What an irony of history. Just as Ladakh, once considered a remote and quiet periphery of the erstwhile state of Jammu and Kashmir, erupted in anger, Pakistan-administered Jammu and Kashmir (PaJK) is also witnessing mass protests, with a similar state response.
Across both sides of the Line of Control (LoC), separated by armies, wars, and rival sovereignities, the grievances sounded eerily similar. Citizens were not calling for secession, nor waving the banners of rebellion against Delhi or Islamabad. Their slogans were instead about dignity, fairness, and empowerment.
Yet the state response was identical: force, arrests, and a refusal to engage. In Ladakh, four lives were lost, hundreds were detained, and the region’s most visible activist, Sonam Wangchuk, was transported far away to Jodhpur prison—ironically, the same facility where Hurriyat leaders cooled their heels in the 1990s.
In PaJK, protests over electricity tariffs, inflation, and economic hardships spiralled into deadly clashes, leaving at least six civilians dead and dozens injured.
The simultaneity of these upheavals forces uncomfortable questions. Why do peripheral regions remain condemned to frustration? Why are modest demands like autonomy over land, affordable power, and responsive governance treated as existential threats by states that otherwise claim democratic credentials?
When the Government of India revoked Article 370 on August 5, 2019, many in Ladakh celebrated. For decades, Buddhists in Leh had demanded separation from Kashmir, hoping that direct rule from Delhi would bring resources and recognition. The UT status seemed like vindication of those demands.
But five years later, that jubilation has turned into bitterness. The most pressing grievance is the denial of constitutional safeguards under the Sixth Schedule. Ladakhi civil society, student groups, and religious leaders argue that without these protections, their fragile plateau, which is home to glaciers, rivers, and vast pasturelands, faces ecological and demographic threats. Mining interests covet its rare earth reserves, investors seek to exploit its tourism potential, and without land safeguards, locals fear being reduced to tenants in their own homeland.
The Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Councils, which once offered some grassroots governance, have been stripped of fiscal authority. Decision-making lies in the hands of bureaucrats sent from Delhi. For many Ladakhis, the celebrated Union Territory status now feels like a Trojan horse.
The region is more exposed, with even lesser autonomy.
Inclusion under the Sixth Schedule for constitutional and land safeguards.
Domicile-based restrictions on land and jobs to protect local rights.
A separate Public Service Commission for recruitment.
Additional representation in the Lok Sabha and Rajya Sabha.
Stronger environmental protection to safeguard glaciers and fragile ecosystems.
Revival of local councils’ fiscal and administrative powers.
The remarkable aspect of the current Ladakhi movement is its unity. For decades, Leh’s Buddhist leadership and Kargil’s Shia Muslim population pulled in different directions. Today, they march together, symbolising how the denial of voice has bridged historic divides.
PaJK: Silent Region Erupts
Across the LoC, Pakistan-administered Jammu and Kashmir had long prided itself on stability. Islamabad projected it as “Azad Kashmir,” a model of freedom compared to Indian-administered areas.
Historically, unrest was rare; the last major incident dates to 1992, when the JKLF mobilised civilians to cross the LoC, leading to bloody clashes with the Pakistani military.
But in 2024, this silence was shattered. What began as protests against steep electricity bills amidst inflation exceeding 17 percent soon snowballed. Residents questioned why a region producing 2,600 megawatts of electricity through the Mangla Dam received only 350 MW for its own use, and at ten times the production cost.
In a viral senate testimony, Prime Minister Anwar ul Haq lamented, “My electricity is not available to me. First, it goes to you, then to the national grid, and returns to us at thirty rupees per unit.” He warned that his generation may be the last to retain affection for Pakistan.
The outrage quickly expanded into a civil rights movement led by the Joint Awami Action Committee (JAAC). Its 37-point charter of demands was sweeping: from ending elite privileges and ensuring free healthcare to building tunnels, bridges, and treatment plants. The language was not separatist but reformist, yet the government responded with bullets.
History offers chilling parallels. In 1987, the Kashmir Valley witnessed a similar chain reaction. A discredited election brought an unpopular government to power, which then raised electricity tariffs. Protests erupted in Srinagar’s old city. Police firing killed four. What began as anger over electricity soon morphed into the call for azadi, igniting a three-decade-long insurgency.
PaJK’s protests also began with electricity. But underneath lay resentment at Islamabad’s interference, repeated dismissals of local governments, and the sense of being used as a showcase rather than a partner. Like 1987, the spark was economic; the fire, political.
Part of the crisis lies in the region’s chronic political instability. Since 2021, PaJK has seen three prime ministers. Sardar Abdul Qayyum Niyazi was ousted, replaced by Tanveer Ilyas, who too was dismissed, leading to the rise of Anwar ul Haq. Each reshuffle bore Islamabad’s fingerprints.
Civil society leaders stress that unrest is not separatist. Lawyer Nabila Irshad of the Jammu and Kashmir Democratic Party noted: “This is not against Pakistan, but against repeated interference and unqualified leadership.”
Maria Iqbal Tarana described the JAAC movement as a “sign of change” reflecting youth discontent. For her, the protests were less about ideology than survival and fairness.
Others see deeper implications. Of late, nationalist groups advocating an independent, undivided Jammu and Kashmir have begun to find resonance. Though still fringe, their ability to mobilise around grievances has grown.
India controls about 55% of the land area of the erstwhile state of Jammu and Kashmir, and 70% of the population. Pakistan controls about 30% of the land area, which includes Azad Kashmir and Gilgit-Baltistan, and China controls the remaining 15% of the land area, which includes the Aksai Chin region, the largely uninhabited Trans-Karakoram tract and part of the Demchok sector.
Pakistan has granted Gilgit-Baltistan a separate administrative arrangement and separated it from the rest of the region. On the Indian side, on 5 August 2019, the region was divided further into two separate Union Territories of Jammu and Kashmir and Ladakh.
The areas of Neelum and Muzaffarabad in Pakistan-administered Jammu and Kashmir (PaJK) border the districts of Kupwara and Baramulla in the Kashmir Valley. However, most of the area, including Bagh, Palandri, Rawalakot, Kotli, Mirpur and Bhimber, lies on the other side of the Jammu division.
In contrast to the homogeneous population of the Kashmir Valley, the demography of Pakistan-administered Kashmir is complex. The region is characterised by a caste or baradari system, which also determines voting behaviour. The predominant groups are Gujjars, Sudhans, Jats, Rajputs, Mughals, Awans, Dhunds and a tiny group of ethnic Kashmiris. The predominant language is Pahari, which is close to Hindko and Punjabi.
The Kashmiri-speaking population, which dominates on the Indian side (52.46% in the whole of Jammu and Kashmir and 86% in the Kashmir Valley), accounts for only 5 % on the Pakistani side.
While the protests began over specific economic grievances, observers say they reflect a broader frustration with disempowerment and frequent interference from Islamabad.
Unlike the homogeneity of Kashmiri-dominated Valley across the LoC, PaJK’s demographic difference explains why PaJK historically remained quieter.
But the same diversity now fuels fragmentation. Islamabad’s attempts to integrate the region into neighbouring provinces risk alienating communities further, eroding PaJK’s unique identity as “Kashmir.”
Comparing Ladakh and PaJK reveals uncanny similarities:
Economic sparks: Electricity in PaJK, land rights in Ladakh—both protests began with resources.
Governance deficit: Both accuse Delhi and Islamabad of imposing leaders while ignoring local voices.
Youth alienation: A new generation in both territories feels disillusioned, with loyalty to capitals waning.
Identity fears: Ladakh fears demographic dilution; PaJK fears cultural erasure through provincial integration.
Protest outcomes: In both, peaceful protests ended with bullets, fueling deeper alienation.
The JAAC’s 37 demands (summarized earlier) read less like a revolutionary manifesto and more like a governance checklist: end corruption, ensure healthcare, provide safe water, build tunnels, withdraw false cases, protect forests. At their heart lies a plea for dignity.
In Ladakh too, the call for the Sixth Schedule is not secessionist but constitutionalist: empower us within India, do not dismiss us.
The unrest in Ladakh and PaJK is a warning. The demands are not radical. They are about bread, water, electricity, and dignity. Yet by treating them as security threats, both Delhi and Islamabad risk pushing peaceful protests toward radicalism.
For India, ignoring Ladakh’s pleas may alienate a population that once cheered direct rule. For Pakistan, mishandling PaJK risks undercutting its international case on Kashmir, exposing its failures at home.
Across the LoC, the lesson is clear: instability in Kashmir’s peripheries does not begin with separatism. It begins with governance failures. And once dignity is denied, the drift toward radical alternatives becomes inevitable.
Ladakh and PaJK are not demanding separation; they are demanding dignity. Their voices echo across the mountains, reminding both India and Pakistan that the peripheries are watching, waiting, and no longer silent. To dismiss them is to court a deeper crisis.
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