The challenge for Nepal and its neighbours is to bridge the gap between the old and the new to modernise without losing the social glue that has long sustained their societies
Loneliness is often imagined as a quiet affliction of older people or an urban malaise of the West. However, for South Asia, especially Nepal, it is rapidly becoming a defining social and public health challenge. In a region renowned for its dense networks of family, faith and festivals, the rise of loneliness is both counterintuitive and deeply troubling. The story of Nepal, in particular, reveals how economic migration, brain drain and shifting social structures are converging to create a crisis of connection that quietly affects millions.
Nepal's economy increasingly depends on the remittances sent home by its migrant workforce. Nearly one in every four Nepali households has at least one family member working abroad, and the numbers are staggering. In 2019/20 alone, over half a million labour permits were issued, and the absentee population is estimated to have surpassed three million in a country of just 30 million. This massive outflow is driven by limited opportunities at home, persistent unemployment and the lure of better wages and respect abroad. Yet, behind every remittance lies a story of separation, longing and often acute loneliness for those who leave and those left behind.
The experience of Nepali migrant workers is marked by profound psychological strain. Far from home, often in unfamiliar and sometimes hostile environments, they endure not only physical hardship but also deep emotional distress. Studies and field reports consistently highlight high rates of loneliness, social isolation, anxiety and depression among Nepali workers in the Gulf, Malaysia and beyond. Many are overwhelmed by homesickness, unable to communicate freely due to language barriers, and reluctant to seek help for mental health issues because of stigma and cost. The trauma is not abstract: some workers return home with severe psychological scars, and tragically, suicide rates among Nepali migrants have risen alarmingly in recent years.
However, the pain of migration is not borne by the migrants alone. The families left behind – wives, children and elderly parents – are often thrust into a new kind of solitude. The absence of a father, son or daughter can fracture rural households' social and emotional fabric. Women, in particular, report high levels of anxiety, depression and even suicidal thoughts as they shoulder the burdens of single parenting, economic uncertainty and the constant fear for their loved ones' safety abroad. Children grow up without daily parental guidance, and the elderly are left to age in isolation, their traditional roles diminished. The ripple effect of migration thus transforms the village as much as the individual, eroding the communal bonds that once defined Nepali society.
Layered atop this is Nepal's chronic brain drain – a steady exodus not just of unskilled labourers but of the country's most educated and skilled professionals, drawn by better pay, safer working conditions and greater professional respect abroad. The consequences are stark: Nepal's doctor-patient and nurse-patient ratios are among the lowest in the world, and rural health posts are often left vacant. The departure of a trusted doctor or teacher is felt as a communal loss, a further thinning of the ties that hold society together.
Nepal's challenges mirror those faced by other South Asian countries with similar economic profiles, such as Bangladesh and Pakistan, where large-scale migration and brain drain have also left families and communities grappling with loneliness and social fragmentation. However, some Southeast Asian countries with comparable income levels, like Vietnam and the Philippines, have invested more in community-based mental health support and social reintegration programmes for returnees, offering possible models for Nepal to consider.
Yet, it would be a mistake to see South Asia Nepal as devoid of resources in the face of this crisis. The region's cultural traditions have long provided powerful antidotes to loneliness. In Nepal, the concept of sajha (shared life) is woven into rituals, festivals and daily routines. The communal guthi system, traditional women's circles and the practice of collective farming once ensured that no one was left to face hardship alone. Temples, monasteries and community halls have historically served as gathering points for all ages, reinforcing a sense of belonging and mutual care.
In recent years, there has been a modest revival of these traditions, sometimes adapted to new realities. Community kitchens, social clubs for the elderly and local support groups for families of migrant workers are beginning to re-emerge, often with the help of NGOs or diaspora networks. Digital technology is also harnessed to maintain connections, with video calls and messaging apps providing vital emotional lifelines for separated families.
The challenge for Nepal and its neighbours is to bridge the gap between the old and the new to modernise without losing the social glue that has long sustained their societies. This means investing in economic opportunities at home and mental health care, social support systems and the revitalisation of communal spaces. It means recognising loneliness as a public health issue, not just a private sorrow, and crafting policies that support those who leave and those who stay behind.
Ultimately, the story of loneliness in Nepal is a story of resilience as much as of loss. It is a reminder that economic progress and migration, while offering hope and opportunity, can also carry hidden costs that must be addressed with compassion and creativity. In the land of mountains, where a deep valley mirrors every peak, the path forward lies in reconnecting the strands of the community so that no one, whether at home or abroad, is left truly alone.
Verma is the president of The Himalayan Dialogues and an international expert in leadership, strategic and crisis communication and global health diplomacy
