Today is September 11, a day that always carries a heaviness. Twenty-four years ago I was an eighteen-year-old freshman at Loyola University Chicago, living alone for the first time, over 4,500 miles from my home in Hawaii. I remember the weight of that morning as the towers fell, the fear that settled over the city, and the quiet streets near campus that felt like the world had stopped. That day became a point of reference in my life—a reminder of how quickly normalcy can collapse, how fragile security can be, and how moments of violence echo far beyond the immediate scene.
I feel that weight again as I look at the unrest in Nepal and the deep fractures in the United States after the assassination of Charlie Kirk. My fascination with Nepal started with Michael Palin’s travelogue and became deeply personal when DNA tests confirmed my ancestral ties to that region. At Edgewater Presbyterian Church, where I serve as a leader, I welcome Hindu, Buddhist, and Muslim Nepali neighbors every day through organizations like Nepalese Aid, the Chicagoland Nepali Friendship Society, and the Nepali Cultural Center Chicago. These connections have given me a window into a culture grappling with generational upheaval.
Nepal’s Gen Z protests began with anger over a sweeping social media ban but quickly revealed something deeper: frustration over systemic corruption, nepotism, inequality, and the slow pace of reform. Demonstrators have clashed with security forces. Dozens are dead, and buildings are in flames. The resignation of Prime Minister K. P. Sharma Oli has done little to calm the anger. What began as opposition to censorship has become a generational outcry for dignity and fairness.
In America, we are facing our own rupture, though the shape of it is different. I was not a fan of Charlie Kirk. He built his brand by stoking cultural and political tensions, and his rhetoric often deepened the divide between conservatives, liberals, and progressives. For many progressives, Kirk’s message signaled an alarming normalization of authoritarian tendencies and Christian nationalism, movements that threaten pluralism and democracy itself. Yet even if I disagreed with almost everything he stood for, his assassination is a major rupture. It is proof that we are descending into a politics where speech is answered with bullets and where ideological enemies are dehumanized.
The reactions to Kirk’s death reflect just how far the divide has widened. His followers see him as a martyr, proof that conservative voices are unsafe in a culture they believe despises them. Progressives see his assassination as a terrifying warning of where unchecked rage can lead, but also fear that his death will be weaponized to justify repression or further violence. Both sides talk past one another, locked into a cycle where distrust of media, institutions, and government only grows. The event has not united the nation in grief; it has fractured us even further.
Nepal’s protests and America’s polarization are not the same, but they rhyme. In both cases, young people are demanding recognition and change. They are angry at entrenched elites and tired of being ignored. They crave justice, opportunity, and authenticity. What worries me most is that both societies are sliding toward extremes: in Nepal, a government that responds to protest with violence; in America, movements that toy with authoritarian rhetoric and vilify entire communities; in both, a digital culture that inflames every conflict and strips away nuance.
I think back to that September morning in 2001, walking along the lakefront in Chicago as fighter jets patrolled the skies. It was a moment when the world felt completely unsafe, but it was also a moment when community mattered. People gathered, prayed, and reached across differences. Today, the crises feel even more complicated. Violence has become not just a reaction to fear but part of the political language itself. Yet if September 11 taught me anything, it’s that fear cannot be allowed to define us.
Nepal stands at a crossroads, and so does America. If Charlie Kirk’s death becomes just another opportunity to vilify our opponents, we will lose even more ground to the forces of authoritarianism. If it becomes a moment to pause and see how hatred has been normalized—not only in one camp but across the entire spectrum—it could help us build something better.
At Edgewater Presbyterian Church, I watch Nepali immigrants of many faiths share space, share meals, share hope. Their resilience reminds me that a multifaith, multicultural society is still possible, but it takes work. It takes leaders who resist the temptation of easy scapegoats, movements that refuse to see opponents as enemies, and communities willing to hold space for grief without turning it into vengeance.
September 11 was a day when I felt the world break open for the first time. Today I feel that rupture again. The protests in Kathmandu and the assassination in Utah may seem far apart, but they are connected by a thread of generational discontent and by the consequences of failing to listen. My hope is that we can choose to hear the cries of this generation before we reach a point where violence becomes the only language left.
