It was around midday in front of Nepal’s Parliament building in Baneshwor when something suddenly struck behind my ear. It was exactly one o’clock, and the scene before me looked nothing short of a battlefield. I had feared this might happen even before reaching Baneshwor — the tension was thick in the air. The crowd, the rage, the energy — all of it wasn’t just against corruption. People were furious because the government had imposed restrictions and shut down social media.
By nine that morning, Maitighar Mandala was already packed with protesters. Watching that swelling crowd, it was clear that something big was going to happen. Unlike the usual political rallies, I saw new faces — people I’d never seen at such protests before. As time passed, familiar faces from mainstream parties also joined in. Through my camera’s zoom lens, I could clearly see the crowd from afar — half were party workers, but the other half were new, unfamiliar individuals moved by frustration rather than party loyalty.
There weren’t many slogans — just voices chanting for good governance, justice against corruption, and the Prime Minister’s resignation. Beneath the national flag, their shared voice echoed: a demand for accountability and freedom of expression. This protest felt different — more determined, more defiant.
The rally that had begun at Maitighar around ten moved along the service lane toward Baneshwor, passing through Babarmahal. Everything seemed calm at first. About a kilometer before reaching Baneshwor, police had blocked the road, marking it as a restricted area. Riot control units and armed police were deployed heavily. A water cannon stood ready. At first, there were some minor scuffles and shouting — nothing unusual. But soon, the tension stirred along the service lane as the crowd grew aggressive. Student groups joined in, cheering from behind.
The protesters at the front — the ones pushing through the barricades — looked different from those earlier in Maitighar. When they broke past the restricted line, police responded with the water cannon but hesitated to use batons. It felt as though they were holding back deliberately. In previous protests — the MCC, teachers’, microfinance, or meter-interest demonstrations — police had controlled crowds far larger than this with ease. But this time, something was off. There was poor coordination between the police and the armed force. Both units failed, leaving officers vulnerable and forced to defend themselves. Within moments, tear gas and bullets filled the air. No new reinforcements arrived, and the situation spiraled out of control.
Protesters fell as bullets flew toward the approaching crowd near the Parliament gate. From my position, I saw several collapse before my eyes. It was impossible to tell where the shots were coming from. The more people fell, the more enraged the rest became. Police restraint broke; the scene turned into open warfare. Gas burned my eyes. I ducked behind road dividers or even beside police to take photos. Fear and duty pulled me in opposite directions — terror in my chest, responsibility in my hands.
As I watched people shot and bleeding, my heart grew heavier. I remembered the movement on March 28 — in Tinkune — when several had been killed or injured, including one journalist. The faces, the agitators, the chaos — everything felt eerily similar. Many protesters who had marched with conviction were now scattered or wounded. Some of the young ones likely had no idea what kind of protest they were stepping into. The fact that police hadn’t updated their crowd-control policies since that tragedy showed the administration’s grave failure.
In the middle of all this, while trying to take cover and continue photographing, a bullet struck me.
It happened right in front of Parliament’s main gate, where protesters were smashing barricades and hurling stones. One of those bullets, meant for the rioters, hit me instead. It was around 1 p.m. Fellow photojournalists and friends were nearby. “A splinter hit you!” someone said as I felt the sting. Fortunately, everyone rushed to help — Niranjan dai carried me on his back. His finger slid easily into the wound on my neck. I was terrified but strangely calm from the support around me.
At Civil Hospital, chaos ruled. Patients lay on the floor. Some bled from the chest, some from the head. Nurses hurried between bodies, trying to stop bleeding with betadine and bandages. The corridors reeked of fear. Even inside the hospital, police fired tear gas. Some doctors were injured too. I was in pain, and the fear of infection and disability haunted me. My friend Sanjit was panicking. Doctors hesitated, unsure what to do next. Suddenly, a group of protesters stormed the emergency ward, shouting nationalist slogans, worsening the panic. It was impossible to treat anyone under such conditions.
Seeing no alternative, we decided to transfer to Patan Hospital. Sanjit, journalist Janmadev dai, and others helped get us into an ambulance, but even then, the vehicle was attacked at the gate. Somehow, we made it through — alive but shaken. Patan, being farther from the protest zone and a teaching hospital, gave us hope. Still, I couldn’t shake one fear — what if I ended up paralyzed, confined to a wheelchair for life? That thought alone was enough to crush me.
Reflecting on all this, one truth stands clear: journalists in Nepal, especially photojournalists, are terribly unsafe. Media houses seldom invest in security or training for covering riots, disasters, or violent protests. Ninety-nine percent don’t even insure their staff — let alone their cameras. Basic protection like helmets, jackets, or gas masks aren’t provided. After covering traumatic events, no mental health support follows. The state, too, continues to neglect journalists’ safety, fair pay, and social security.
I’m healing now. The wound will take time, and the scar will stay forever — a reminder. Sometimes, I still wake up screaming from dreams of that dark chaos, of protesters falling beside me. I just hope no protest in the future spirals into such violence again.
(Editor’s Note: Photojournalist Dipendra Dhungana sustained a rubber bullet injury on September 8, 2025, while covering the Gen Z protest in Kathmandu, Nepal. The demonstration unfolded near the Federal Parliament building in Baneshwor, where thousands of young protesters gathered to denounce corruption and government-imposed restrictions on social media platforms. Dhungana was documenting the confrontation between protesters and security forces when he was struck in the neck by a rubber bullet. He was immediately rushed to Civil Hospital and later transferred to Patan Hospital for further treatment.)
D. Dhungana
View More PostsDipendra Dhungana is a journalist based in Kathmandu with over a decade of experience in photojournalism. His work has been featured in numerous national and international outlets, showcasing the stories and resilience of the Nepali people. He is also a contributing journalist for NepYork.
