On a bright Thursday morning in Balkhu, the corridors of the Central Department of Journalism and Mass Communication at Tribhuvan University buzzed with an unusual energy. Students, lecturers, media professionals, content creators, and social media influencers gathered in the same hall, not for a typical academic lecture, but for something more contemporary and urgent: a masterclass on journalism and digital storytelling hosted by TikTok in collaboration with the department. The event, simply titled the TikTok Masterclass on Journalism and Digital Storytelling, was never meant to be a passive seminar. From the moment it began, it became a lively, sometimes tense, forum where the promise of new media collided with the anxieties of the people who create, consume, and critique content every day. The atmosphere reflected a broader truth about modern communication—that digital platforms have transformed journalism forever, but with that transformation comes a host of unresolved questions about money, fairness, safety, and truth. Over the course of the day, four distinct sessions unfolded: a masterclass on modern journalism and storytelling, a trust and safety session on misinformation and responsible content, a panel discussion on the future of journalism, and a session on newsroom experience and content creation. Each segment brought its own revelations, but the most memorable moments were not the prepared presentations; they were the questions from the audience—sharp, personal, and often uncomfortable.
The opening session offered a sense of creative possibility. Karan Parihar, a Dubai-based content creator, took the stage to demonstrate how journalists and storytellers can use TikTok’s built-in features to engage audiences in ways that traditional media rarely can. He spoke about visual rhythm, emotional hooks, and the importance of meeting viewers where they already are—on their phones, scrolling through an endless feeds. For the journalism students in the room, it was a refreshing reminder that news does not have to be stiff or institutional; it can be vivid, personal, and immediate. But the optimism of the morning faded somewhat during the second session, when Sarika Iqbal, TikTok’s communications and public relations officer, joined via Zoom to discuss trust and safety, misinformation, and responsible content creation. Her presentation was professional, polished, and reassuring in tone. She emphasized the importance of following TikTok’s Community Guidelines, using audience-content preference features, and understanding the platform’s transparency mechanisms concerning restricted accounts. Yet the moment she finished, hands went up across the hall. Participants wanted to know about algorithmic bias, about children spending too many hours on the app, and about the terrifying speed at which false information can spread. On the issue of child safety, Iqbal stressed that the company takes the protection of young users seriously and pointed to measures such as screen-time limitations and child-friendly policies. It was a reasonable answer, but the room was not entirely satisfied. A deeper anxiety lingered beneath the questions: can any set of platform policies actually protect children from harmful content when enforcing age restrictions at scale is so difficult, and when user-generated videos pour in by the millions every day?
The conversation then turned to misinformation, and here the mood became even more complicated. In Nepal, TikTok has evolved from a source of entertainment into a place where many people get their news, sometimes without realizing it. As a result, the spread of manipulated content, hateful speech, and misleading claims has become a serious public concern. According to research by the Centre for Media Research Nepal, 2.94 percent of misinformation during the 2025 general election was spread directly through TikTok. That figure might seem small at first glance, but in a country of millions, translated into viral videos, fake captions, and manipulated clips, it represents a significant flow of falsehoods into the public domain. Participants pressed the platform on how it detects and prevents misleading content, especially when politically sensitive material can go viral before editors or algorithms have a chance to act. Kiran Chapagain, TikTok’s government relations and public policy officer for Nepal, responded by noting that TikTok was the only social media platform to have collaborated with the Election Commission in efforts to combat misinformation during the election. It was an important point, and a meaningful step, but the broader questions remained unresolved. Several participants raised the situation of rural users, many of whom lack digital literacy and are more vulnerable to manipulated videos and misleading narratives. The platform has begun conducting literacy programmes in Kathmandu, where access to information is comparatively greater, but similar initiatives are arguably needed much more urgently in remote and underserved communities. The discussion highlighted a painful irony: the same platform that democratizes storytelling, giving a voice to the voiceless and the camera to the marginalized, can also amplify rumors, fear, and confusion in places where people have the fewest resources to verify what they see.
The afternoon panel discussion brought these tensions into sharper focus. Chaired by Dr. Shreeram Paudel, a lecturer at CDJMC, the panel included Chapagain, Prateek Pradhan, editor-in-chief of Baahrakhari, and Roneeshma Shrestha, a television host and content creator. For those in the audience, the panel was an opportunity to hear from both the platform’s representatives and seasoned media professionals. Dr. Paudel spoke about the academic side of the transformation, explaining that Tribhuvan University has already introduced subjects such as AI in Journalism, Combating Misinformation, and Digital Media at the Master’s level. But he pushed further, arguing that artificial intelligence and digital media should receive far more attention in MPhil and PhD programmes as well. “The university is becoming digital gradually; however, there is a greater need to include AI and digital media in MPhil and PhD programmes,” he said. This call for institutional evolution was reinforced by an announcement from Prof. Dr. Kundan Aryal, Head of the Department, who joined the programme later and revealed that the department would be starting a postgraduate programme in content creation and digital production. It was a genuinely hopeful development, a sign that journalism education in Nepal is beginning to take digital media seriously as a legitimate field of study and practice. Pradhan, however, brought the conversation back to ethics. He stressed that authenticity matters more than speed in digital journalism. “With the rapid use of smartphones, everyone has become a journalist. Although the medium has changed, journalistic processes and ethical responsibilities remain unchanged,” he said, emphasizing the need for verification before publication. His words resonated in a room full of future journalists, many of whom face immense pressure to break news quickly in an age where the first report often outranks the true report. In that environment, Pradhan’s message was a powerful reminder that the fundamental values of journalism—accuracy, fairness, accountability—do not change just because the delivery system has.
But perhaps the most emotional and revealing moments of the day came not from the official presentations or the academic panel, but from the content creators themselves, who used the open forum to voice frustrations that had clearly been building for a long time. One young creator stood up and described a painful situation: he had produced a video that received five million views, a remarkable achievement, yet he had received no revenue from TikTok at all. He pointed out that other platforms, such as Facebook, have begun sharing advertising revenue with creators, and he asked why TikTok, which derives enormous value from its users’ creativity, was not doing the same in Nepal. Another participant raised the issue of copyright infringement. He explained that he creates original content, investing time, effort, and creativity into every post, only to see other users steal his videos, sometimes even removing his watermark and presenting his work as their own. His frustration was palpable. He said he had reported several cases of piracy five months earlier, but TikTok had not yet responded. Standing in front of platform officials, his question seemed less like a complaint and more like a plea for basic fairness. Monetisation, after all, is not just about money; it is also about acknowledgment and respect for labour. When creators spend hours planning, filming, and editing, only to see their work disappear into the giant content machine without compensation or protection, it reveals a deep imbalance between the platform and the people who power it. Chapagain addressed the monetisation issue by explaining that creators in Nepal currently have the option to earn money through TikTok Live, a feature that allows audiences to send virtual gifts during live broadcasts. But for many creators, especially those working on thoughtful, pre-produced content rather than live interactions, that response felt incomplete. The absence of a clear, accessible grievance mechanism for copyright issues remained a glaring concern, and the room seemed to collectively recognize that the platform still has a long way to go in building trust with the very communities that make it successful.
By the end of the day, the masterclass had become something more than a workshop; it was a mirror reflecting the complex relationship between technology, journalism, and society in Nepal today. On one hand, TikTok offers an extraordinary opportunity for storytellers to reach new audiences, bypassing the traditional gatekeepers of media and creating a more inclusive public square. Young people, women, rural voices, and marginalized communities can now tell their own stories, shape their own narratives, and challenge established powers in ways that were unimaginable just a decade ago. The platform’s willingness to engage with students and professionals at CDJMC is itself a sign that it wants to be part of the solution, not just the problem. But the event also exposed how much work remains. The same platform can enable misinformation, exploit creative labour, confuse vulnerable users, and expose children to harmful content. The questions from the audience were not hostile; they were hopeful in their own way. They implied that the participants believed TikTok could do better, and that its immense reach could be harnessed for education, democracy, and creative expression. The challenge lies not in abandoning social media, but in holding it accountable through transparent policies, fair monetisation, stronger content moderation, genuine copyright protection, and literacy initiatives that extend beyond Kathmandu to the farthest corners of Nepal. For journalism students in that hall, the masterclass was a reminder that the future of their profession will not be defined only by software algorithms or viral trends, but by their own commitment to truth, ethics, and responsible storytelling. The platform will continue to evolve, and so will the questions. But at least, on that Thursday, in a crowded academic hall in Balkhu, the conversation had begun—and that was a promising first step.