When Manju Sardar boarded her flight from Kuwait at the end of August 2025, she was brimming with anticipation. After two years away working as a domestic helper, she was finally home in Itahari, Nepal, eager to celebrate the upcoming Dashain and Tihar festivals with her husband, Mohan, and their two young daughters. The family had plans—decorating their unfinished new house, making rangoli for Goddess Laxmi, and, most importantly, simply being together under one roof. But in a matter of days, her world unraveled in a way she could never have imagined.
On September 9, 2025, as Mohan Sardar left for a routine medical follow-up for a hand injury, he promised his wife he’d be back soon. He never returned. According to The Kathmandu Post, Mohan, a 40-year-old construction worker, was caught in the chaos of the Gen Z protest in Itahari. Police opened fire to disperse a crowd attempting to set the Area Police Office ablaze. As Mohan passed near the Itahari Sub-Metropolitan Office, a bullet struck him in the back. He was rushed to BP Koirala Institute of Health Sciences in Dharan, but doctors could only pronounce him dead on arrival.
For Manju, the festivals lost all meaning. The rest of Aadarsha Tol, their neighborhood, moved on—lights still shimmered from houses, and the air remained festive. But for the Sardar family, their own home, still unplastered and unpainted, stood dark and silent. "Even stepping outside feels suffocating," Manju told The Kathmandu Post. "These colourful lights, this festive air, they sting my eyes. It feels like everyone has moved on from the tragedy, and life is back to normal for them. But I’m still stuck on that fateful day."
The couple had been married eight years, raising their daughters—Aakriti, 5, and Aarohi, 7—on Mohan’s Rs30,000 monthly construction wage and the money Manju sent from abroad. Manju’s plan was to return to Kuwait after her two-month leave, hoping to save enough to finish their house and secure a better future for their daughters. Now, she’s left with impossible questions. "How can I leave my two little daughters, who have just lost their father? But staying here, where am I supposed to get a job? How will we survive?" she wondered aloud.
The children, still too young to understand, ask the same heartbreaking question every day: "Baba khai mero?"—Where’s my dad? The adults can only tell them their father has gone away for work, but the truth weighs heavily on Manju. "I’m terrified of that question," she admitted. "I can’t look my daughters in the eye. How am I supposed to explain?"
For two years, Mohan had been both father and mother to the girls—waking early, cooking, getting them ready for school, and waiting for them to return home. This recent holiday was the first time in years the family had all been together. "It feels like they were never meant to have both parents at once. First, we were apart because we were working in two countries, both of us struggling so our daughters could have a better life. We thought the separation was temporary, that one day we’d all be together again," Manju said. "But that hope has been shattered."
On October 23, 2025, Manju found the courage to speak publicly at a commemorative Bhaitika event organized by Gen Z groups at Miatighar Mandala, honoring those killed in the protests. "I had never spoken in public like this before. I was afraid, but to get justice for my husband’s killing and for the future of my children, I had to speak. Seeing other families of the deceased gave me the courage to raise my voice as well," she shared with The Kathmandu Post.
Manju has received the compensation promised to families of those killed during the Gen Z protests, but she is clear-eyed about its limitations. "I have received that money, but it can never replace the life of my husband or the father of my children," she said. She now calls on the government to investigate the killings and support families like hers—not just with compensation, but with sustainable opportunities. "I am now a single mother with no income and I also cannot go abroad leaving my children alone. That compensation can’t sustain us forever. I need to earn. I hope the government can support families like mine by providing jobs and quality education for my daughters. That is all I want."
While Manju’s story is a personal tragedy, it echoes the broader turmoil in Nepal following the Gen Z uprising in September 2025. According to The Kathmandu Post, at least seven to eight Gen Z groups are currently negotiating with the government to sign an accord that would give legitimacy to the movement. The draft, which is about 70 percent complete as of October 25, is expected to be finalized within a week. Ajaya Bhadra Khanal, chief adviser to Prime Minister Sushila Karki, is coordinating talks on the government’s side, aiming to institutionalize Gen Z’s demands and clarify their vision for Nepal’s political future.
Gen Z leaders, including Ojaswi Thapa and Rijan Rana, have emphasized that the accord is not just for their generation, but for all Nepali citizens. The document lays out demands for corruption control, investigation into the September 8-9 protests, and support for the families of those killed or injured. "Our demands are related to Nepali citizens, not only Gen Z. This documentation is for the Nepali people. It gives legitimacy to our movement," Thapa told The Kathmandu Post.
The Gen Z groups want the accord signed in the presence of President Ramchandra Paudel, though the President has signaled that signing such documents is not within his official role. Still, a compromise is being sought: the accord may be signed between the government and Gen Z representatives, with the President present as a witness. The government is expected to endorse the text through the Cabinet, paving the way for this historic agreement.
Drawing parallels to the 2006 Comprehensive Peace Accord that ended a decade-long Maoist insurgency, both sides see this accord as a potential blueprint for Nepal’s future. The Gen Z draft includes calls for a new act to govern the Commission for the Investigation of Abuse of Authority, and the formation of a commission to address the needs of bereaved families and the injured. A bill on corruption control has already been tabled in Parliament, signaling the government’s willingness—at least in part—to address the movement’s demands.
On the political front, Gen Z leaders are not seeking to overturn Nepal’s republican setup but are pushing for a referendum on the political system, reflecting a widespread desire for change. "We are in favour of institutionalising the changes of all past movements and revolutions," Rana stated, underscoring that the fundamentals of the constitution—proportional representation, multi-party democracy, republicanism, federalism, and secularism—are non-negotiable.
For Manju Sardar and others like her, these negotiations are more than political theater—they are a lifeline. The outcome will determine whether the families shattered by the September protests will receive justice, support, and hope for the future. As Nepal stands on the cusp of potentially transformative change, the voices of those most affected—widows, orphans, and the wounded—are finally being heard. Whether the accord will bring lasting relief remains to be seen, but for now, the struggle continues, both at the negotiating table and in the quiet, unfinished homes of families like the Sardars.
