Is Nepal Criminalising Dissent in the Name of Digital Regulation?

Nepal’s Social Media Bill Makes Government Sole Arbiter of Acceptable Speech

By Jyoti Jangra

June 15, 2025

A bill tabled earlier this year in Nepal’s National Assembly to regulate social media platforms remains pending—thankfully so, as it follows a growing trend across South Asia where governments use legislation to enable surveillance, criminalise criticism and consolidate power. What’s needed is for Nepal’s lawmakers to either annul the bill or amend it substantially. In its current form, its vague language and punitive clauses pose a direct threat to democratic freedoms.

The “Bill Related to Operation, Use and Regulation of Social Media in Nepal” claims to regulate the operation of social media platforms, curb the spread of false information and maintain public order. However, the provisions laid out to achieve these goals are both expansive and ill-defined.

Red-Flag Provisions

Section 18 introduces criminal penalties of up to five years in prison or fines of 500,000 Nepali rupees (160 Nepali rupees equal 100 Indian rupees) for content deemed to incite “hatred,” “malice,” or disrupt “national unity, sovereignty, or harmonious relations.” These terms are left undefined, giving authorities wide latitude to interpret critical commentary or opinion as a threat to national interests. For example, a post accusing a politician of corruption or a protest statement against caste-based discrimination could be labelled as malicious or disruptive. In effect, this provision allows the state to equate dissent with criminal intent.

Section 19 addresses cyberbullying and harassment, criminalising acts that cause “mental torture” or involve sending “disparaging messages.” These vague terms risk being applied to legitimate criticism or satire. A journalist exposing administrative failures, or a citizen venting anger at public officials online, could be accused of inflicting mental distress to the officials. Those in power could silence uncomfortable truths by claiming that such speech is emotionally harmful to them.

Section 20 targets cyberstalking, prescribing up to three years in prison or a fine of 500,000 rupees. While intended to address serious harassment, without clear definitions or distinctions, it could also be used to target activists or watchdogs who monitor the actions of public officials. Persistent investigation or public tracking of a politician’s misconduct, even if legal and evidence-based, might be painted as stalking.

Section 21 criminalises “unauthorised” access to identity or information via social media. While this may appear to target hacking, the lack of clarity around what counts as “unauthorised” could be problematic. For example, a whistleblower exposing internal information or a researcher using public data for accountability reporting could face prosecution if authorities interpret their work as unauthorised access.

Section 22 deals with phishing and impersonation, penalising those who fraudulently create identities for deceptive purposes. However, without adequate safeguards, parody accounts or pseudonymous activism could also be swept into its ambit. An anonymous account satirising politicians or critiquing powerful individuals might be accused of impersonation simply for using a symbolic or fictional name.

Section 24 bans the sharing of “grotesque” images, audio or video, with a penalty of up to three months in prison and/or a 50,000-rupee fine. The term “grotesque” – commonly understood to mean something that is repulsively ugly or distorted – is subjective and undefined, raising the risk that disturbing, but newsworthy, visual evidence of state violence or police brutality could be censored under this clause. For instance, footage of a violent crackdown on protestors could be labelled grotesque.

Section 25 punishes the spread of “obscene, false, or misleading” content with up to two years in jail or a 300,000-rupee fine. In practice, this may be used to suppress dissenting narratives or controversial opinions, especially when the government disagrees with how facts are framed. A social media post questioning official data on unemployment or inflation might be dismissed as misleading, even if supported by alternative research.

Section 26 criminalises the uploading or distribution of AI-generated deepfake videos. While addressing a real technological threat, this section could also be exploited if used to target satire or creative expression. If a political parody video uses AI-generated or digitally altered content, which is known as synthetic media, for humour or criticism, authorities could still label it as deceptive and take legal action, even if there was no intent to mislead.

Section 27 targets online anonymity, criminalising the creation or use of anonymous or pseudonymous accounts found to be spreading “false or misleading” information. This directly threatens the rights of whistleblowers, minority activists and vulnerable individuals who rely on anonymity for safety. A Dalit rights page run anonymously or a queer support group operating under pseudonyms could face criminal charges if their posts are labelled misleading by the state.

Section 28 introduces harsher penalties under certain conditions, compounding the risks posed by earlier sections. Repeat offenders are subject to double the standard punishment. Public officials or those receiving government funds can face up to 50 percent more punishment than others for the same offence. Offences involving children carry an additional one-year sentence. While designed to escalate penalties in serious cases, the provision also amplifies the impact of already vague laws—meaning anyone prosecuted under dubious interpretations of the earlier sections could face disproportionately severe consequences if they are accused more than once or connected to a public institution.

If passed, the bill would make the government the sole arbiter of acceptable speech in Nepal’s digital space.

Political Context

The political context in which this bill has emerged must also be considered. Public frustration with Nepal’s political leadership has been rising, particularly over corruption, unemployment and failures in governance. There has been a pattern of legal measures being introduced just as online criticism intensifies.

The government introduced the Information Technology Management Bill in 2019, at a time of widespread public discontent over corruption, like in the Melamchi Water Supply Project, and failures in delivering essential services like water and sanitation. The measure was similarly criticised for using vague terms like “morality” and “decency” to curb dissent.

In November 2023, TikTok was banned nationwide—ostensibly to prevent the spread of indecent content—but the move coincided with growing online anger among young people over rising prices and government inaction. Officials claimed it was a step to preserve “social harmony,” but the timing suggested a political motive.

South Asian Déjà Vu

Nepal’s move is unsurprising; it’s a familiar South Asian déjà vu.

In 2021, India’s updated IT Rules gave the government the power to order content takedowns from platforms like X and Facebook without independent oversight. During the farmers’ protests and COVID-19 debates, hundreds of posts critical of government policy were removed. Authorities also sought access to encrypted messaging platforms for traceability, leading to blocked accounts and growing censorship.

In Bangladesh, the 2018 Digital Security Act criminalised vaguely defined speech such as “propaganda” against the state or “hurting religious sentiments.” The law enabled mass arrests and shutdowns, targeting journalists, students, and activists—particularly in the lead-up to elections.

In 2016, the Maldives passed the Anti-Defamation and Freedom of Expression Act, which reinforced criminal defamation laws already used to silence the media and opposition voices. The law made it a punishable offence to criticise public figures, tightening control over public discourse.

Seen in this light, the latest bill appears to follow a South Asian template—to pre-empt dissent and neutralise the threat of a vocal, connected citizenry, all in the name of tackling digital risks.

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