In January, a skirmish broke out in the correction centre in Bhaktapur, leaving eight juveniles and 22 police personnel injured. This followed arson, clashes and vandalism. As a result, all male juveniles were hastily transferred to other facilities across the Kathmandu Valley, their previous home rendered uninhabitable. The smoke that billowed from the Sanothimi correction centre was a searing indictment of the very concept of rehabilitation in Nepal. That incident is not an isolated one. Similar cases of abject failure of detention centres, rooted in institutional neglect, break into the news cycle every month. In August last year, the same facility was the site of a violent clash involving nearly 300 juvenile inmates following the mysterious death of a minor, an event that left 35 people injured and saw 221 juveniles flee into the night. From Banke to Birgunj, the story remains the same: ‘Correction centres’ that have morphed into warehouses for human misery, where the air is thick with resentment and the floors are overcrowded with the discarded futures of some Nepali youth.

The ‘correction’ promised by the law is a cruel mirage. While the National Human Rights Commission keeps on monitoring the aftermath of clash after clash, the grim reality is that these facilities resemble prisons more than reform homes. The law dictates that these children be kept under supervision to ensure their educational, intellectual and psychological development. Instead, they get suffocating congestion and a total lack of basic amenities. When a child has to queue for hours simply to use a toilet or eat a meal, reform is the last thing on their mind; survival is the only priority.

The most egregious failure, however, is the state’s refusal to distinguish between children and adults. In the Bhaktapur facility, nearly half of the inmates—84 out of 169—are over the age of 18. In Hetauda and Kaski, young men as old as 24 live alongside 14-year-old boys. This demographic cocktail is a recipe for domination and abuse. Older inmates, often hardened by years in a dysfunctional system, dominate the younger ones, creating a permanent security threat. Furthermore, the legal system that places these children in such squalor is itself a slow-moving tragedy. While the law mandates that cases involving minors be resolved within three months, the reality is a quagmire of delays that can last years. Many of these children are held in judicial custody for extended periods, their lives on hold as the gears of justice grind to a halt. This tardy process, combined with a daily allowance of a mere Rs80—hardly enough to cover a decent meal in an era of rising inflation—strips these juveniles of their dignity before they even face a judge. Capping these lapses is the lack of inter-agency coordination to ensure the security of the inmates of these correction centres.

We must ask: What kind of citizens do we expect to emerge from these crucibles of chaos? When the state deprives children of education and counselling, it is not correcting behaviour but manufacturing criminals. The Gen Z protests saw hundreds of juveniles escape from centres in Kaski, Banke and Doti, with many still at large. These are indictments of a state that has abdicated its role as a protector.

The authorities must stop the temporary relocation of problems and start the permanent reform of the system. This requires an immediate revision of the law to ensure adults are separated from minors, a massive infusion of budget to improve sanitation and infrastructure, a commitment to timely justice and the introduction of mechanisms to foster inter-agency coordination for the inmates’ security. Anything less is just waiting for the next fire to start, the next stone to be thrown, and the next child to be lost to a system that was supposed to save them.