TAKING PHOTOS OF EVERYTHING: ARE WE LIVING OR JUST RECORDING?

In the soft morning light of Pashupatinath, hundreds of people gather—some to pray, some to perform rituals, and many, surprisingly, to photograph. A man bows his head before the temple, then promptly lifts his phone to take a selfie. A teenager, witnessing a cremation for perhaps the first time, doesn’t avert her eyes in solemnity but raises her phone to capture it. Across Nepal, from the hills of Bandipur to the chaos of New Road, from weddings to funerals, from protests to pujas, the compulsion to record moments has woven itself into the fabric of our everyday lives. But in this digital reflex, a quiet question emerges: Are we living these moments, or are we just recording them?

The act of taking photos is no longer simply about preserving memories. It has transformed into an act of performance. With the rise of social media, especially platforms like Facebook, TikTok, and Instagram, photographs have become statements of identity, taste, success, and belonging. In Nepal, this is particularly visible in the way people document not just special events, but ordinary experiences: a thali at a highway dhaba, a bus ride through the Terai, a temple visit in Patan, or even a sunset view from a rooftop in Butwal. Life is no longer just lived—it is curated.

At one level, this trend represents a form of empowerment. For generations, Nepalis lived outside the global visual narrative. To now have the tools to document one's surroundings, express oneself, and share stories with the world is deeply liberating. A teenage girl in Dang or a young man in Humla no longer has to rely on Kathmandu-based journalists to speak about their lives—they can document their realities in real time. The camera becomes a tool of voice, agency, and representation.

Yet, the ease of photography has also led to a shift in how we experience reality. When the instinct to take out our phone precedes the instinct to feel, to observe, or to understand, the experience itself becomes filtered. Instead of being fully present at a concert, we are busy adjusting the frame; instead of quietly taking in a sacred landscape, we are concerned with lighting and angles. What is gained in digital permanence may be lost in emotional depth. In trying to capture everything, we risk feeling nothing.

Psychologically, this behavior is tied to a concept known as the “documenting effect.” Studies show that people who take pictures of an event with the intent to post often recall the details less vividly than those who immerse themselves without distraction. In Nepal, where cultural events—weddings, jatras, mourning rituals—are rich in sensory and emotional layers, the impulse to document can dilute the experience. The laughter of a child during their rice feeding ceremony (annaprasan) or the quiet dignity of a grandmother lighting a butter lamp—these are not just visual scenes, but emotional resonances. When the camera stands between us and the moment, the moment becomes more spectacle than memory.

Culturally, there is also a growing tension between tradition and technology. In many Nepali households, elders express discomfort with constant photo-taking during rituals. A mourning ceremony where mourners take selfies or live-stream a cremation, for instance, can feel jarring to those raised in a culture of solemnity and respect. But for the younger generation, sharing these moments is not necessarily a sign of disrespect—it is a way of processing, of including their digital communities in life’s most intimate experiences. This generational divide signals a deeper philosophical difference in how people today define presence.

There’s also an unspoken pressure, especially among urban youth, to photograph not just moments but themselves within them. The rise of selfie culture in Nepal isn’t merely vanity—it is a reflection of the human desire to be seen and acknowledged. In a society where many feel invisible—economically, socially, or emotionally—the camera becomes a way of asserting one’s existence. “I was here. I matter.” But when every moment must be proof of something—beauty, fun, success—it turns life into a performance, where authenticity may be the first casualty.

At the same time, not all photographing is superficial. Many Nepali youths are using their cameras as tools of storytelling and resistance. Photojournalists covering issues from climate change to gender violence, TikTokers highlighting caste injustice, or travelers documenting vanishing languages—all suggest that photography can be deeply rooted in purpose. The difference lies in intention. Are we taking photos to connect and reflect, or to project and perform?

Ultimately, the question “Are we living or just recording?” is not meant to judge, but to pause. In a world where images have become currency, and where moments feel incomplete without documentation, reflection is necessary. Perhaps the answer lies in balance. Photography need not be the enemy of presence—but when it becomes a compulsive reflex, a substitute for feeling, or a way to escape the discomfort of the now, we must ask what we are truly trying to capture.

Maybe the next time the sky over Kathmandu turns a particular shade of gold, or a friend laughs so hard they cry, we can sit with the moment—before we reach for the lens. And in that pause, maybe we’ll find the memory is already enough.