KATHMANDU – The Bhotekoshi River has always been a powerful, restless presence in Nepal, but on August 26, its fury turned deadly. Flash floods tore through the valley, swallowing homes, businesses, and livelihoods, and leaving behind a landscape of mud, debris, and heartbreak. In the immediate aftermath, families frantically searched for missing loved ones. Some waited by the riverbank with hollow eyes; others scrolled through social media hoping for any scrap of news. But instead of comfort, many found something much darker. Their feeds filled with graphic images of bodies and destruction, old disaster videos pretending to be new, AI-generated scenes that never happened, and even fake QR codes asking for donations that would never reach survivors. The flood was already catastrophic enough. Now the digital world was adding its own layers of cruelty. The Nepali government quickly realized that misinformation was not a minor annoyance but a life-threatening complication. False reports could send rescuers to the wrong places, panic could spread faster than the water, and fraud could drain money meant for food, shelter, and medicine. So on August 28, officials from Nepal’s government sat down with representatives from Meta and TikTok, the two social media giants where much of this harmful content was circulating, and demanded urgent action. It was a meeting born not of politics but of desperation, a recognition that in a national crisis, the lies circulating online can hurt as much as the flood itself.
The meeting was led by officials who understood that ordinary internet service providers could not solve the problem on their own. As Bijay Kumar Roy, the coordinator of the government’s social media regulation and management task force and a director at the Nepal Telecommunications Authority, explained, ISPs can only block entire web domains. That is a crude and blunt tool, like trying to stop a leak by knocking down the whole house. The real power to remove individual posts, blur graphic videos, and stop false content from going viral rests with the platforms themselves. So the government made a direct and urgent plea to Meta and TikTok: when officials flag objectionable content, remove it quickly. Do not wait for formal procedures. Do not let the algorithms continue spreading misery while human reviewers decide what to do. The officials also asked the platforms to make their algorithms proactive, so that graphic and deceptive material could be automatically blocked or blurred the moment it is posted. That is a technical request, but behind it is a deeply human one. Every hour that a disturbing video remains visible, a mother may relive the moment she lost her child. Every hour that a fraudulent donation link stays up, a generous stranger may lose money that was supposed to buy blankets for survivors. The officials were not simply asking for better content moderation; they were asking the platforms to show a little compassion in a moment when the nation was hurt and vulnerable.
The scale of the misinformation problem was staggering. In the days after the flood, social media users shared old videos from previous disasters, claiming they were fresh footage from Bhotekoshi. Some videos were not even real events at all; they had been generated by artificial intelligence, with realistic faces, voices, and landscapes that never existed. These AI-synthesized clips were perhaps the most insidious because they looked so authentic. A viewer scrolling through their feed might see a dramatic rescue scene that tugged at their heartstrings, only to later discover it was fabricated by someone far away, playing with algorithms and exploiting grief. The government also found fraudulent QR codes circulating online. These codes were designed to look like official donation channels, but they led nowhere near the relief effort. Instead, they funneled money into private accounts, stealing from the goodwill of people who simply wanted to help. Officials feared that such scams could do more than just steal money; they could erode public trust in genuine humanitarian appeals. If people stopped donating because they were afraid of being scammed, then real survivors would suffer. The misinformation was not just annoying or misleading. It was actively harmful, obstructing rescue operations, confusing relief distribution, and causing additional distress to families who had already lost everything. In some cases, graphic images of victims were shared without consent, deepening the trauma of relatives who had to see their loved ones’ suffering circulated for clicks and attention. The government knew it had to act not only against the content itself, but against the culture of careless sharing that allowed such content to thrive.
Meta and TikTok, for their part, had designated focal points in Nepal through which authorities could report problematic posts. They had been coordinating with officials and removing material after receiving complaints. But the response was not fast enough. Roy said that platforms currently take between 24 and 48 hours to act on reported posts. That delay might not sound enormous in ordinary times, but in the middle of a disaster, it is an eternity. A graphic video can be viewed millions of times in a single hour. A false claim about a rescue or a casualty can spread all over the country before a single fact-checker has even weighed in. A fraudulent QR code can generate thousands of dollars in stolen donations in a day. The officials therefore pushed the companies to shorten their response time dramatically. They also asked the platforms to immediately blur distressing images and videos, particularly those showing victims and the aftermath of the disaster. Blurring would not necessarily remove the content, but it would shield people from being confronted with horrifying material while scrolling. It would give viewers a choice. It would allow survivors, children, and elderly relatives to use social media without being ambushed by images of death and destruction. The request was a plea for human consideration in a digital world that too often prioritizes engagement over empathy. The government was not asking Meta and TikTok to become censors or to suppress legitimate news coverage. It was asking them to recognize that in the middle of a national emergency, restraint, kindness, and speed matter more than ever.
To coordinate these efforts, the government formed a multi-agency team tasked with monitoring and regulating harmful online content during the crisis. The team brought together experts from the Ministry of Communication and Information, the Nepal Telecommunications Authority, and the Ministry of Home Affairs. It included NTA director Bijay Kumar Roy, deputy director Surya Prasad Lamichhane, assistant director Om Prakash Mahato, engineer Kumar Yadav from the communication ministry, and inspector Arun Tamang from the home ministry. Each member had a distinct role. The NTA handled technical coordination with social media platforms, ensuring that requests and takedown notices were sent through the proper channels and that the companies understood the urgency of each case. The Nepal Police, meanwhile, began identifying people suspected of creating or circulating malicious content. They were not just looking at harmless mistakes or uninformed posts; they were tracking those who deliberately manufactured fake videos, launched donation scams, or spread graphic images with malicious intent. Where necessary, the police initiated legal proceedings. This was a delicate balance. In a democratic society, freedom of expression must be protected, and authorities must avoid overreach. But when false information directly threatens public safety, relief efforts, and the mental health of grieving families, some form of intervention becomes necessary. The government’s approach was not to silence criticism or suppress uncomfortable truths, but to stop the most harmful types of abuse: the AI-generated lies, the stolen footage, the fraudulent money schemes, and the gratuitous dissemination of graphic images. By bringing together technical experts, law enforcement, and communications officials, the government hoped to create a coordinated response that could move quickly and effectively in the chaotic aftermath of the flood.
Finally, in a public statement, the Ministry of Communication and Information turned to the people of Nepal themselves. The ministry urged national and local media outlets, as well as ordinary social media users, to stop sharing distressing photographs, unverified reports, and fabricated material. It reminded everyone that information circulating during a crisis can have a huge impact on rescue operations, relief distribution, and public morale. A single false tweet about a road being closed could send aid workers on a dangerous detour. A single fabricated video of a rescue could cause families to travel to the wrong location, wasting precious time and energy. A single graphic image could reopen wounds that had barely begun to heal. The ministry’s appeal was addressed not just to journalists and influencers, but to everyone who has ever been tempted to hit “forward” or “share” without thinking. It asked people to pause, verify, and consider the consequences before reposting anything about the flood. It warned that AI-generated rumors could spread panic, and that graphic material could deepen the trauma suffered by victims’ families, especially when shared without context or permission. The message was simple but profound: in a digital age, compassion must include responsibility. The government did not ask people to stop caring or to stop sharing legitimate information. It asked them to be careful, to double-check sources, and to treat the images and stories of disaster victims with the same dignity and tenderness they would want for their own loved ones. The authorities also encouraged people to verify any request for financial assistance before donating, protecting themselves from scams while still supporting genuine relief efforts. In the end, the fight against misinformation in the Bhotekoshi floods was not just a battle between governments and tech companies. It was a challenge for every person with a smartphone, a reminder that in a crisis, the truth is not just a luxury. It is a lifeline.