Beleaguered Pastoralists of the Trans-Himalaya: Chronicle of a Travesty Foretold

Climate change is reshaping lives and landscapes in real time. I have spent nearly a decade and a half of my life in the Indian Trans-Himalaya, from where I describe a montage of real-life events. Rising above 3,000 meters, India’s high altitude mountain range spans five states — Arunachal Pradesh, Sikkim, Uttarakhand, Himachal Pradesh, and Ladakh. Many mystics and travellers consider its vast stillness the last refuge for a person’s soul.

I first visited the Trans-Himalaya during a work trip to Spiti in Himachal Pradesh in the summer of 2012. I had been hired as a researcher by an NGO working to conserve the majestic and rare snow leopard. At the time, I was assisting a PhD student who was studying people’s relationships with the snow leopard and the wolf — both widely responsible for killing livestock — the mainstay of the largely pastoral communities here. After acclimatising for a few days, my field associates and I set out to interview people to understand their sentiments towards the two carnivores. 

One day, after an excruciating four-hour journey in our rickety vehicle on almost non-existent roads, we arrived at a far-flung but thriving village. We chanced upon Tsering (all names changed), a middle-aged lady tending to her animals in the fields. Upon hearing that we were interested in wild animals, she grew surprisingly agitated and started yelling at us, asking us to leave and take “our” animals with us. After much fulmination, she finally calmed down, and we were able to gently ask her what the problem was. She narrated to us how she had lost many of her donkeys to the two carnivores. Having limited income and being the sole earner of the family had taken its toll on her. She added that she was alone and had no one to help her with the herding. She confessed that she did not really hate wild animals, after all, “unko bhi toh khana chahiye” (they also need to survive), but she wished that her life wasn’t so difficult. Towards the end of our conversation, she even fed us, patted my back lovingly, and asked me to come again, evidently feeling lighter. Just having someone to listen to her frustrations helped ease her agony. This was not an isolated incident.

Over the years, we continued to experience such moments — the most haunting one was in 2016 in Ladakh. As a freshly minted PhD student, I was on a journey to understand how people coexisted alongside snow leopards and wolves in this region. One morning, while visiting a remote village in Rong Valley, we learnt that a snow leopard had injured a calf and killed a dog the night before. We visited the family whose calf had been injured. I vividly recall how anxious they were — the way they described the countless nights spent sleeping next to the corral, staying alert to protect their animals from predators. Despite these difficulties, they felt that their neighbour, Dolma, had suffered worse, having lost her pet dog to the feline.

 

Dolma, a widow, had quit livestock herding after her husband’s death left her without support. Isolated and grieving, she had stopped engaging with people. If visitors greeted her, she would escape to the mountains, preferring to spend the night in the pastures instead of interacting with humans. Her dog had been her only solace.

As our conversation progressed, dusk settled. The snow leopard reappeared, walking toward the carcass of the dog tied to the leash outside Dolma’s home. I learnt much later that the snow leopard had dragged the dog up the hill the night before, as predators often do. But a tour guide eager to get a sighting for their client had moved the carcass back down and tied it to a pole outside her home. For 30 minutes, she stood by the window, watching the predator consume what was left of her only companion, while photographers and tourists gleefully admired the opportunity of sighting this “rare” feline. We were unable to speak with her as she avoided strangers, but her silence spoke volumes. That moment spoke not just of material loss, but of deep sorrow, isolation, and various unarticulated costs of sharing life with predators in an unequal world.

 

Alongside ecological stressors, such as livestock depredation, there are also socio-cultural and political factors that have contributed to the systemic erosion of traditional ways of life. I recall a conversation with a Changpa pastoralist in Eastern Ladakh. Aney Kunzes, an elderly woman, turned to me and, with the help of hand gestures and broken Hindi said, “Hum log ganda hai; humara kapda bhi ganda. Humein kuch nahi pata. Tum idhar kyon aya hai?” (We are unclean people; even our clothes are dirty. We know very little about the ways of the world. Why are you speaking with us?). I was so struck by the casualness with which she put herself down that I did not know how to respond. Much later, I learned that the word “Changpa” had been misused over time and turned into an insult to suggest someone who is “uncouth” or “uncivilised”. Countless such examples demonstrate the gradual annihilation of self-worth among Ladakh’s pastoral communities, once celebrated as the lifeblood of the Silk Route.

It was a refreshing change then to encounter Mohammad, a transhumant Bakharwal herder, on a visit to Kargil (also part of UT Ladakh). Mohammad explained that during the summer, he would herd livestock on behalf of the villages he visited in Kargil, while his brother tended to their family’s sheep and goats. He proudly shared with us the knowledge his community possessed about its animals and ecosystems, including all the herbs and medicinal plants that could heal the most stubborn ailments. He said that this was the best life for him, that he wouldn’t have it any other way. Upon enquiring about his aspirations for his children, he quickly changed track and confessed that he would not want this life for his children. It was due, in part, to the challenges of a transhumant life and the constant oscillation between the plains and the mountains. Matter-of-factly, he added, “Humse koi shadi nahi karna chahta” (No one wants to marry a shepherd). I realised in that moment that pastoralists have been a part of a system that has been rigged against them at every step. For example, their experiences and challenges are virtually overlooked in government policies. Despite making up just under 1 per cent of India’s population, pastoralists contribute a significant 3 per cent to the nation’s GDP. Yet, it took 77 years of independence for India to conduct its first pastoral census, which began only in October 2024.

Many communities, including those in Ladakh, are now choosing to move away from pastoralism, a way of life often celebrated for being carbon neutral. One hears statements like, “Pahadon mein pani nahi hai, bhedu ke liye ghaas nahi hai. Hum kya karega?” (Water is becoming scarcer in the mountains, and our animals have little nutritious grass to eat. What do you expect us to do?). Though outmigration enables access to new opportunities, especially for the younger generations, it also has a downside — a chronic identity crisis, depression, anxiety, and the yearning for home — all of these become everyday realities with serious implications for physical and mental well-being. Women, however, have it worse as they do not even have the option of moving out and are stuck in limbo, compromising their own welfare for the sake of their families. The burden of caste-based inequality remains even less understood and acknowledged.

You might be wondering, how does climate change fit into all this? Many experts have pointed out that climate change is a looming force that continues to edge already marginalised communities and groups further to the periphery, testing their resilience at every turn. But it’s not just human resilience at stake. Growing evidence suggests that plants and wildlife are migrating to higher altitudes as a refuge from rising temperatures. Recent reports note that Ladakh is now home not only to the elusive snow leopard but also to the more adaptable common leopard, typically found in the lower altitudes. In 2025, untimely snowfall in spring devastated much of the apricot bloom, just as the tourism department was preparing to showcase it to the world through the “Chuli Mentok” (apricot blossom) festival. The increased frequency of extreme weather events like flash floods has destroyed natural habitats and human habitation. As temperatures climb, bears and marmots are shortening their hibernation periods. Without the seasonal growth of wild grasses, the ibex and the blue sheep may struggle to nourish their young.

 

Conflicts among people, and between people and wildlife, are likely to intensify as land is increasingly diverted to large-scale infrastructural development. This is particularly troubling given that rangelands are officially labelled “wastelands” and targeted for projects such as renewable energy installations or mining. For example, a 13 GW solar-wind hybrid “ultra mega” project is planned on pastoral rangelands, primarily to supply power to the national grid. Additionally, the recent discovery of platinum-group elements in the region by the Geological Survey of India has sparked concerns about the potential impact of future mining operations. The absence of legal safeguards, such as those provided under the Sixth Schedule, further undermines land tenure security and threatens ecologically sensitive areas that are home to endangered wildlife. Compounding the issue, rising geopolitical tensions along the border are poised to jeopardise environmental and community well-being further.

In the end, we all lose something in this needless unravelling.

It is time to reassess what climate change is — not merely shifts in temperature or changing seasons, but an ecosystemic crisis that calls for integrated approaches, bold experimentation, and deep and continuous learning. It compels us to critically examine notions of well-being and justice for all life, including both human and non-human.

Like in Gabriel García Márquez’s classic Chronicle of a Death Foretold, everyone is witnessing the tragedy of climate change unfold, but no one is able to stop it. Can we change the narrative this time?