When Digital Repression Backfires

When governments block or restrict access to social media, the backlash is often swift. Blocking or limiting access to social media is rarely just an issue of censorship or content moderation; it forms part of a broader toolkit of digital repression, where states can also employ surveillance, disinformation, targeted arrests, and connectivity disruptions to shape the public information space and discourse. The effectiveness of such measures depends on the states’ ability to strategically calibrate their actions, particularly in terms of their timing, scope, and the constituencies they affect. Overreach often breeds backlash rather than enhancing the states’ control, and the blunt instrument of banning platforms is uniquely risky. 

In times of rising stress and uncertainty, people increasingly turn to social media for connection, entertainment, and as a means of escape from the harshness of daily life. These platforms are no longer mere tools for communication, but extensions of social reality. A recent episode of “Gen Z protests” in Nepal underscores the danger of restricting access to social media. Ahead of the demonstrations, the government banned 26 major platforms, including Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, X, and YouTube, claiming that they had failed to comply with new registration requirements. At first glance, the move appeared to be a legitimate regulatory step. In practice, it hit the very demographic the government could least afford to alienate. Those born roughly between 1996 and 2012 — commonly described as Gen Z — comprise about one-third of Nepal’s population. They are the country’s most educated, connected, and globally exposed generation, shaped by migration, digital labour, and social media culture. To many of them, the platforms are not just news sources, but their cultural and economic lifeline, political arena, and emotional refuge.

The government’s denial of that access sparked fury, igniting discontent that had been simmering even before the ban. Youth unemployment hovered around 20 per cent, inflation was rising, and chronic corruption eroded public trust. The “nepo-kids” controversy, where elites’ children flaunted wealth online, further deepened resentment toward political privilege.

This was not Nepal’s first run-in with blowback from excessive digital control. Authorities had intermittently blocked critical websites since the mid-2010s and invoked cybercrime laws to curb online speech. Given this history, the 2025 shutdown seemed familiar, but by cutting off the platforms central to youth identity and livelihoods, the state misjudged the political economy of digital life.

The backlash was immediate. Tens of thousands of young people took to the streets of Kathmandu and other cities, mobilising through virtual private networks (VPNs) and encrypted apps. Protests quickly broadened from access to accountability, linking the ban to corruption and elite privilege. Confrontations with security forces left at least 34 dead and over 1,000 injured. Ultimately, the protests forced Prime Minister K. P. Sharma Oli to resign. A measure meant to reinforce domestic stability instead exposed the fragility of state legitimacy. 

… while Southeast Asian governments possess the technical means to impose sweeping digital repression, full shutdowns remain rare. Shutting off major digital outlets risks economic disruption, international condemnation, and loss of public trust.

Southeast Asia offers parallel lessons on the importance of calibrating the use of digital repression tools. When the Thai military seized power in 2014, it already commanded the country’s information landscape; researchers documented efforts to suppress online dissent prior to the takeover. Yet, the generals understood that their core support among middle-class urbanites was dependent on uninterrupted connectivity for both business and leisure. Although they aggressively censored critics, they avoided a full shutdown. When Facebook was blocked for an hour within a week after the coup, the outcry was so strong that authorities blamed it on a “technical glitch” and retreated from threats of further shutdowns. The calculus was clear: antagonising one’s base would have been politically self-defeating. 

Myanmar’s military, by contrast, leaned heavily on shutdowns following its February 2021 coup. Through legal means, it repeatedly cut Internet access and blocked platforms, especially Facebook, long considered the country’s digital town hall. The stated aim was to curb “fake news” and “incitement”, but the real intent was to cripple protest coordination. Instead, the blackouts stoked resentment and pushed the opposition toward encrypted apps and Starlink. The connection cut-offs also hardened anti-junta sentiment. Four years into the civil war, the blackout strategy has failed to deliver control. 

Indonesia’s protests in August 2025 revealed a subtler variation of digital repression. Demonstrations against parliamentary perks and police violence coincided with TikTok’s temporary suspension of its “live” feature. The company cited safety concerns, but the timing mirrored government calls for stricter content oversight. Critics argued that curbing livestreaming conveniently shielded security forces from scrutiny. What looked like technical moderation was actually congruent with a more insidious political objective: limiting the visibility of state violence. 

These regional cases illustrate the fact that while Southeast Asian governments possess the technical means to impose sweeping digital repression, full shutdowns remain rare. Shutting off major digital outlets risks economic disruption, international condemnation, and loss of public trust. To compound matters, digital repression often misfires. Instead of silencing dissent, it deepens frustration, galvanises resistance, and erodes legitimacy. This raises a larger concern: social media platforms are no longer neutral intermediaries but powerful political actors. They are no longer passive hosts of content but institutions capable of galvanising citizens in their defence. 

Ultimately, digital repression is a political choice, not just a technical one. Effective regimes calibrate coercive measures to preserve their base while clumsy ones overreach. The lesson for policymakers is simple but urgent: understand the social foundations of connectivity before wielding control over it. In the politics of digital repression, knowing one’s audience can mean the difference between maintaining order and igniting revolt. 

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