetic standards, the opponent ceases to be a rival and becomes an enemy. And when the opponent becomes an enemy, reconciliation dies. This reconciliation brought revolution in Nepal, and this same reconciliation could not be achieved in Pakistan even over years.
The Pakistani community living in the U.S. also asks me why a revolution cannot come to Pakistan. The answer is bitter: it cannot come because there is no single slogan, no single goal, no shared path. Every party is fighting for its survival, and the public is circumambulating around its own political idols. Until a leader dares to understand that politics is not enmity but dialogue, and until the public decides to rise above party colors and think for the country, revolution will remain merely a dream a dream crushed every time, sometimes by hands in uniforms and sometimes by the politicians themselves.
Now, it is time for Imran Khan to change the direction of his politics. The path is difficult but clear. He must forge a new “Charter of Democracy” on three fronts: language, institutions, and the streets. First, the language must change. “Everyone is a thief” must be replaced with “Everyone is a dialogue partner.” The politics of personal insults and enmity must be buried, and it must be declared that political disagreement is not a crime but the foundation of democracy. Then, at the institutional level, the charter must be updated to address current wounds: transparent elections, same-day national and provincial polls, joint auditing of polling and results, and strict laws against horse-trading. The powers of the military and civilian leadership must be clearly defined in the constitution so that every dispute is resolved in parliament, and unconditional protection of freedom of expression must be ensured. Because the same social media ban that ignited Kathmandu is here, too, fueling silent anger every day.
Today, every moment of the Pakistani nation is such that the walls have ears, and the shadows whisper. Amnesty International’s latest report on Pakistan is a mirror, but it is a mirror that very few have the courage to look into. According to the report, millions of people in Pakistan are trapped in an invisible net one that is hidden from the eyes but present around us at every moment. Advanced tools from German companies, hidden backdoors in internet networks, and a firewall that ostensibly protects us but, in reality, imprisons our freedom. Hearing all this, it feels as though we are living in a modern digital prison a prison whose walls are made not of iron but of code and signals.
Therefore, if Imran Khan truly wants to bring change, he must trust the power of the people instead of the empire, declare non-violence on the streets. Protest is a right, but violence only justifies state emergency. A transparent framework for reconciliation must be created for political prisoners, where false cases are ended and real crimes are punished transparently. Resources and powers must be distributed fairly among the provinces so that the center’s language softens and the federation’s structure strengthens.
All this is necessary for Imran Khan because a great leader is not one who defeats everyone but one who brings everyone to a bridge even if he himself is the first to stand there alone. If the language changes, opponents too will come to the negotiation table tomorrow. The Charter of Democracy proved this once; history can be given a second chance.
Nepal showed that when “we” come alive, history turns in two days. Pakistan must do the same. We must step out of the ego of “I” and breathe the breath of “we.” The sacrifices of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and Benazir Bhutto must be remembered not only at their mausoleums but in our ethos. “Pakistan Khappay” must become not just a slogan but a constitutional ethic. Then, perhaps, the air of Islamabad will be filled not with smoke but with the gentle mist of a democratic dawn, and we will all breathe together.
