There was a familiar fire in Pushpa Kamal Dahal’s voice as he stood before the central committee of the All Nepal Peasants’ Federation in Kathmandu on Friday. The Communist Party of Nepal (CPN) chairman, better known to the world as Prachanda, was not there to deliver a dry policy speech or a routine political report. He was there to push back against what he saw as a deeply unfair and dangerous rewriting of history. His anger was palpable, his words sharp, and his target unmistakable: a generation of younger voices, amplified by social media algorithms, who have been saying that the old political parties and leaders of Nepal have done nothing in thirty-five years except spoil everything. For a man who has spent his entire adult life in revolution, governance, and the messy business of nation-building, that narrative is not just an insult—it is a betrayal of memory. He told the assembled peasant leaders and cadres that this narrative is being pushed by what he called “imperialist American stooges,” people who, in his view, are using digital platforms to manipulate public perception and erase the contributions of an entire generation of political struggle. The room, filled with loyal party workers and farmer representatives, listened as he challenged the very algorithms that now decide what people remember and what they forget.
Prachanda’s defense of the old political leadership was not abstract. He came armed with names, roads, and decisions, and he wanted the peasants to understand that the physical infrastructure they now take for granted did not appear out of thin air. He asked, almost incredulously, who made the decision to construct the Mid-Hilly Highway, the ambitious road that cuts across the middle hills of Nepal and connects far-flung districts. Who decided to build the North-South Corridor, the strategic link that promises to transform trade and mobility? Who initiated the construction of the Madan Bhandari Highway, named after the legendary communist leader? And who advanced the work on the Hulasi Highway in the Terai, the flat southern belt that feeds the nation? His answer was clear: these decisions were made during the tenure of old political leadership, by parties and leaders who are now being dismissed as useless. He was not claiming that everything was perfect or that no mistakes were made. But he was insisting that the record must be set straight. The highways, the corridors, the bridges, the roads—these are not accidents. They are the results of political will, difficult negotiations, and years of struggle. And to hear young people say that nothing was done, he argued, is to ignore the very foundations upon which Nepal’s modern development is being built.
The energy sector, however, was where Prachanda’s pride truly shone through. He recalled that a comrade had recently said that the old leaders did nothing in energy, and he rejected that claim with visible emotion. For him, energy is not just a technical issue; it is a national liberation project. He reminded the meeting that it was during his tenure that the concept of electricity production and export was seriously embraced, and that the dreaded load shedding—the hours of darkness that once plagued Nepali homes and businesses—was brought to an end. He spoke of the vision of exporting ten thousand megawatts of electricity, a dream that once seemed impossible but is now becoming a tangible reality. He called for an energy revolution within the country, arguing that Nepal’s rivers and hydropower potential are a great asset, perhaps the greatest asset the nation possesses. His voice rose as he asked who ended load shedding, who pushed the idea that Nepal could become an energy exporter rather than a permanently power-starved nation. The implication was unmistakable: the old leadership, including himself, had not only thought about these things but had acted on them. He wanted the peasants to understand that the lights that now burn in their villages, the electric stoves in their kitchens, and the factories humming in the cities are all part of a legacy that should be celebrated, not erased by a hashtag or a viral video.
But Prachanda’s anger was not just about roads and electricity. It was about the deeper politics of memory and influence. He pointed to social media algorithms as a tool of manipulation and conspiracy, saying that these digital systems have been used to create a false consciousness among the people. In his view, the narrative that old parties and leaders have done nothing is not a spontaneous expression of public frustration; it is a manufactured campaign, orchestrated by forces that want to destabilize Nepal and weaken its sovereign political traditions. By calling these forces “imperialist American stooges,” he was invoking a Cold War vocabulary that still resonates in Nepal’s leftist circles, but he was also making a contemporary argument about the power of technology to shape political reality. He warned that when people spend hours on social media, scrolling through memes and short videos that mock politicians and reduce complex history to caricature, they begin to believe that the past was a complete failure. He insisted that this is not just wrong; it is dangerous. If a nation forgets what its leaders and parties actually did, he argued, it becomes vulnerable to new forms of domination, whether economic, cultural, or political. The meeting hall, filled with farmers who have seen the changes in their own villages, seemed to absorb his words with a mix of agreement and concern.
His instruction to the leaders and cadres gathered there was therefore not just a political tactic; it was a call to defend the collective memory of the nation. He told them to publicize the positive work that has been done, to speak loudly and clearly about the achievements of the old and established political parties, and to refuse to let their contributions be ignored. He urged them to go back to their villages and districts with a new mission: not just to organize and mobilize, but to educate. They must tell the young people who have never known the darkness of load shedding that there was a time when the entire country was plunged into blackouts, and that it was political struggle and leadership that brought the light. They must tell the farmers who now use the Mid-Hilly Highway to transport their goods that this road was not a gift from foreign donors or a lucky accident, but the result of decisions made by leaders who are now mocked and dismissed. He acknowledged that no political party is perfect, and that mistakes have been made, but he insisted that the balance sheet of thirty-five years is not one of failure. It is a record of struggle, survival, and significant achievement. And he wanted his party workers to be proud of that record, to defend it, and to build upon it, rather than allowing a new generation to believe that they are starting from zero.
In the end, Prachanda’s speech was a reflection of a deeper anxiety that haunts many veteran politicians around the world: the fear of being forgotten, or worse, being remembered only as a villain. He is not the first revolutionary leader to watch his legacy being contested in real time, and he will not be the last. But his words in Kathmandu on Friday were a reminder that history is never settled; it is always being rewritten, often by those who were not there to live it. The challenge he posed to the peasants’ federation was simple: do not let the algorithms write our history. Do not let the cynics and the stooges define what we did or did not do. Instead, go out and tell the story of the highways built, the electricity generated, the load shedding ended, and the foundations laid. It was a speech filled with anger, yes, but also with a kind of desperate hope—a hope that the people who benefited from those decisions will remember, and that the young will learn to see the past not as a wasteland of failure, but as a difficult journey that made the present possible. Whether that message will survive the relentless churn of social media is another question. But for one afternoon, in a meeting hall in Kathmandu, a veteran leader stood up and demanded that the record be set straight, not with arrogance, but with the pride of a man who believes that he and his generation did, in fact, change Nepal.