There is a strange calm that settles over a nation when responsibility becomes a myth—talked about in legends, mentioned in political speeches, but never seen in real life. Nepal has perfected this skill so well that it could publish a handbook titled “Advanced Techniques of Avoiding Accountability: A Himalayan Study.”

We experienced September 8 and 9, two days that tore holes in the national conscience. Young people were shot. Young people were wounded. Young people died. Futures were shredded before they even had a chance to unfold. Yet, the nation demands only one thing: Who pulled the trigger? A simple question—but far too sophisticated for our leaders.

Here, bullets seem to have a mind of their own. Guns act like freelancers. Orders appear telepathically. Responsibility vanishes like morning fog. The police chief starts the denial game by pointing a polished finger at the Central District Officer (CDO). “Responsibility? Oh no, that’s his,” he says with full uniform and confidence. The CDO plays the innocent villager caught in a murder mystery: “Me? I don’t even have a gun. The only gun I ever held sprays water on Holi.”

Then appears Prime Minister Oli, a statesman with decades of political brilliance—and the supernatural gift of claiming full command over every corner of the nation except the one spot from which bullets flew. “I didn’t even know bullets were used,” he explains. You can almost picture the bullets firing behind his back as he meditates on geopolitics, federalism, and witty one-liners.

The Home Minister steps forward next, exuding a calm that seems almost spiritual. “I was meditating,” he states. The nation continues to bleed, yet enlightenment, it seems, remains non-negotiable. Then Madam Karki enters, appointed Prime Minister amidst the chaos of historic political storms—brought into power through public sacrifice, constitutional turmoil, and a wounded nation’s hopes. When asked what she will do for the victims, she declares, “That is not my mandate.” Her mandate, it appears, is a rare bird—visible only from afar, never up close.

And then there is the generation that considers itself indispensable—the techno-nomadic, hashtag-brandishing, social-media-anchored Gen-Z elite. These are not the young adults who were killed; no, these are the ones who believe they are the pulse of history, the invisible hands that somehow “made” Madam Karki PM. They flit across Twitter threads like hyperactive bees, creating hashtags as if each were a decree of destiny. Without social media, they cannot exist. Without virtual applause, they wither. A TikTok clip, a trending hashtag, a viral reel—that is their oxygen.

Some drift across the globe mentally, examining political landscapes like nomads whose compass points not north, but toward Instagram followers. They analyze every political event not to understand it, but to boost visibility. Digital shadows of a nation in crisis—constantly moving, endlessly scrolling, always performing, yet unable to hold a piece of absolute authority.

Meanwhile, ministers continue their rituals. The home minister meditates. The education minister complains about powerlessness while cooking. The Law and Justice Minister writes books while cases collect dust. The finance minister figures out how to fund destruction. The youth and sports minister wonders why corruption isn’t an Olympic sport. Even the Armed Police Force delivers the most philosophical line of the century: “We were there, but not there,” claiming to be neither donkeys nor horses—the army retreats to protect privileges. Bureaucrats excel at inaction. The judiciary practices selective justice. Institutions—everywhere—deflect and delay.

And then there’s the media. Once guardians of truth, they now gather whispers, conspiracies, and unverified rumors like farmers collecting wild mushrooms. Facts slow them down; sensation moves faster. Anchors speak with the confidence of philosophers and the precision of weather forecasters predicting rain in Kathmandu. Investigative journalism focuses only on which conspiracy will generate the most clicks. Tragedy becomes entertainment; victims turn into thumbnails; suffering becomes content.

Universities and hospitals, once regarded as sanctuaries of knowledge and life, now mirror the nation’s structural decline. Education increasingly prioritizes compliance over understanding; healthcare focuses more on resources than recovery. Even systems meant to empower the people reflect the logic of convenience, fear, and self-interest. The rules and frameworks are in place, but the true purpose—the public good—remains a distant afterthought.

And then the system is profound: it does not just exploit the population; it turns citizens into unwitting collaborators. Voting, protesting, debating, and posting online—all these actions, noble in intention, often sustain the cycle rather than break it. The constitution, celebrated as a protector of rights, instead becomes a scaffold that supports the same structures that drain the nation. Legitimacy is assured not by justice but by the ritual participation of those who hope, endlessly, for change. What specific failures-such as lack of accountability in police or judiciary-allow this cycle to continue?

So, this is where we stand: leaders refuse responsibility, ministers meditate, institutions deflect, and the media dramatizes. Citizens debate which party pays more for votes. Recognizing this pattern should trigger a call for moral awakening and collective accountability from all of us.

And then there’s me.

Watching this national drama unfold like a low-budget tragicomedy made me realize a simple truth: someone must take responsibility. Not because they are guilty, but because accountability is a moral duty we all share in shaping Nepal’s future.

So here I am, openly taking responsibility: I am accountable for the young adults wounded and killed on September 8 and 9. Not because I was present. Not because I gave any orders. But because no one else is willing to put their name next to the truth. How can individual acknowledgment of responsibility lead to systemic change in Nepal?

My acknowledgment of responsibility is not a confession; it is an accusation—a mirror held up to a nation where every influential person runs away from accountability faster than a thief fleeing a police dog.

A country with 30 million people, yet no official claims understanding of the bullets. They were fired by fate, by ghosts, or some mysterious phenomenon still “under investigation.”

Ultimately, the cycle is obvious. Power functions not just through force but through approval, ritualistic obedience, and the quiet submission of citizens who keep playing a game they can’t win. Awareness alone isn’t enough; courage is rare. The show goes on, and the audience stays complicit.

My stance is clear: in a country where truth is dismissed, responsibility is forsaken, and stories overshadow facts, I choose to stand alone.

And maybe—after all the meditations, press conferences, and televised conspiracies—someone in power will finally feel enough shame to admit the obvious.

Until then, I remain the only volunteer willing to take responsibility in a country where everyone else has disappeared.

@PR