1. The Flood of Lies Beneath the Flood of Water
When disaster strikes, the first thing people lose is not their homes, their belongings, or even their loved ones—it is their sense of certainty. In Nepal, after the recent catastrophic floods swept through communities, leaving behind a landscape of mud, debris, and shattered lives, the country found itself facing a second, quieter crisis: a relentless flood of misinformation. Over the past four days, Nepal’s Press Council, the nation’s media regulatory body, has been forced to step in and instruct at least 72 social media users to delete inappropriate or false content, most of it posted through personal accounts. This is not merely a bureaucratic statistic. It represents a profound breakdown in trust at the very moment when people needed clarity the most. The Kathmandu Post reports that the scale and speed of these falsehoods have complicated an already chaotic information environment. While families desperately searched for missing relatives, scrolling through blurry photographs and frantic voice notes, and while authorities struggled to establish the full extent of the disaster, the digital space was being polluted with videos, captions, and claims designed to deceive, provoke, or simply attract attention. In a country where social media has become the primary source of news for millions, the consequences of this deception are not abstract. They are deeply personal. Every false video that circulates is a cruel detour in someone’s search for truth. Every misleading caption is a barrier between a family and the closure they so desperately need. The Press Council’s intervention, though necessary, feels like trying to hold back the ocean with a sieve. But it is a start—and it forces us to ask hard questions about how we consume, share, and trust information in the digital age.
2. When Every Second Counts, Falsehoods Thrive
To understand why misinformation spreads so violently during disasters, we must first understand the emotional state of those who are searching for information. Imagine waking up to news that your village is underwater, that your brother’s phone has been unreachable for hours, that the river has swallowed the bridge you crossed yesterday. You open Facebook, not out of curiosity, but out of desperation. You see a video of a rescue operation, a body being pulled from the mud, a minister arriving at the scene. Your heart races. You share it, hoping someone will recognize the place, the person, the jacket, the shoes. In that moment, you are not being careless. You are being human. The report from The Kathmandu Post describes an information environment in which rumors and unverified claims have moved faster than official confirmations. The authorities, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the disaster, have struggled to provide timely updates. This vacuum has been filled by opportunists, rumor-mongers, and even well-meaning but misguided citizens who share content without checking its origin. The result is a nightmarish hall of mirrors. A video from an old landslide in another district is presented as today’s tragedy. A photograph of a child in a hospital in India is claimed to be a Nepali child awaiting rescue. A voice note warning of a new dam collapse spreads panic, causing people to flee their homes unnecessarily. Each falsehood, no matter how small, has a cost. It occupies the attention of rescue coordinators. It sends police to non-existent emergencies. It gives families false hope, only to crush it later. And it erodes the public’s ability to trust any information at all, even the truth when it finally arrives. In this context, the Press Council’s order to 72 users is not about censorship. It is about protecting the fragile thread of reality in a time of collective trauma.
3. The Case of the Minister in the Tunnel: A Lesson in Deception
The Kathmandu Post highlights a particularly telling example of how misinformation operates in the digital age. At 7:26 am on a Saturday, a Facebook page called Dudhauli FM posted a 20-second video that appeared to show Nepal’s Home Minister, Sudan Gurung, inside a tunnel at the disaster site. The caption praised the minister, describing his “unique style” and claiming that he had “reaches inside the tunnel at the incident site to join the rescue.” It was a flattering portrayal, the kind of content that political supporters love to share. The video quickly spread across Facebook, TikTok, and X, gaining thousands of views, likes, and shares. The only problem? It was not from Nepal. Fact-checkers were able to establish that the footage actually showed a tunnel rescue operation in Uttarakhand, India. The uniforms worn by the rescuers, the equipment, and the surroundings all matched the original footage, which had been posted on the Fire Service Uttarakhand Police’s Facebook page on August 14. The page later amended its caption, but the damage was already done. The video had already been shared countless times, embedded in the minds of viewers who now believed that their Home Minister was crawling through a tunnel to save citizens. Some may have felt pride. Others may have felt reassured. But it was all built on a lie. This incident is a perfect case study in the anatomy of misinformation. It uses a real person, a real disaster, and a real emotional hook—leadership in crisis. It borrows authentic footage from another tragedy and re-contextualizes it. It appeals to political biases, making it more likely to be shared by those who support the minister. And it arrives at a time when people are desperate for heroes. The fact that it was so easily debunked does not matter. By the time the truth arrived, the lie had already served its purpose, whatever that purpose was. Whether it was designed to boost the minister’s image, to attract traffic to a Facebook page, or simply to test the gullibility of the public, it succeeded. And it reminds us that we must always ask: who benefits from this video? Who is speaking, and what do they want me to believe?
4. The Lucrative Business of Disaster
The Dudhauli FM case also reveals a dark truth about the modern attention economy: disasters are profitable. For social media users chasing views, virality, and the elusive algorithm’s favor, floods, earthquakes, and landslides are not just tragedies—they are content. The Kathmandu Post report notes that the floods have become a source of lucrative content. Every shocking video, every dramatic rescue clip, every tearful interview is a commodity. Platforms like Facebook, TikTok, and YouTube reward engagement, not accuracy. A video that sparks outrage or fear will be shown to more people, generating more ad revenue for its creator. In this environment, the line between journalism and exploitation becomes blurred. Some pages, like Dudhauli FM, may simply repurpose old footage, slapping on a new caption to make it relevant. Others go further, creating entirely fabricated stories, using AI-generated images, or distorting statistics. They know that during a disaster, people will watch anything, share anything, believe anything. The victims are not just the people affected by the floods. They are also the viewers who are manipulated, the journalists who have to spend hours debunking nonsense instead of reporting on real needs, and the fact-checkers who work thanklessly to restore order. It is a vicious cycle. Misinformation creates confusion, confusion slows rescue efforts, slow rescue efforts lead to more suffering, and more suffering generates more desperate searching, which in turn creates more opportunities for the purveyors of falsehoods. The Press Council’s directive to 72 users is a small but meaningful step. Yet it raises uncomfortable questions. How many more users are out there, operating without oversight? How many videos are still circulating, unseen by regulators? And how do we teach a generation raised on virality to value truth over attention? The answers are not simple. But the first step is to recognize that the problem is not just technical or legal—it is deeply human.
5. The Fragile Balance Between Regulation and Expression
When a government body like the Press Council steps in to order the removal of content, it is a moment that deserves both caution and understanding. On one hand, there is a clear and pressing need to stop the spread of dangerous misinformation. Lives are at stake. Families are searching for missing relatives, and a single false video can send them on a heartbreaking detour. The Press Council’s action is a form of public protection, much like clearing a road of debris or removing a damaged bridge from service. It is not about silencing dissent; it is about preventing harm. On the other hand, we must remain vigilant about the power of the state to decide what is true and what is false. In less capable hands, a media regulatory body could use a disaster as an excuse to silence legitimate criticism, to punish journalists who expose government failures, or to control the narrative in ways that serve political interests. The balance is delicate. The report notes that most of the 72 users were individuals posting through personal accounts, not established media outlets. This suggests that the Press Council is focusing on egregious falsehoods rather than broad censorship. But it also highlights the immense challenge of regulating social media, where everyone is a publisher and every phone is a printing press. The rules that apply to newspapers and television channels cannot simply be copied onto Instagram and TikTok. What is needed is a culture of responsibility, not just a set of rules. Platforms must do more to flag and remove false content during emergencies. Fact-checkers must be supported and amplified. And citizens must be educated, not just told what to do, but taught how to think. The Press Council’s directive is a reminder that freedom of expression is not absolute—it carries with it the weight of consequences. Every share, every like, every comment is an action in the real world. And in times of disaster, those actions can mean the difference between life and death.
6. Truth as an Act of Compassion
In the end, the story of Nepal’s flood misinformation is not just about videos, captions, or regulatory orders. It is about the fundamental human need to make sense of chaos. When the world falls apart, we reach for information the way we reach for breath. We want to know where the water is, where the help is, who is safe, who is gone. In that desperate search, we are vulnerable. And it is precisely that vulnerability that the spreaders of misinformation exploit. But we are not powerless. We can choose to pause before we share. We can choose to verify before we believe. We can choose to follow sources that are accountable, to support journalism that is rigorous, and to be skeptical of videos that seem too perfect, too flattering, or too convenient. The Press Council’s action against 72 users is a necessary step, but it is not sufficient. The real work must happen in our own minds and in our own digital habits. When you see a video that makes you feel something powerful, ask yourself: where did this come from? Who made it? What do they gain from my reaction? If you cannot answer those questions, do not share it. Instead, share the facts, no matter how boring they seem. Share the official announcements, the verified lists of missing persons, the names of shelters, the numbers for emergency hotlines. That is the content that saves lives. That is the content that honors the victims of the flood. In the coming weeks, as Nepal rebuilds, the water will recede, the mud will dry, and the cameras will move on to the next crisis. But the memory of this moment, the feeling of being deceived while grieving, should remain. We cannot undo the harm that has already been done. But we can promise, as individuals and as a society, to do better. The truth is not just a luxury for peaceful times. It is a lifeline in the darkest hours. Let us hold on to it, for ourselves, for our neighbors, and for the countless unseen people who are still searching for answers in the wreckage.