For decades, Ladakh was known as a bastion of peace and patriotism, standing firm at India’s northern frontier. But in recent years, this high-altitude region has become the epicenter of mounting unrest and a deepening crisis of democratic representation. What began as peaceful calls for constitutional safeguards has now escalated into violence and tragedy, forcing Ladakh into the national spotlight and raising urgent questions about the future of governance, environmental stewardship, and civil liberties in India’s borderlands.
The roots of this crisis can be traced back to the Jammu and Kashmir Reorganisation Act of August 2019. This act revoked Article 370 and split the former state into two union territories: Jammu & Kashmir, which retained its own legislature, and Ladakh, which was left without one. Many Ladakhis initially welcomed the move, hoping it would end their historic marginalization by Kashmir-based administrations and bring direct access to the central government. However, five years later, these hopes have largely evaporated. Ladakh remains under the administrative control of unelected bureaucrats led by a Lieutenant Governor, with no legislative assembly or local law-making authority. As a result, decisions about the region’s land, jobs, and culture are made far from the people most affected by them.
At the heart of the ongoing protests are two principal demands: full statehood for Ladakh and its inclusion in the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution. Statehood, protestors argue, is essential for political representation and self-governance. The Sixth Schedule, which currently applies to tribal-majority areas in Assam, Meghalaya, Tripura, and Mizoram, would provide Ladakh with powerful Autonomous District Councils. These councils would have the authority to make laws on land, forests, agriculture, local customs, and dispute resolution—offering a shield of permanence for the region’s unique cultural and ecological heritage.
The case for Ladakh’s inclusion in the Sixth Schedule is compelling. According to the National Commission for Scheduled Tribes, over 90% of Ladakh’s population qualifies as tribal. In 2019, the commission recommended immediate inclusion of Ladakh under the Sixth Schedule, but the recommendation remains unimplemented. This has left many Ladakhis fearful of losing control over their land and identity, especially as the central government pushes for industrial investment and large-scale solar power projects—often without meaningful public consultation.
“The risk is that without constitutional protections, resource extraction will happen in a way and at a pace that will jeopardize local livelihoods,” said Manshi Asher, co-founder of the Himdhara collective, in an interview with Mongabay India. “For three consecutive years, this trans-Himalayan region has seen higher precipitation instead of snow, which can cause flash floods and other hazards. Dealing with this needs good, deliberative governance.”
In 2023, the central government formed a High Powered Committee (HPC) to negotiate with Ladakh’s leaders on constitutional safeguards. The Ministry of Home Affairs has pointed to some progress, including increased reservations for Scheduled Tribes and women, as well as the recruitment of 1,800 government posts. Yet, on the core issues of statehood and Sixth Schedule status, negotiations have stalled. “This issue will not go away till our demands are fulfilled,” Thupstan Chhewang, chairman of the Leh Apex Body, told the press. “Had the government agreed to talks in a timely manner, this tragedy would never have occurred.”
The tragedy Chhewang refers to unfolded on September 24, 2025, when protests in Leh and Kargil boiled over into violence. Protestors set fire to the BJP’s office in Leh, and police responded with gunfire, killing four—including a Kargil war veteran—and injuring more than seventy people. It was the first time in years of protest that the movement turned violent, and the shockwaves were felt across the country. “It’s depressing to think that this is what it’s come to,” said Liaquat Ali, a protestor from Kargil, speaking to Mongabay India. “Yes, some protestors acted out of frustration, but the police’s response was inhumane.”
The violence marked a dramatic shift from the disciplined non-violence that had characterized Ladakh’s agitation since 2019. In October 2024, environmentalist Sonam Wangchuk led the Delhi Chalo Padyatra, a march of over 800 kilometers to draw attention to Ladakh’s demands. Wangchuk and others were detained by Delhi Police for violating prohibitory orders, but the movement continued with sit-ins and hunger strikes. When these peaceful methods failed to elicit a meaningful response from authorities, frustration among Ladakh’s youth boiled over.
Wangchuk, an internationally recognized innovator and recipient of the 2018 Ramon Magsaysay Award, has become the movement’s most prominent face. After leading a hunger strike in September 2025, he was detained under the National Security Act—one of India’s strictest anti-terror laws—and transferred to Jodhpur central jail. The Ladakh administration accused him of acting “prejudicial to the State and detrimental to the maintenance of peace.” His NGO’s foreign funding license was abruptly canceled, and a CBI probe was launched into alleged financial irregularities. Many activists and commentators have condemned the crackdown as an attempt to suppress legitimate dissent. “There isn’t a shred of evidence to show that Sonam Wangchuk incited violence, which is why the government is weaving narratives of a grand conspiracy,” said political commentator Yogendra Yadav.
Wangchuk himself has repeatedly called for peace. In a public appeal, he urged Ladakhi youth to end the violence: “We are watching our peaceful agitation failing because there is violence taking place. I request the youth of Ladakh to stop the violence forthwith. It does nothing to support Ladakh’s demands.” His wife, Gitanjali Angmo, echoed this sentiment in a letter to India’s Prime Minister and President, writing, “Is it a crime to speak about climate change, melting glaciers, educational reforms and grassroot innovation? To raise one’s voice for upliftment of a backward tribal belt which is ecologically fragile in a peaceful Gandhian manner for the last four years? It certainly cannot be termed as a threat to national security.”
Despite the violence, Ladakh’s leaders have not abandoned hope for a constitutional solution. Both the Leh Apex Body and Kargil Development Association have suspended further talks with the central government until normalcy returns, Wangchuk is released, and a judicial inquiry—ordered on October 2, 2025—into the police firing is completed. Constitutional scholars point out that Ladakh’s demands are not outlandish. The Sixth Schedule could be extended via presidential notification, and a legislative assembly could be created under Article 239A, as in Puducherry. Full statehood would require parliamentary action, but not a constitutional amendment. The real obstacle appears to be political will, not legal complexity.
As tensions simmer, the stakes could not be higher. Ladakh shares over 1,600 kilometers of disputed borders with China and Pakistan, and strategic analysts warn that alienation in such border communities undermines national security. Democracy, they argue, is not a distraction from security—it is its foundation. The people of Ladakh are not seeking separation from India; they are seeking security within India’s constitutional framework—a voice in their own affairs, protection for their land and culture, and the dignity of self-governance. The coming months will reveal whether New Delhi is willing to answer that call.
