Ladakh on boil: Cold desert caught between history, identity and unrest

Iftikhar Gilani

The remote Himalayan region of Ladakh, earlier part of erstwhile state of Jammu and Kashmir and on the borders of China perched at altitudes where summer sun burns and winter snows choke all access, is again making headlines.

At least four people were killed this week when police clashed with demonstrators demanding protection of their identity, restoration of statehood and greater political rights. The protests are the most violent since India reorganized the state of Jammu and Kashmir in 2019, carving Ladakh out as a separate union territory under direct federal control.

The demonstrations have reignited debates about what Ladakh means for its people and for the subcontinent. For New Delhi, it is a strategic frontier facing China and Pakistan. For its residents, Ladakh is a homeland whose distinct cultural and political fabric has been frayed by decades of war, shifting borders and broken promises.

Known as the “cold desert,” Ladakh covers a harsh, spectacular landscape of 97,872 square kilometers on paper, though nearly 40,000 square kilometers of Aksai Chin remain under Chinese control. The inhabited expanse of Leh and Kargil districts measures 58,321 square kilometers, with a population of just under 275,000 according to the 2011 Indian census.

Its people are a mosaic: 46% Muslims, largely in Kargil; 37% Buddhists, concentrated in Leh; and smaller groups of Hindus, Sikhs, Dards and Turkic-origin families known as Argons. This mix has shaped Ladakh’s traditions of coexistence but also its tensions.

Few outside scholars realize that Ladakh was once central to Asia’s trade networks. Its caravan routes connected South Asia with the cities of Yarkand, Kashgar and Khotan in today’s Chinese occupied East Turkistan or Xinjiang, and with Lhasa across the Tibetan plateau.

The center of Great Game in late 19th and early 20th century between British, Chinese and Russians, Ladakh enjoyed special status for offering South Asia direct land access to Turkestan cities of Yarkand, Khotan, and facilitating the free movement of goods, merchants, explorers, spies and soldiers across different routes crisscrossing mountain passes.

Historian late Abdul Ghani Sheikh mentions in his works that until a century ago Turkish was a common second language in Ladakh. Trade with Central Asia brought not only carpets, jewels and silks, but also poets, musicians, and Sufi and Buddhist monks who left their imprint on local culture.

Elderly residents in Leh still speak with nostalgia of Turkestan and Tibet, of bustling bazaars where Kashmiri shawls, Persian dyes and Ladakhi pashmina crossed hands.

But the partition of 1947 closed borders. Wars with Pakistan and China turned Ladakh from a gateway to a dead end. Srinagar and Delhi’s priorities shifted, leaving Ladakh as a military outpost rather than a commercial hub.

According to Salim Beg, former director-general of the Tourism Department of Jammu and Kashmir, Leh, which was an important trade center for Central Asia, became a periphery.

“Hadud-e-Alam, a 9th-century Persian manuscript, mentions Ladakh’s trade links with neighboring countries. From the 9th century onwards, the geographic proximity of Ladakh to the Central Asian towns, whose people embraced Islam around that time, can be gauged from the fact that they traveled to Makkah for Hajj via Leh,” he said.

Religion, community and tensions

For centuries, Muslims and Buddhists in Ladakh lived side by side, sharing even names that combined traditions, such as Mohammad Tshering. Epic tales of heroes like Gyalam Kesar were cherished by both. Intermarriages between villages were common.

The harmony cracked in the 1980s and 90s, when Buddhist leaders pressed for union territory status and launched agitations against Srinagar’s rule. This led to a social boycott of Muslims in Leh that lasted years. In 1994, the Indian government granted Leh a measure of autonomy through the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council, later extended to Kargil.

Even so, frictions continued. In 2012, clashes broke out in Zanskar after 22 Buddhists converted to Islam. A boycott of Muslims ensued for three years. These incidents deepened mistrust in a society that had long prided itself on coexistence.

Some communities in Ladakh retained customs unique to South Asia. Polyandry, where a woman shares several husbands, often brothers, survived until recently to prevent land fragmentation in a region of low fertility. Families also traditionally sent younger sons to monasteries, making Buddhist gompas centers not only of religion but of education and welfare.

Dards, a small ethnic group in Ladakh, are considered the last authentic Aryan descendants in the region. Their villages have attracted outsiders fascinated by ideas of racial purity, though authorities restricted such contact near sensitive borders.

Many Turkic words found their way into the Ladakhi language and are still part of it. Some Turkic traders, all Muslims, settled in Leh and married Ladakhi women. These families, called Turk Muslims or Argons, have grown and branched out and are fully integrated into Ladakhi society. Besides Turkic or Argon Muslims, other ethnicities in the region are Moons, Mongoloids and Dards.

This cultural diversity—Turkic Argons, Buddhists, Shia Muslims, Dards—has given Ladakh a richness that belies its sparse population.

Kargil: scars of conflict

Kargil, part of Ladakh situated on the India-Pakistan frontier, saw villages displaced in wars of 1947, 1965, 1971 and the 1999 Kargil conflict.

Asghar Ali Karblai, former chairman of the Kargil Hill Development Council, notes that seven villages in Turtuk were part of Pakistan until 1971, when India gained control. Families remain divided across the Line of Control. Revenue records are still stored in Skardu, in Pakistan-administered Gilgit-Baltistan, forcing locals to rely on contacts there to resolve land disputes.

Kargil also suffers geographic isolation. The region’s two main roads—Zoji La to Srinagar and the Leh-Manali highway—remain closed for half the year. Residents have long demanded reopening of the Kargil-Skardu road to revive old ties.

For older Ladakhis, memories of the Silk Route remain vivid. Elders recall traveling to Gilgit and Yarkand before the borders sealed. Leh and Nubra were major halting points.From jewels to carpets to spices, everything passed through here. Alongside goods, cultures mixed.

Two-humped Bactrian camels, brought by Turk traders in the 19th century, still roam Nubra valley, living relics of that era.

But the wars of the 1960s with China and repeated clashes with Pakistan closed Ladakh permanently, erasing its cosmopolitan role. Historian Salim Beg argues this disempowerment created today’s alienation.

Near Leh’s 17th-century Tsa Soma mosque, a museum exhibits Turkic connections, displaying Yarkandi carpets, manuscripts and relics once kept in the Jamia Masjid. Argon Muslim families have donated artifacts. Architecturally, the building combines Tibetan and Central Asian styles.

Apart from recent internal strife, the region remains overshadowed by geopolitical tensions.

The Galwan Valley, scene of the deadly 2020 clash between Indian and Chinese soldiers, is itself named after a Ladakhi Muslim, Ghulam Rasul Galwan, who guided British expeditions through treacherous passes in the 19th century. His knowledge saved lives and earned the valley its name.

Daulat Beg Oldi, India’s highest military base, carries the name of a Yarkandi noble whose caravan perished in a snowstorm there centuries ago. Such names show Ladakh’s history of linkages, not divisions.

In the 19th century, Ladakh was swept into the “Great Game,” the rivalry between Britain and Russia. Maharaja Ranbir Singh of Kashmir even courted Russia, seeking support against the British. British suspicion led them to treat Ladakh as a buffer zone.

That legacy persists: India and China clashed in 1962, again in Galwan in 2020, and continued tense patrols across the Line of Actual Control. The region’s geography—high passes, proximity to Xinjiang and Tibet—makes it strategically priceless, but this has often overshadowed the lives of its residents.

For Ladakhis, promises made in 2019 have gone unfulfilled. The region lost its elected assembly when statehood was revoked. Though Delhi pledged eventual restoration, governance remains with bureaucrats. Local leaders complain the new arrangement concentrates power in the federal government, leaving residents voiceless.

This frustration fueled the latest protests. Demonstrators say they were promised development and protection of cultural identity but instead feel marginalized. The Buddhist community of Leh and the Shia Muslims of Kargil, often at odds in the past, now find common cause in demanding statehood and constitutional safeguards.

Experts argue Ladakh’s stability requires more than troop deployments.

Researchers like Rinchen Dolma have in the past urged for reopening historic routes like the Karakoram Pass to revive trade. Historian Salim Beg calls for preserving Ladakh’s plural heritage to ease identity fears. Politicians insist on constitutional protections for land and jobs, akin to those granted to tribal states in India’s northeast.

What unites these voices is a belief that Ladakh cannot be managed solely as a frontier. Its people want agency in shaping their future, not just to serve as pawns in strategic rivalries.

Ladakh stands at a precarious moment. Its snow-clad peaks and monasteries draw tourists; its valleys remain lined with troops. But its people yearn for dignity and participation, not just military or economic schemes.

Once the crossroads of civilizations, Ladakh has been turned into a cul-de-sac of conflicts. Reviving its old role as a connector—between South and Central Asia, between Buddhism and Islam, between India and its neighbors—may be the only way to bring peace.

As Rinchen Dolma puts it: “Ladakh’s future should not be written in the language of war, but in the language of linkages.”