On September 8, as demonstrations escalated in Kathmandu, schools closest to the turmoil were forced to act quickly. Teachers became guardians, students huddled in classrooms, and parents waited anxiously. What followed was more than a return to routine: schools became spaces of recovery, where educators, counsellors, and families helped children feel safe enough to learn again.

At Kavya School in New Baneshwar, Vice Principal Nisha Giri remembers how quickly a normal day shifted into crisis. “When the curfew was announced, our students were still in classes,” she says. “We immediately responded with an emergency ‘stay-in-place’ order.”

Students were kept inside, given food, and not allowed to leave until staff could ensure safe passage home. Each bus carried a teacher as guardian, while student service officers remained in constant contact with parents. Only after calm returned to the streets were classes shifted online, with exams postponed to ease academic pressure. The school’s psychological counsellor was made available to students as needed.

“All in all, the school did undergo a traumatic experience as a part of the collective,” Giri says, “but we have been successful in ensuring the safety and well-being of our students.”

At Pathshala Nepal Foundation, also based in New Baneshwar, administrators decided to prepare the staff before supporting students. Counsellor Anjani Khadka explains, “On Sunday, we first called the teachers and gave them an orientation. We too were traumatised by the event, not just the students.”

Teachers were trained to notice signs of distress: changes in behaviour, sleep, or communication, and to listen to parents who reported concerns. They also practised simple grounding techniques to help bring children back to the present moment. Even drivers, guards, and canteen workers were included, as every adult was considered part of the support system.

“In class, students may have many questions,’’ Khadka says. ‘‘Teachers were told to answer only what’s age-appropriate in a sensible way. Right now their focus is not on the syllabus but on helping students return to the present.”

Counsellors in other schools also noticed that the protests left a mark, even if children seemed outwardly resilient. At GEMS School, psychologist Pallawi Ghimire says she and the Vice Principal spoke about mental and physical well-being during assembly. Students were reminded that help was available and they could approach the school if needed.

Most students, Ghimire observed, were quick to adapt. “Children’s resilience in this context is very high, mostly from grades 6 to 10,” she says. “Students know why the protest happened and that it was for change so awareness helped them cope.”

Still, some needed closer attention. Two or three children living near the homes of political leaders reported difficulty sleeping and irritability. Through daily counselling, these signs have been gradually decreasing. “Listening to the students who experienced it firsthand, they talked about it in sad and adventurous ways,” Ghimire notes.

At Silver Mountain School of Hotel Management, the Sambhavya Group—a mental health organisation—was already working with students on resilience. After the protest, its interventions became central. Their approach includes classroom interventions for awareness, focus group sessions for targeted needs, and individual counseling.

Sayujya N Ranjitkar, program manager at Sambhavya, explains that they recently held a classroom session titled ‘Caring for Yourself Amidst Uncertainty: Creating Hopeful Pathways’. The session emphasised elements of psychological first aid—promoting calmness, safety, hope, and connection—while encouraging students to share worries openly.

Ranjitkar adds that teaching resilience—encouraging students to recognise personal strengths and to see help-seeking as a form of self-empowerment is a key. Sambhavya is now conducting a post-crisis needs assessment to plan further support.

For students, the day itself remains etched in memory.

Raman Khatri, a 13-year-old ninth grader at Pathshala, remembers sitting in class as the noise from the street grew louder. “Since we were near Baneshwar, our teachers showed us videos explaining what happens during protests but told us to remain calm,” he recalls. Students were kept together, engaged in games like UNO and cosplay while gunshots echoed outside.

The following week, classes resumed online, with counselling woven into the sessions. “From Monday, we were told to join online classes, and in it, we were also given counselling,” he says. After parents complained about the delay in reopening, the school resumed in-person classes by Tuesday.

Another student from Siddhartha Academy, 13-year-old eighth grader Bedant Joshi, says the transition back to school felt manageable despite the disruption. “Despite having my exam pushed it didn’t feel difficult to go back to school,” he explains. “It does feel sad but maybe because I was not involved in the protest, it was easy and I’m happy about the new interim government.”

For some, however, the memories are far more unsettling. Ishan Kafle, 17, experienced the tragedy of loss. “I was in my school on that day, and my father came to take me,” he says. “When I reached home, I found out that my cousin brother Bimal Bhatta had died due to a gunshot. My parents left to be with relatives, and I was with my sister alone. I didn’t feel like eating for a few days, but I’ve been going to school regularly.”

These experiences reflect a range of responses—from fear, sadness, and loss to resilience, courage, and hope—showing how young people navigate trauma while gradually reclaiming safety and possibility.

Parents, too, were left balancing fear with the need for continuity. Sending children back meant confronting difficult questions about safety.

Neha Prasai, a mother of a secondary-level student, says she was hesitant at first. “For the first few days, I went every morning to drop him off, returned at noon with his tiffin and checked in, and came early in the afternoon to pick him up. Hopefully, with time, I’ll stop panicking.”

For Madhu Khadka, another parent, the fear was strongest in the first days. “As soon as we got to know about gunshots, the school called us to ask to take the children if possible, or they would safely drop them home. I was scared, especially after hearing how nearby houses were being burnt in Baneshwar.

The teachers immediately made a Viber group to update us, which gave me some relief. She adds her child has since behaved normally. “He understands study is important, and his father encourages him to be with friends, not alone, and to keep going to school.”

Even as Kathmandu returns to normal, educators say the work is far from over. Healing takes time, and school roles extend beyond academics. Teachers and counsellors continue monitoring students, while parents are urged to communicate about any changes they see at home.

Aashish Thapa Magar, former chief operating officer at Xavier International School, who has also served at several IB schools, says mental health support has been central. The priority was to address students’ questions. “Many noticed that protesters were wearing school or college uniforms, so we began with group discussions and offered individual counselling,” he explains. “For now, the focus is less on rushing academics and more on engagement through sports activities.”

For schools, the task now is not just to resume exams or complete syllabi, but to ensure classrooms feel safe. As Khadka of Pathshala says, “The focus is not on teaching quickly but on helping children settle down.”

The September 8 protest may have lasted hours, but its effects linger in schools, families, and young minds. For some students, it was the first time they saw unrest so close to their daily lives; for teachers, it was a moment of being called into roles far beyond instruction.

In classrooms today, lessons continue—but they are also about listening, grounding, and reassurance. Amid uncertainty, schools are carrying out the slow and steady work of helping children return to a fragile, but necessary, normalcy.