LEH
As you drive away from the heart of Leh—the bustling Leh Bazaar, the Old Town and the historic Jama Masjid—a stark change in scenery emerges. At the city’s edge, against a backdrop of tall, rugged brown mountains, the landscape turns into a different kind of brown: construction sites, cranes and half-built structures signalling a region in churn.
For some, it is a sign of development. For others, it raises questions about what may be lost in the rush to move forward. And in Ladakh, that question carries particular weight. It is culturally distinct, a centre of Mahayana Buddhism and home to diverse ethnic and tribal communities. It is also ecologically fragile as a cold desert and strategically located along India’s borders with China and Pakistan.
Yet that is the dilemma Ladakh currently faces: not only what may be lost to rapid development in terms of environment and cultural identity, but also who gets to decide the terms of that development. A region that has long endured harsh weather, scarce water and thin air while guarding India’s frontiers now finds itself at the centre of decisions that will shape its fragile ecology and future.
There was jubilation on August 5, 2019, especially in Buddhist-majority Leh, when Ladakh was separated from Jammu & Kashmir and made a Union territory. “It was the fulfilment of a long-standing aspiration,” said R.K. Mathur, former defence secretary and Ladakh’s first lieutenant governor, who held the post from 2019 to 2023. Mathur said conditions in Ladakh improved through its connection to the national power grid, wider telecom coverage, the ongoing construction of the Zoji La Tunnel and Shinku La Tunnel to improve all-weather access, the expansion of internal roads and better winter supplies. “The greenhouses for winter cultivation, the Dark Sky Sanctuary in Changthang and minimum price fixation for Pashmina wool purchases are some notable initiatives.”
While Ladakhis acknowledge the development work that has improved access and connectivity, one grievance has continued: the lack of decision-making powers for locals.
It is about a 15km drive from Leh market to the Himalayan Institute of Alternatives, Ladakh, founded by climate innovator and activist Sonam Wangchuk. The route cuts through imposing mountains, with the Indus flowing alongside. The campus buzzes with quiet activity. It has been two months since Wangchuk’s release after spending six months in a Jodhpur jail on charges filed under the National Security Act. Since 2023, he has led a series of protests and used social media to amplify Ladakh’s concerns to a wider audience. On September 24, 2024, tensions escalated into violent clashes between protesters and police, leaving four dead, several injured and more than 50 detained, including Wangchuk.
Wangchuk carries an easy, alert demeanour. He appears unfazed by the shift in political perception—from climate hero to disruptor—but does not hesitate to describe the new lieutenant governor, Vinai Kumar Saxena, as a “viceroy”. It is a term aimed not at the person, but at the office and how it is perceived.
His campus feels like an argument in itself. Built with generous use of wood and mud, low roofs and vernacular design elements, it feels warmer than the air outside despite having no artificial heating. More strikingly, the campus does not impose itself on the landscape. Instead, it appears part of the environment, unlike the mass construction visible elsewhere. The campus seems to make Wangchuk’s case on its own.
Meanwhile, the new lieutenant governor said local sensitivities were being taken into account in key decisions. “Such decisions are taken only after consulting locals,” he said earlier this month on the sidelines of the inauguration of the Sacred Relics of the Buddha exposition, referring to plans to bring outside hotel chains to Ladakh. A memorandum of understanding has been signed with the School of Planning and Architecture, Delhi, to curb unmanaged construction and promote local architectural styles.
Chering Dorjay Lakrook, president of the Ladakh Buddhist Association and co-chairman of the Leh Apex Body, a platform representing the collective interests of the people of Leh, said Ladakhis were not against development, but wanted a say in the decisions being made. Haji Hanifa Jan, Ladakh’s lone member of Parliament and part of the Kargil Democratic Alliance, the primary socio-political platform representing the interests of the people of Kargil, echoed this sentiment. “We want the policies for Ladakh to be made by Ladakhis. Right now, it is dominated by bureaucrats, and we have been placed under their ghulami (servitude),” said Jan.
Together, the Leh Apex Body and the Kargil Democratic Alliance are in talks with the Centre over demands including statehood and protection under the Sixth Schedule. The next round of talks is scheduled in New Delhi on May 22. Leaders say the movement is historic: never before have Leh and Kargil, Buddhists and Muslims, spoken in such a united voice.
At the heart of this unity are shared concerns over the loss of land, culture and identity in the absence of constitutional safeguards, as well as the concentration of decision-making powers with the Centre. While Mathur points to the major increase in budgets for the elected autonomous councils and their role in driving development activities, local leaders argue that their powers have been significantly diluted. “They have limited powers over land and jobs. Power is concentrated with the Centre and the secretaries appointed by it, who now decide for Ladakh,” said Mehdi Shah, a youth activist associated with the Leh Apex Body.
Leaders also pointed out that while the term of the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council-Leh ended last October, no elections have yet been announced. There is also growing concern over the influx of outsiders, particularly large corporate players.
What has further widened the trust deficit are repeated rounds of talks without any meaningful breakthrough, along with the violence that unfolded during protests last year. “Ladakhis have been deeply hurt by two things,” said Jan. “First, four of our youth were killed when there was no need to fire bullets. Second, we were painted as anti-nationals. Whenever the country has needed us, we were there. During the Kargil War, the person who informed the Army about the Pakistani incursion was from Kargil. I myself carried ammunition on my back.”
Notably, a Ladakhi delegation met Union Home Minister Amit Shah in Leh during his visit to inaugurate the Sacred Buddha relics exposition. It was his first visit since the violence last year. Wangchuk, however, said that during the visit Shah should have convened a high-power committee meeting. “What adds insult to injury is that there is only a sub-committee meeting on May 22. Ladakh has suffered enough from such bureaucratic meetings, which have yielded little,” Wangchuk said.
The Centre, meanwhile, has on several occasions considered protections similar to Article 371, which grants special governance safeguards to certain states. But many Ladakhis believe such measures would be meaningless without public representation through an elected assembly.
“The dialogue is ongoing,” said Mathur. “Substantial changes being sought are considered carefully in the best interests of the people of Ladakh and the country.”