After the 2019 developments in the now cleaved and demoted Jammu and Kashmir, the sense of loss across regions and identities should have helped forge a unity. Instead, what we witness is the deepening of the existing faultlines and revival of some dead, old, buried ones. If there was a doubt, the Ladakh crisis, which was an opportunity to converge over common challenges, has instead unraveled and unpeeled the layered tapestry of inter-regional anxieties and animosities.
Ladakh's current crisis stems from broken promises and growing frustration among its people. In 2019, when the Indian government removed Jammu and Kashmir's special status and created Ladakh as a separate Union Territory, indeed, the residents of Leh celebrated enthusiastically, believing this would give them greater autonomy and development opportunities after decades of feeling dominated by Kashmir's administration.
They were, however, quick to realise their mistake as the new Union Territory completely stripped them of political representation and constitutional protections that had safeguarded their land and jobs from outsiders. With over 97% of Ladakh's population belonging to Scheduled Tribes, residents fear that outsiders could settle in their region, buy land, and take jobs, threatening their unique cultural identity and fragile mountain ecosystem.
With slight variations, the concerns across the erstwhile Jammu and Kashmir are similar, even as the Union Territory of Jammu and Kashmir has an elected assembly, albeit with no powers. While a powerless elected government was part of the institutional architecture of the UT, the Omar Abdullah government elected last year has chosen to sacrifice its voice further. Barring the rare mumbles and occasional tweets, there is little that is said of consequence.
As far as the demographic dynamics are concerned, there are several similarities and dissimilarities between the two Union Territories. In the last few decades, Ladakh’s politics has been dominated by the religious and sub-regional polarization between the Buddhist majority of Leh and the Muslim majority of Kargil.
In Jammu and Kashmir, a similar saga has been at play with its historic Jammu versus Kashmir fractures. As compared to the overwhelming Muslim majority of Kashmir, though Jammu enjoys an overall Hindu majority, half its districts to the north have a Muslim majority population. What intersects and further complicates the divisive politics are the ethnic and caste identities.
While Leh and Kargil set aside their decades-old rivalry to rally behind their demands for a separate statehood and constitutional protections, despite common concerns over disenfranchisement, partial or impartial, loss of constitutional protections with respect to land and jobs, and aggressive development models that threaten the fragile ecosystem, the three regions – Jammu, Kashmir, and Ladakh – remain more distant from each other than before.
For decades after 1947-48, both Ladakh and Jammu nursed very similar grudges against Kashmiri political domination, giving rise to discrimination theories that were more psychological and political and not quite measurable in metrics or by empirical evidence. If Delhi used Jammu and Ladakh as a counter to Kashmir narratives in the last 70 years, the Kashmiri leadership helped New Delhi by weaponizing these divisions to suit their own political convenience and vote bank politics, leaving little space for building bridges or promoting liberal leadership in either region. Resultantly, this paved the way for the Hindu Right-wing’s capture of the vacuum in the two regions.
Unlike Jammu, which is unable to free itself from the stranglehold of the Hindu Right-wing, despite the post-2019 grievances, Ladakh walked out of its shadows in the last four years.
There are three plausible explanations for the different reactions. Firstly, Jammu is culturally and geographically contiguous with the Indian mainland and has a Hindu majority that aligns itself with the pan-national narrative. Secondly, Jammu’s deepening disenchantment with Kashmir, fed and nurtured by both New Delhi and the RSS for a much longer time with more consistency, still weighs heavily on the minds of the ordinary masses. Thirdly, the threats of an ‘outsider influx’ or removal of constitutional protections is felt differently in all three regions.
Kashmiris fear that they are the prime targets of a Hindu right-wing government for their Muslimness, while the other two regions are collateral. For the Jammuites, the threat is more due to its cultural and geographical accessibility, besides its comparatively peaceful situation, which makes the region a salubrious zone for a demographic influx. In sharp contrast, Ladakh’s remoteness and its exceptional demographic density, coupled with its strategic location bordering China and Pakistan, deepens its vulnerability.
Living in a vast, sprawling cold desert of about 60,000 square kilometres, the region’s ecological balance is crucial for the existence of less than 3 lakh population of Ladakh. With a formidable threat of being outnumbered by a slight demographic influx and aggressive development policies that throw its ecological balance in disarray, Ladakhis do not just face an existential threat like the people in Jammu and Kashmir regions. They are staring at a looming possibility of extinction. This fact is not fully comprehended in rest of the erstwhile state.
Besides, under the political and administrative re-arrangements post-2019, while Ladakh’s hill councils have been made redundant, the region has lost political representation but for one seat in the parliament and job quotas it enjoyed within the erstwhile state.
It is this sense of desperation that compels them to forge a unity within and stick their necks out while the other two regions are more comfortably adjusting to the new realities. The common thread of loss and vulnerabilities across the three regions, even if slightly differently, however, far from promoting a common platform, has drifted the three regions further away than ever.
Ladakh’s struggle to assert itself exacerbates Jammu’s political inferiority complex. Newer faultlines, or renewal of historic ones, emerge as the three top administrative positions of the Lieutenant Governor, Chief Secretary and Director General of Police in Ladakh are currently held by Jammu Dogras. While some Ladakhis euphemistically call this domination as ‘Zorawar 2’ after the Dogra military general who annexed Ladakh in the 19th century, the current three Jammuites in charge in Ladakh are largely held responsible for the current crisis and its mishandling.
The grievances against Kashmiri political and bureaucratic domination may have waned a bit in Ladakh but Kashmir’s politicians seem to now hold a grudge – weaponising both Ladakh’s initial celebration of Article 370 abrogation at a time when Kashmir was grappling with the reality of severe restrictions, imprisoned people and a communication blockade; and its (Ladakh’s) more recent audacity to speak up.
Though some Kashmiri politicians condemned the crackdown on Ladakhis, the four deaths, Sonam Wangchuk’s arrest, and his repeated vilification after the protests turned violent on September 24, two statements from Kashmir stand out as extremely jarring and instructive of the negative sentiments regarding Ladakhis, even if not dominant.
Peoples Conference leader, Sajad Lone, expressed condolences for the deaths but also suggested that Ladakhis were experiencing ‘buyers’ remorse" and ‘karma’ for their past attitudes towards Kashmiris.
This statement by Sajad Lone is peevish, irresponsible, and reeks of hypocrisy. Rather than expressing genuine solidarity with victims or addressing legitimate governance concerns, Lone indulged in petty score-settling. Even his sanctimonious posturing about Ladakhi suffering ignored his own complicity as a minister in the PDP-BJP government during 2016-2018, when Kashmiris themselves faced brutal state violence, including widespread use of pellet guns that blinded and maimed hundreds of civilians. For someone with such a background to lecture others about karma not only smacks of vindictiveness, it also betrays a lack of self-awareness.
Chief minister Omar Abdullah’s self-centered framing of the Ladakh question, in a recent interview to Indian Express, was even more distasteful. His statement that "we are very keenly watching what happens in Ladakh" because the Centre might be "incentivising that method of getting your demands met" reduces the genuine grievances and suffering of Ladakhis to a mere game show contest. Ladakhis who lost four people in the recent violence and were vilified by the government are more than political chess pieces in their own battle with Delhi.
Rather than expressing solidarity with a region that faces challenges similar to Jammu and Kashmir’s, Abdullah frames Ladakh's struggle cynically as a test case that might vindicate or undermine his own approach (which, by the way, doesn’t exist beyond rhetoric, resolutions, and toying with petitions to courts). The implicit message is callous – he’s more concerned about being proven right than about justice for Ladakhis. Ladakh's pain matters only insofar as it affects his political calculations and reputation.
Why is it difficult for Jammu and Kashmir regions to find a common ground with Ladakh on the common concerns? Or, why is it difficult for Ladakhis to reach out to their compatriots in these two regions. Beyond the lens of their mutual but historic prejudices, they are positioned to understand each other better. They could have put up a united front.
In all probability, New Delhi, in all its present state of arrogance, may not listen even if there is a consolidated and cohesive narrative from the erstwhile state. Yet, it would be a strong voice, one that can’t be ignored. And that’s the way to begin.
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