SCROLLING, SCROLLING, SCROLLING: ARE WE ADDICTED TO SCREENS?

In the quiet moments between tasks—whether in a classroom, during a bus ride, or while waiting for tea to boil—our fingers often find themselves unconsciously flicking through phone screens. The action feels automatic, almost meditative, but underneath it lies a more complex pattern of behavior that borders on dependency. In Nepal, as in many other parts of the world, the question of screen addiction is no longer just a concern for teenagers or gamers—it is fast becoming a social epidemic with deeply rooted psychological and cultural implications.

The first layer of this digital compulsion is biological. Smartphones, with their endless feeds, notifications, and scrolling designs, are engineered to hijack the brain’s reward system. Dopamine—the neurotransmitter associated with pleasure—is released with every like, message, or new post. It creates a cycle that mimics substance addiction: anticipation, reward, and then craving for more. This mechanism isn't just theoretical; studies have shown that overuse of screens alters brain activity, particularly in regions associated with impulse control and emotional regulation. In Nepal, where mental health literacy remains limited and digital literacy often outpaces digital maturity, the addictive design of technology is rarely questioned.

But the screen addiction phenomenon in Nepal is more than just a personal habit—it is increasingly shaped by socio-economic forces and cultural shifts. Over the past decade, the expansion of affordable smartphones and data services, particularly with the rise of cheap Chinese phone brands and inexpensive Ncell/Nepal Telecom internet packages, has brought connectivity to even the most remote villages. What was once considered a luxury has now become a daily necessity, even among economically disadvantaged populations. In rural Nepal, smartphones have replaced televisions and radios as primary sources of information and entertainment, especially among the youth. The screen becomes not just a window to the world, but also a private escape from the boredom, hardship, and social constraints of everyday life.

Furthermore, Nepal’s collectivist culture, where community relationships often take precedence over individual autonomy, paradoxically fuels more screen usage. Social media becomes an extended social space where people feel pressured to maintain connections, display curated versions of their lives, and remain constantly visible. Platforms like TikTok and Facebook are not just about leisure—they are now platforms for self-validation, influence, and even informal livelihoods. A young woman from Chitwan may spend hours on TikTok not because she’s careless with time, but because her identity, aspirations, and sense of self-worth are increasingly entangled with digital performance. In such cases, “addiction” is not a disease of the weak-willed; it is a byproduct of how society defines success, beauty, and relevance.

The pandemic further accelerated this dependence. Lockdowns and school closures pushed even the most resistant demographics online. Children were handed smartphones for online classes but stayed online long after lessons ended. Work-from-home culture blurred boundaries between personal and professional spaces. Even spiritual and religious practices moved to Facebook Lives and Zoom bhajans. While digital tools helped maintain some sense of continuity, they also normalized overexposure to screens, often without any safeguards. Parents, themselves glued to their devices, rarely model screen discipline for their children. In many Nepali homes today, family dinners are accompanied not by conversation but by the passive scrolling of every member—each in their digital world, together yet disconnected.

There’s also a class dimension to consider. In urban areas like Kathmandu and Pokhara, parents with resources may try to limit screen exposure through extracurricular activities or digital detoxes. But in lower-income households where both parents work long hours, screens are the cheapest form of babysitting. Children raised by screens often develop shorter attention spans and find real-world tasks increasingly unstimulating. Ironically, the very technology that promised to “bridge gaps” is, in many ways, deepening generational, educational, and emotional divides.

What makes screen addiction especially concerning in Nepal is the absence of meaningful public discourse or regulation. While Western societies are increasingly scrutinizing the ethical practices of tech companies and calling for digital wellness programs, Nepal lacks both the institutional framework and public awareness to do the same. Discussions on screen time are often reduced to moral panic or generational blame: adults accusing teenagers of being “lazy” or “spoiled,” while ignoring the systemic and psychological aspects at play.

Yet, not all hope is lost. There are small but growing pockets of resistance—schools introducing mindfulness programs, youth groups organizing digital detox retreats, parents experimenting with phone-free zones at home. These efforts, though limited in scope, signal a collective yearning to reclaim time, attention, and connection. The solution may not lie in rejecting technology altogether but in cultivating a more conscious relationship with it.

In the end, the question isn’t merely whether we are addicted to screens, but why we are so eager to escape into them. In a society burdened by economic uncertainty, social pressures, and emotional repression, screens offer momentary relief—one scroll at a time. But when the scroll never stops, perhaps it’s time to ask what we’re truly avoiding, and what it would take to return to ourselves.