On April 25, 2015, Nepal was shaken, literally and figuratively, by a 7.9 magnitude earthquake that would claim thousands of lives and leave countless more changed forever. Amid the chaos, loss, and confusion, something extraordinary surfaced: the quiet, determined resilience of the Nepali people. This is a personal reflection on those early days of the Gorkha Earthquake in Nepal — aftershocks, acts of kindness, civil society rising — and a deep dive into what fuels our unshakable spirit in the face of disaster.
In the 56 seconds that the earth shook during that first quake, the Kathmandu Valley rose by a meter and shifted three meters to the south. Countless aftershocks followed — most notably a 6.4 the very next day and a 7.3 two weeks later. Over 9,000 people lost their lives, and thousands more were left homeless and displaced.
Looking back, much of it is a blur. But one feeling stands out clearly: an overwhelming pride in the resilience of my people. In this piece, I want to share some personal memories that emerge from the fog of those early days and explore what might be the source of that remarkable resilience — something I hope we can retain as a community.
The moment the shaking stopped, it was clear something massive had happened. Helicopters were already in the sky. My family and I had rushed out to our garden. We decided not to go back inside for a few days. Mobile networks were down at first, but flickered back soon after. I quickly typed a “we are safe” post on Facebook and focused on setting up tents in the garden. A quick call to my friend and outdoor education mentor, Chandra Ale, got us another tent to go with the one I’d already grabbed from the house. We were set for a few days of outdoor living.
The quake had struck at 11:56am. By 3pm, Chandra and I, both trained outdoor responders, met at Pulchowk crossing. The streets were packed with people and ambulances. We discussed how we could help — keeping in mind that safety was still a priority, especially with the aftershocks. We walked toward Patan Durbar Square and the inner parts of Patan, hearing reports of collapsed structures.
But everywhere we went, locals, police, and army personnel were already hard at work. We realised our help wasn’t really needed there. We decided to regroup the next day and head out to Bhaktapur or the outskirts, where support might be lacking. We returned home, amazed at how quickly people had organised themselves.
That Facebook post — “we are safe” — turned out to be crucial. Friends and family across the globe heaved a sigh of relief. But they also had questions. So I began sharing regular updates online, giving a view from the ground — messages of recovery and resilience, something beyond the blood-and-gore headlines that dominated the big media channels.
Here’s something surreal: right after the quake, Kathmandu airport shut down temporarily. Air traffic controllers had fled. Planes in the sky coordinated among themselves and diverted to India. Domestic planes, more used to visual landings, simply landed, communicating directly with each other. By the next morning, the airport was cleared, and the first international flight — Turkish Airlines — landed at 6:30am with rescue teams on board (impressive, how fast they mobilised) and big media crews.
These journalists, arriving at a functioning airport, travelling along perfect roads, staying in operational 5-star hotels, quickly ventured out and reported only destruction. No nuance. The world was left thinking the entire country had crumbled.
Meanwhile, I had checked in on my team. One member had lost his mother and sister when their house collapsed. The rest were safe, checking on relatives and home villages. My next worry: our travellers. At socialtours, we had clients in remote areas. Most were fine — though some had terrifying stories — but one case was tragic.
A French couple trekking in Langtang was caught in a landslide triggered by the quake. The husband was swept away. The wife, with a broken back, and their porter-guide, with a broken hip, were rescued by locals and sheltered at a lodge in Tharepati. It took us three days to get a chopper up there and evacuate them to Kathmandu. Meanwhile, other clients made their way back, so we could shift focus from tourists to recovery.
The next morning, Chandra gathered a group of his students. By 9am, we had loaded a pickup with medical supplies and were headed to the outskirts. Everywhere we went, people had already taken care of things — the injured taken to hospitals, the dead cremated, livestock buried. Again, we felt redundant.
We finally reached Bhaktapur around 11am, where the damage was more severe. Locals requested help removing debris from a collapsed house. As we formed a relay line to clear bricks, a 6.4 aftershock hit. We evacuated immediately — there was no sense in becoming casualties ourselves.
That day, we only managed to assist an injured man with a broken ankle and help re-dress another’s wound. Still, we returned humbled. Communities were impressively self-organised. Meanwhile, back home, my Facebook updates were now flooded with support and goodwill. That warmth lit a fire — we needed to pivot from rescue to relief.
At the same time, a small civil society group was organising at the Yellow House in Lalitpur. I joined in. It was fast-moving, transparent, and action-oriented — mapping needs, raising funds, delivering supplies. Tools emerged overnight: digital maps, shared spreadsheets, coordinated relief drops, even helicopter missions. This network, and others like it, filled the vacuum left by a slow-moving government and large donors. We were nimble. We were effective.
One area we had worked in for over 10 years — Gati, in the Bhote Koshi corridor — was near the epicentre of the 6.4 quake on April 26th. With comms down, we didn’t know the damage. Five days later, we reached them with tarpaulins, food, and medicine. Almost every house was rubble.
Yet, they were fully organised. Temporary shelters were already up. Our tarps were like dinner napkins compared to what they’d built. And their spirits? Intact. One woman quipped, “Living in a tent is great — I don’t have to clean the house.” A man dismantling his damaged roof joked, “The earthquake didn’t do a good enough job, so I’m doing quality control.” They insisted we eat with them before we left. We were in awe.
In the months that followed, I saw a different kind of energy — a shared mission. Every Wednesday, tourism professionals met at my office to figure out how to rebuild the industry safely. Cyclists strapped GoPros to their bikes, filming routes from the airport into town to show that those roads were fine. Riders pedalled into alleys to capture daily life. One elite mountain biking group became the lifeline for inaccessible areas, delivering supplies where vehicles couldn’t reach.
By the end of June, we launched the “I am in Nepal NOW” campaign. Tourists (including my Austrian wife and daughter) held placards in Kathmandu. The campaign went viral, reaching over half a million views. It morphed into “I am going to Nepal NOW” and eventually “I wish I were in Nepal NOW.” The government took it over, and it’s still being used for crisis communication via nepalnow.travel.
I could go on with the stories, but I’ll stop here. As I reflect, I wonder: what makes us so resilient? I’m no behavioural expert, but here’s what I think:
- Lack of government support
We’ve never relied on the government to act fast — or at all. This forces self-organisation. If there’s one upside to ineffective governance, it’s that it breeds strong, self-reliant communities. - A common problem
When the crisis affects everyone, it unites us. This isn’t unique to Nepal, but I’ve seen it here again and again — from the quake to the fuel embargo later in 2015 to the Covid pandemic. - Fatalism
We are a fatalistic people. It allows us to accept the uncontrollable and focus on what can be done. That acceptance, strangely, is powerful. - A lifetime of small crises
Nepal is chaotic. We live in a constant stream of small problems. This trains us in crisis management. We even have a term for the workaround mindset: jugadh. It’s a source of pride. - The concept of impermanence
Deep down, we believe in impermanence. We may not talk about it, but we live it. It helps us cope, adapt, and move forward. - Cultivated goodwill
Our easygoing, hospitable culture has earned us goodwill. During the earthquake and in every crisis since, that kindness has come back to support us.
I’m sure there are more reasons. But these are the ones that stay with me. As we mark the passing of this sombre anniversary, I hope we can hold onto these strengths — our resilience, our humour, our kindness — and face whatever comes next with that same quiet courage. With a smile, as always.
