On September 9, after the sudden resignation of KP Sharma Oli, Nepal was thrown into one of the fastest political shifts in its history. Streets filled with protestors, anger spilled over, and in no time, chaos turned into vandalism. Both public and private properties were destroyed. Amid all this unrest, one fear spread like wildfire: our heritage was burning. Rumors, shaky videos, and posts on social media made it feel as if the heart of our culture was being set on fire.
The first shock came with Singha Durbar. Watching flames rise from the monumental Rana-era palace, which today functions as Nepal’s executive hub, felt almost unreal. It wasn’t the first time tragedy struck there. People still recall the fire of July 9, 1973, when most of its 1,700 rooms and seven courtyards were reduced to ashes. That disaster left only the front wing intact and started nearly half a century of reconstruction. Later, the 2015 Gorkha earthquake battered the palace again. After years of retrofitting, it had just begun to breathe new life. And then, on September 9, 2025, it burned once more.
Debates immediately surfaced. To many, Singha Durbar matters because it’s an administrative hub, not because of its heritage. According to the belief that true heritage must connect deeply with the day-to-day lives of native people, Singha Durbar lacks a link. Yet, legally and historically, the story is different. The Ancient Monument Preservation Act of 1956 clearly defines heritage as any structure more than 100 years old with historical, artistic, or architectural value. By that measure, Singha Durbar is heritage, whether or not it fits our emotional definition. To strip it of that title would be unfair.
As if that wasn’t enough, another video soon flooded people’s feeds: flames rising inside Bhaktapur Durbar Square. The emotional weight was immediate. For many, it was unthinkable that a monument there could be burning. Panic spread faster than confirmation. But later, the truth cut in with a strange sense of irony: the fire was from a public toilet that had been set alight, nothing more.
The very next day brought another blow. In Jawalakhel, the wheel of Rato Machchhindranath’s chariot, the sacred Gha Cha, was found burning. After the Bhoto Jatra, the chariot is dismantled and its parts carefully stored. The wheel’s place is usually inside an old truss shed in Ward No. 4, right next to the police station. That day, protestors had tried and failed to vandalize the police station. Frustrated, they moved to the ward office instead, torching vehicles parked inside. One car had been left too close to the wheel. Flames spread. At first, locals thought it was just a car fire, but as the night wore on, horror dawned; it wasn’t only the car, but also the sacred wheel itself.
Witnesses insist it was a tragic accident. And their point makes sense. The old unused wheels of Machchhindranath, lying openly by the roadside, were untouched. If heritage had been the target, why spare those? The untouched wheels, sitting quietly by the road, tell their own story.
Banepa faced its own heartbreak. Protestors set fire to the ward office, not realizing that inside its storeroom rested priceless artifacts. A sixth-century idol of Surya Dev was later found shattered into pieces from the heat. Alongside it were an idol of Narayan, a scaled-down silver Bhimsen Temple, and several traditional instruments. Their condition remains uncertain, but the loss of Surya Dev was devastating for locals. For them, it wasn’t just an artifact; it was a living symbol of ancestry, broken in front of their eyes.
Yet, in all this destruction, there were moments of defense, too. At the Department of Archaeology, right across from the burning Supreme Court, citizens gathered shoulder to shoulder, forming a human shield. In Patan, locals didn’t wait for orders. They rushed to safeguard Patan Durbar Square and even called in the Nepal Army for help. Thanks to that unity, the monuments stood safe.
In the days after, a strong narrative took hold: heritage was under attack. Photos, videos, rumors, all suggested someone was deliberately targeting culture itself. And to be honest, many of us believed it. We did too, at first. But when the smoke cleared, the truth seemed less like a coordinated assault and more like a series of tragic accidents fueled by neglect.
Think about it. If Singha Durbar hadn’t been tied up as a government office, perhaps it would still have stood unharmed as a palace. If a car hadn’t been parked so close to the sacred wheel, the Gha Cha would have survived. If Banepa’s artifacts had been properly stored with responsible custodians, the idol of Surya Dev might still be whole. Had there been a proper protocol to safeguard heritage during times of crisis, perhaps none of these places would have faced such risk.
So maybe the haunting question is not “Who is attacking our culture?” but “Are we, in our negligence, the ones letting it burn?”
The September fires remind us that heritage is fragile, not just against malice, but also against our own carelessness. Protecting it is not only about reacting in moments of crisis, it’s also about foresight in times of calm. It is about daily responsibility, planning, and respecting the spaces that hold our past.
There’s another lesson too. We humans have a habit of rushing to the darkest conclusion. When we first saw those videos, our mind also jumped to deliberate destruction. And yet, when facts are unclear, that instinct can hurt us. It risks unfairly blaming groups, deepening divides, and leaving scars in our communities. Strong emotions feel natural in such moments, but they can turn neighbors into strangers if left unchecked.
This is why evidence matters. Before we conclude or circulate, we must pause and think. Sometimes, what looks like an attack is really an accident born of neglect. Protecting our heritage is not only about saving temples and palaces from flames, it is also about protecting society from the flames of mistrust.
Yes, September shook Nepal’s political landscape. But maybe the deeper truth it revealed is this: unless we take our role in preserving cultural treasures seriously, we risk losing them, not to enemies, but to ourselves.
