In the ever-shifting landscape of global politics, international and regional pundits have a habit of dismissing unconventional figures as fleeting novelties. Balen Shah, the 35-year-old former rapper and former mayor of Kathmandu, has been slotted into that category far too often. Labeled as a mere entertainer dipping his toes into politics, Shah article is frequently underestimated by analysts from Delhi to Washington, who view his rise through the lens of Nepal’s chaotic history rather than its potential future. But as Nepal hurtles toward a seismic political shift in 2026, with Shah emerging as the front runner for prime minister on the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) ticket, it’s time for these opinion makers to wake up. Shah isn’t just “taking the top job”-he’s engineering a revolution that could redefine South Asian governance. And he’s far from alone in history; he’s following in the footsteps of numerous former mayors who ascended to national leadership in both developed and developing countries. Shah’s journey from underground rap battles to the mayor’s office in Kathmandu -and now potentially to the prime minister’s residence in Baluwatar embodies Nepal’s newest attempt to dismantle its entrenched political establishment. For decades, the Himalayan nation has been dominated by a revolving door of traditional parties like the Nepali Congress, UML, and Maoists, led by figures who’ve clung to power since the 1990s democratic transition. These “old guards”-think Sher Bahadur Deuba, Pushpa Kamal Dahal (Prachanda), and the recently defeated KP Sharma Oli-have overseen cycles of instability, corruption scandals, and economic stagnation. Even newer entrants like Gagan Thapa, a promising reformist from the Nepali Congress who positioned himself as a fresh face, have become collateral damage in this wave. Thapa, despite his charisma and anti-corruption rhetoric, couldn’t escape the taint of his party’s legacy, losing ground as voters rallied behind Shah’s RSP in a landslide that shattered expectations.

This isn’t mere populism; it’s a youth-driven uprising amplified by social media and street protests, culminating in the 2025 Gen Z-led movement that toppled Oli’s government over issues like a social media ban and economic mismanagement. Shah, who first burst onto the scene as an independent mayor in 2022, joined RSP in early 2026 and channeled that energy into a national platform. His campaign, blending anti-corruption anthems from his rap days with pragmatic urban governance reforms, resonated with a demographic tired of dynastic politics. By directly challenging and defeating Oli in his home constituency of Jhapa-5 with four times the votes, Shah didn’t just win an election he symbolized the death knell for Nepal’s political dinosaurs. Pundits who dismiss this as a fluke ignore the broader context: Nepal is attempting a wholesale replacement of its elite, much like other nations where mayors have leveraged local success to national transformation. History is replete with examples of former mayors who were once underestimated but went on to lead their countries, proving that urban leadership is often the ultimate proving ground for executive prowess. In developed nations, these transitions highlight how managing complex metropolises builds the skills needed for national stewardship. Take France, where serving as mayor is practically a prerequisite for higher office. Jacques Chirac, mayor of Paris from 1977 to 1995, used his tenure to modernize the city before becoming president in 1995, steering France through economic reforms and EU integration. Similarly, Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, mayor of Chamalières, ascended to the presidency in 1974, implementing progressive policies like lowering the voting age. François Mitterrand, mayor of Château-Chinon, became president in 1981 and led for 14 years, nationalizing key industries. Nicolas Sarkozy (mayor of Neuilly-sur-Seine) and François Hollande (mayor of Tulle) followed suit, each parlaying local governance into Élysée Palace victories. Even current French politics echoes this: Many prime ministers, like Alain Juppé (mayor of Bordeaux) and Édouard Philippe (mayor of Le Havre), started as mayors before leading the government. Across the Channel in the United Kingdom, Boris Johnson exemplifies this path in a developed democracy. As mayor of London from 2008 to 2016, he oversaw the 2012 Olympics and championed infrastructure like the Crossrail project.

Dismissed by some as a bumbling showman, Johnson leveraged his mayoral popularity to become prime minister in 2019, navigating Brexit and the early COVID-19 response. In the United States, while no mayor has directly become president, figures like Grover Cleveland (mayor of Buffalo, New York, before becoming governor and then president in 1885) and Calvin Coolidge (mayor of Northampton, Massachusetts, before vice president and president in 1923) show how municipal experience can propel one to the White House. More recently, Pete Buttigieg, mayor of South Bend, Indiana, ran a strong 2020 presidential campaign and now serves as U.S. Secretary of Transportation.

In developing countries, where political systems are often more volatile, former mayors have frequently risen to address systemic challenges, much like Shah in Nepal. Indonesia’s Joko Widodo, or Jokowi, started as mayor of Solo (Surakarta) in 2005, where he tackled urban poverty and corruption. He then became governor of Jakarta in 2012 before winning the presidency in 2014, focusing on infrastructure megaprojects that transformed the archipelago nation. In Turkey, Recep Tayyip Erdogan served as mayor of Istanbul from 1994 to 1998, improving water supply and public transport amid economic turmoil. Once derided as an Islamist outsider, he became prime minister in 2003 and president in 2014, reshaping Turkey’s economy and foreign policy. Mexico’s Andrés Manuel López Obrador (AMLO), head of government (equivalent to mayor) of Mexico City from 2000 to 2005, used his tenure to expand social programs before becoming president in 2018, prioritizing anti-poverty initiatives. China’s Zhu Rongji, an electrical engineer turned politician, served as mayor of Shanghai from 1988 to 1991, where he pursued economic reforms and opened the city to foreign investment, including developing the Pudong district. Handpicked by Deng Xiaoping, he rose to vice premier in 1991 and became premier in 1998, overseeing China’s entry into the World Trade Organization, banking reforms, and rapid economic growth that solidified its global powerhouse status.

Further afield, Argentina’s Mauricio Macri, mayor of Buenos Aires from 2007 to 2015, modernized the city’s infrastructure and then won the presidency in 2015, implementing market-oriented reforms. In the Philippines, Joseph Estrada was mayor of San Juan before becoming vice president and then president in 1998, drawing on his film-star charisma-much like Shah’s rapper persona-to connect with the masses. Colombia’s Gustavo Petro, former mayor of Bogotá (2012-2015), where he focused on inequality and education, became president in 2022. Even in Africa, Madagascar’s Andry Rajoelina, mayor of Antananarivo, rose to the presidency in 2009 (and again in 2019) amid political upheaval.

These leaders weren’t anomalies; they were visionaries who turned local frustrations into national mandates. Shah fits this mold perfectly-his Kathmandu mayoralty addressed garbage crises, traffic woes, and heritage preservation, earning him a cult following among urban youth. Pundits who reduce him to “just a rapper” echo the skeptics who once mocked Jokowi as a furniture salesman or Erdogan as a soccer player. Nepal’s 2026 election isn’t a sideshow; it’s a bold experiment in replacing fossilized parties with agile, people-centric governance. The RSP’s projected landslide, with wins in over 100 direct seats and dominance in proportional representation, signals a rejection of the old order, including figures like Thapa who, despite their merits, couldn’t outpace the RSP wave.

To international observers and regional commentators: Treat Shah’s ascent with the gravity it deserves. Nepal’s youth aren’t just protesting-they’re governing. Underestimating Shah risks missing one of the most compelling political stories of the decade. As he steps into the prime minister’s role, expect reforms in anticorruption, economic diversification, and youth empowerment that could stabilize Nepal and inspire neighbors. The world has seen mayors become legends before; it’s time to recognize Balen Shah as the next in line.

As a documentary filmmaker myself, I have spent years navigating the ethical tightrope of storytelling-balancing raw truth with context, emotion with evidence, and individual tragedy with national reality. Watching the BBC World Service’s recent documentary Shot Like Enemies: Inside Nepal’s Gen Z Uprising left me deeply troubled. Released at a moment when Nepal stands on the cusp of historic elections in March 2026, the film constructs a narrative that paints the Nepal Police and the then government as villains in a morality play of state brutality against innocent youth. It selectively forensic-analyzes leaked police radio logs and cherry-picked videos to suggest a premeditated “shoot-to-kill” policy against unarmed children, while glossing over the chaos, arson, looting, and institutional attacks that defined the two days of September 8-9, 2025. This is not balanced journalism. It is a guided purge of nuance, feeding a naive Gen Z idealism disconnected from geopolitics, governance realities, and the fragile democracy of a landlocked nation caught between giants.

Let us start with the facts the BBC downplays or buries. The protests began legitimately. A government ban on 26 social media platforms on September 4, 2025, for failing to register under new digital regulations-aimed at enforcing taxes, VAT, and curbing unchecked misinformation-ignited simmering youth anger over corruption, nepotism (#NepoKids), unemployment (around 20% among youth), and elite excess in a country where remittances prop up 33% of GDP and average income hovers near $1,400. Thousands of Gen Z protesters gathered peacefully on September 8 near Maitighar and Parliament in Kathmandu. Their energy was admirable: a digitally native generation demanding accountability in a system long plagued by patronage.

But peaceful protest does not remain peaceful when crowds climb perimeter walls, hurl stones at security forces guarding the seat of democracy, and ignore curfew announcements. Police responded in graduated stages-tear gas, water cannons, rubber bullets-standard protocol worldwide when public property and lives are threatened. Only when the situation escalated did “necessary force” get authorized, per leaked logs the ВВС sensationalizes as cold-blooded orders from then-Inspector General Chandra Kuber Khapung (“Peter 1”). Nepal Police has clarified this followed explicit approval from a government security committee, after non-lethal options were exhausted, and in line with Nepali law for protecting critical infrastructure. Tragically, 19 died in Kathmandu that day, including innocents like 17-year-old Shreeyam Chaulagain. Every death demands investigation and accountability – interim Prime Minister Sushila Karki’s government has pledged this, with compensation of NPR 1 million per martyr family. But framing these as “shot like enemies” while ignoring the mob dynamics ignores the reality: security forces faced thousands in a confined, highstakes zone. Forensic reconstruction cuts both ways; the BBC’s 4,000+ videos and photos do not show the full sequence of provocation. The film’s greatest omission?

September 9-the day the “uprising” revealed its hijacked face. Gen Z organizers themselves distanced from what followed, calling it the work of “opportunists,” political cadres, and external elements. Protesters torched Parliament, the Supreme Court, Singha Durbar, the Presidential Residence, party headquarters, and leaders’ homes (including those of multiple former PMs). Prisons were stormed nationwide-over 13,500 inmates escaped, creating a security nightmare in a country already vulnerable to organized crime and cross-border threats. Three police officers were killed. Fires and clashes pushed the two-day toll to 76 dead (per Nepal Army reports: 22 protesters, 3 police, 10 prisoners killed during escapes, others in related violence) and over 2,000 injured. Economic damage exceeded $586 million. The army had to deploy, close Tribhuvan International Airport temporarily, and restore order. This was not “state overreach”; it was a sovereign response to near-anarchy that threatened the very institutions Gen Z claimed to reform.

Prime Minister Oli resigned on September 9. Parliament was dissolved. An interim government under respected former Chief Justice Karki took over, lifted the social media ban immediately, and scheduled fresh elections for March 5, 2026. Youth turnout will be massive (915,000 new voters). Far from a “modus operandi” of authoritarian control, this sequence demonstrates Nepal’s democratic resilience: grievances heard, leadership changed, elections advanced. The BBC portrays this as victory for the victims against a repressive regime. In truth, it is the system self-correcting without descending into the prolonged instability seen elsewhere in the region.

Here lies the deeper lopsidedness. The documentary treats Gen Z as pure, tech-savvy heroes-Rakshya Bam organizing via Discord, schoolkids in uniform-while erasing their political naivety. In a nation of 30 million sandwiched between India and China, where hydropower, borders, and debt diplomacy are existential, “anticorruption” protests amplified on foreign platforms risk becoming vectors for external influence. Social media trends do not equate to geopolitical literacy. The speed with which a regulatory ban morphed into burning the Supreme Court suggests coordination beyond organic youth rage-opportunists and cadres the Gen Z leaders themselves disowned. BBC ignores this, just as it skips the three police deaths, prison breaks, and economic sabotage. Selective empathy for “innocent youths” while justifying (or omitting) mob violence against the state is not reporting; it is ideological scripting.

International NGOs like Amnesty and Human Rights Watch echo the BBC’s focus on “unlawful killings” and “excessive force,” calling for probes. Fair enough-Nepal’s interim government is conducting them via judicial commission. But these voices rarely apply equal scrutiny to the arsonists who destroyed public assets or the digital echo chambers that escalated a policy dispute into national crisis. Foreign media, operating from London or New York, apply a one-size-fits-all “youth vs. dictator” template ill-suited to Nepal’s context: a young democracy recovering from decades of monarchy, insurgency, and coalition fragility.

Nepal does not need external validation to mourn its dead or hold its forces accountable. What it needs is recognition that maintaining order amid legitimate protest is not demonizable “brutality.” The police protected Parliament-not for personal power, but for the continuity of the republic the protesters demanded reform within. Gen Z’s passion is Nepal’s future strength, but unchecked it risks becoming a tool for those who benefit from chaos: regional players, vested interests, or global narratives that paint small nations as failed experiments. The BBC documentary arrives suspiciously close to our elections, prompting even Nepal’s Election Commission to flag its sensitivity and seek curbs on amplification. This timing amplifies its impact as thought-processing for a generation “ready” for premature polls but perhaps unprepared for the responsibilities of power. True documentary filmmaking demands the full mosaic: youth idealism, state restraint under fire, tragic loss on all sides, and institutional survival. Shot Like Enemies offers half the frame-emotionally potent, factually selective, geopolitically blind.

Nepal’s story is not one of purge or oppression. It is one of a nation absorbing shock, enforcing accountability, and marching to the ballot box. The youths who died deserve justice. So do the officers who stood their ground, the institutions that endured arson, and the 30 million Nepalis who deserve stability amid reform. Foreign cameras may zoom in on blood on the streets, but they miss the heartbeat of a resilient Himalayan democracy refusing to be lectured into instability. Let the elections of March 2026 write the real epilogue-not a BBC script.

Kathmandu, February 17 2026

CK Peela, our friendly neighbourhood Indian geopolitical guru, has once again descended from his Kathmandu balcony – probably with a fresh cup of masala chai and a copy of The Hindu – to deliver another TED Talk on why we Nepalese are too dumb to run our own house. In his latest dispatch, he calls the growing roar for monarchy’s return “nostalgia” and “feudal ghosts.”

Brother Peela, if this is nostalgia, then your endless lectures on our “democratic renewal” are straight out of the 1950s Delhi durbar manual titled How to Keep the Gorkhali in His Place. The man writes as if he’s Nepal’s unpaid life coach, when in reality he’s just the latest envoy from the southern neighbour who still thinks the 1816 Sugauli Treaty is a suggestion, not full stop. a Let’s talk about what Peela’s imported wisdom conveniently skips. The monarchy was never just a man on a throne. It was the heartbeat of this impossible, vertical country. It was the one thing that made a Rai from Bhojpur and a Thakuri from Jumla feel they belonged to the same story. During Dashain, the king wasn’t some distant ruler – he was the living symbol of the tika that every Nepali forehead received, from the highest lama in Mustang to the lowest metal man in Saptari. The national anthem didn’t praise a party or a constitution; it praised a lineage that had held this fractured land together for 250 years. That wasn’t politics. That was kinship. That was family. And then, in 2008, in a moment of post-Maoist delirium and New Delhi brokered backroom brilliance, we performed the world’s most expensive emotional lobotomy. We removed the heart and replaced it with a committee of 600+ egos.

Eighteen years later, the patient is on life support and still complaining about the surgery. We now have more governments than we have clean drinking water projects. Thirteen prime ministers, countless coalitions, and a world record in political musical chairs. Corruption didn’t vanish; it just got federalized now every province has its own little lootera-in-chief.

The youth are voting with their feet: boarding planes to the Gulf faster than you can say “federalism.” Remittances are our biggest export because dignity at home became a luxury item. The very idea of “Nepali” has been Balkanised into grievance groups. Everyone is a minority now. Everyone is oppressed by everyone else.

The republic turned us from one family into a dysfunctional joint family WhatsApp group – full of forwards, fights, and occasional blockades when someone doesn’t get their share of the daal bhat budget. And this, Mr Peela , is what you call “progress”? The Nepali flags waving at Tribhuvan Airport aren’t being flown by pensioners dreaming of the good old days. They’re being flown by kids who grew up entirely under your beloved republic. Kids who have never seen a king in person but have seen enough of your “republican” circus to know that something fundamental is missing. They want the institution back – not as a ruler, but as the one person in the country who doesn’t have to kiss the ring of a party boss or a foreign diplomat to exist. But of course, that terrifies the scriptwriters in South Block. Because a Nepal that feels whole is a Nepal that’s harder to bully with blockades, harder to lecture with 12- point agreements, and much harder to turn into a convenient buffer zone with a revolving door of pliable prime ministers.

Peela’s warning about “feudal ghosts” is adorable, really. It’s like the guy who burned down your kitchen lecturing you on fire safety. India’s idea of helping Nepal has always been the geopolitical equivalent of your nosy uncle who breaks your TV remote and then offers to fix it – for a small fee and permanent control of the volume button.

The open border cuts both ways, dost. The chaos you helped engineer here doesn’t stay neatly our side. It flows south with the Koshi and the Gandaki – in the form of fake refugees, counterfeit rupees, and frustrated young men who’ve had enough of being treated like junior partners in someone else’s neighborhood. So spare us the sanctimonious editorials, Peela ji. Eighteen years is long enough to admit we made a mistake.

The monarchy may not have been perfect. But it was the one institution that belonged to all of us, not to any party, not to any donor, and certainly not to any foreign capital. Restoring it as a constitutionally recognized, nonexecutive crown isn’t regression. It’s corrective surgery. It’s bringing the heartbeat back to a body that’s been running on adrenaline and Indian advice for nearly two decades. The people are remembering the bond. And no amount of masala-flavored op-eds from Kathmandu balconies is going to make them forget it again.