My late mother, Heera Devi Yami, was a survivor of the devastating 1934 earthquake in Nepal. She was just a small child at the time, living in Bhansa-Chhen, Kel Tole, Kathmandu—one of the most heavily affected areas of the city. She often recalled how entire neighborhoods were reduced to rubble and how, as children, they would innocently play among the ruins, unable to fully comprehend the scale of the tragedy around them.
Yet alongside the destruction, she also remembered extraordinary acts of community solidarity and compassion. Coming from a Lhasa Newar family connected to Bhansa-Chhen in Kel Tole, her family members participated actively in supporting earthquake survivors. They prepared tea and food in massive traditional copper vessels known as khasi (A large traditional copper cooking vessel used in Tibetan and Himalayan communities is often called a copper cauldron or Tibetan copper pot. In Nepal/Tibet regions, These vessels are usually hand-hammered copper, rounded with wide mouths and used for cooking large quantities of soup, tea, rice, or meat during festivals and monastery gatherings )
Throughout the disaster and the long recovery period, these Lhasa Newar families organized grassroots support for victims, serving food and helping neighbors survive the bitterest of times. In an era devoid of modern disaster management systems, digital communication, or organized humanitarian infrastructure, communities themselves became the ultimate lifeline.
These stories left a deep impression on me, but it was decades later that I truly understood their weight. During the 2015 earthquake in Nepal, I was very actively engaged in the field across the devastating real sites of the Kathmandu Valley. Witnessing the horrific destruction firsthand, I worked directly in the rubbled streets—helping to clear houses, navigating blocked pathways, and confronting the immense trauma and human suffering of the moment.
In those dark, chaotic hours on the ground, the abstract stories of my childhood became a vivid reality. I saw the exact same enduring spirit of resilience, courage, and collective care that my mother had described from 1934. It was not top-down infrastructure that saved lives in those initial, critical hours; it was ordinary people stepping into the ruins to lift the weight off one another.
Today, as humanity enters the age of Artificial Intelligence and digital transformation, these experiences remind us that technology alone is never enough. During crises, societies survive through empathy, emotional support, social trust, and human solidarity. Digital technologies and AI should be designed to strengthen these human values, not weaken them. The future of civilization depends not only on building smarter systems, but on preserving our ability to care for one another during moments of vulnerability.
The Power of Rationality: The Astrological Panic of 1961
History teaches us another vital lesson about crises—not just how we respond to real ones, but how we react to the fear of imagined ones.
Around 2018 B.S. (1961–1962 CE), widespread public fear gripped Nepal due to rumors and astrological predictions that a catastrophic earthquake would strike on a specific date. Driven by word of mouth and religious interpretations, anxiety spread like wildfire.
In a wave of panic, numerous families donated money, valuables, food, and jewelry to pandits and priests, believing that rituals could avert the predicted disaster. Fear overwhelmed rational judgment, and a large portion of the public placed their trust in supernatural assurances rather than scientific understanding or practical preparedness.
As the dreaded date approached, the panic intensified. Relatives, neighbors, and acquaintances abandoned their homes to occupy open land in Bhurungkel, pitching temporary tents and sleeping outdoors for days. People feared their houses would collapse, and entire communities lived in acute psychological distress.
During this mass hysteria, my parents stood firmly apart. My father and mother refused to buy into the fear-driven claims being spread by religious figures. They were deeply disturbed to see vulnerable, frightened people being persuaded to hand over their hard-earned cash and valuables in exchange for promises of divine protection.
At the time, we seven children were staying on the fifth floor of our house. At night, some of the neighbors staying in the tents downstairs would come up and plead with my parents to at least send the children down to sleep outside. "Even if you do not fear death," they begged, "save the children from the coming earthquake."
But my parents calmly refused. They maintained that the panic was irrational and that the public was being manipulated by fear and misinformation. Others were shocked by their defiance, unable to comprehend how they could remain so calm amidst widespread chaos.
Finally, the predicted date arrived. The city was thick with intense praying, rituals, and priests collecting final offerings. Yet, the day passed quietly. No earthquake came. Nothing happened.
This incident revealed how easily fear and misinformation can weaponize a society when scientific literacy and public awareness are limited. It showed how crises—or even the mere rumor of a crisis—can be exploited for financial gain and psychological control. Above all, my parents’ courage taught me that societies need critical thinking, ethical leadership, and emotional resilience to avoid being overwhelmed by manipulation.
Digital Lifelines: Strengthening Resilience in a Connected World
Today, as humanity enters the age of Artificial Intelligence and rapid digital transformation, these historical lessons take on a vital new dimension. In our hyper-connected world, digital networks and AI have become our modern infrastructure—essential public utilities just like the roads, water systems, and power grids of the past. They are the new networks through which human society coordinates, communicates, and survives.
However, a connected world is also a vulnerable one. Algorithms can now spread misinformation far faster than the word-of-mouth rumors of 1961, creating instantaneous mass fear, confusion, and systemic instability on a global scale. If left unregulated and driven solely by rapid technical deployment, these platforms can dismantle social trust and exploit psychological vulnerabilities.
To counter this, we must intentionally design Digital Lifelines—technology frameworks rooted in a sense of "Digital Dharma," where ethical accountability, transparency, and human-centric guardrails are paramount. Building true systemic resilience requires us to bridge the gap between rapid technological breakthroughs and slower, necessary ethical governance.
True digital resilience is not just about static cybersecurity or tech-driven automation; it is about building operational resolving power and strengthening our collective capacity to withstand shocks. This means moving educational systems from rote memorization to robust, inclusive STE(A)M models that cultivate scientific literacy and digital hygiene, using technology to support and scale local caregiver collectives and grassroots mutual-aid groups, turning the informal solidarity of 1934 into resilient digital infrastructure and demanding that institutional structures and corporate mandates actively invest in the safety, public trust, and psychological security of the societies they serve.
Technology alone is never enough. During crises, societies survive through compassion, emotional support, social trust, and community solidarity. Digital lifelines must be built to amplify these human virtues, not weaken them. Whether confronting a physical disaster like 1934 or an algorithmic panic like the ones threatening our modern landscape, our truest anchors remain critical thinking, ethical governance, and our fundamental capacity to care for one another.