FOR MOST OF INDEPENDENT INDIA’S HISTORY, Ladakh symbolised peace, resilience, and patriotism. It has stood firm at the nation’s northern frontier, both geographically and ideologically. Yet today, the region finds itself in turmoil. What began as a peaceful demand for constitutional safeguards has spiralled into violent clashes—an alarming development in a border region where national security and democratic stability are deeply intertwined.
Recent protests in Leh and Kargil saw stone-pelting, arson, and police firing, resulting in at least four deaths, one of whom was a Kargil war veteran and over seventy injuries. This is perhaps the most serious escalation in Ladakh since the early 1990s. The tragedy marks a shift from constitutional assertion to public frustration, and the Union government can no longer afford to treat these demands as peripheral.
The roots of the current crisis lie in the Jammu and Kashmir Reorganisation Act of August 2019, which revoked Article 370 and bifurcated the erstwhile state into two Union Territories—Jammu & Kashmir, with a legislature, and Ladakh, without one.
At the time, many in Ladakh welcomed the decision, believing it would empower them with direct access to the Centre and shield them from neglect by Kashmir-based administrations. Public figures such as Sonam Wangchuk, now a leading voice in the protests, had initially expressed cautious optimism. But five years later, expectations of inclusive governance lie unfulfilled.
Ladakh today has no legislative assembly, no local law-making authority, and no constitutional safeguards for land, jobs, or culture. Decisions are made by unelected bureaucrats under the Lieutenant Governor, invoking Article 239 of the Constitution, which centralises authority in Union Territories. This creates what constitutional scholars describe as a “democratic deficit”—a condition where administrative control replaces representative governance.
Ladakh today has no legislative assembly, no local law-making authority, and no constitutional safeguards for land, jobs, or culture.
The present movement is centred on two principal demands: full statehood for Ladakh and its inclusion in the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution. Statehood is seen as essential for political representation and self-governance, while the Sixth Schedule offers cultural and economic safeguards that no ordinary law can guarantee. The Sixth Schedule, under Articles 244(2) and 275–279, applies to tribal-majority areas in Assam, Meghalaya, Tripura, and Mizoram. It provides for the creation of Autonomous District Councils (‘ADCs’) with legislative, financial, and judicial authority. These councils have the power to make laws on land and forests, agriculture, local customs and traditions, and dispute resolution. Importantly, their powers can override state law unless the Governor explicitly alters them. This provides a degree of permanence and security for indigenous communities, protecting their land, culture, and economic interests from potential displacement.
Ladakh’s eligibility for inclusion is undeniable. In 2019, the National Commission for Scheduled Tribes (‘NCST’) noted that 97 percent of Ladakh’s population qualifies as Scheduled Tribes and recommended immediate inclusion under the Sixth Schedule. Yet this recommendation remains unimplemented, leaving Ladakhis fearful of losing control over their resources and identity. For them, the Sixth Schedule is not just a legal provision but a constitutional shield of permanence.
Ideally, Ladakh seeks both statehood and Sixth Schedule inclusion—statehood to ensure political agency, and the Sixth Schedule to guarantee cultural and economic protection. Without these, the region argues, it is reduced to little more than an administrative outpost rather than a genuine federal unit of the Union.
What makes the current crisis especially tragic is that Ladakhis have pursued their demands through peaceful means for five years. Since 2019, they have organised sit-ins, submitted memorandums, and consistently appealed to the Centre, but their voices went unheard. Authorities failed to respond meaningfully, and mainstream media provided little coverage or support, deepening the sense of neglect.
In October 2024, activist Sonam Wangchuk led the Delhi Chalo Padyatra, a foot march to the capital with around a hundred volunteers under the Leh Apex Body banner. The march aimed to highlight issues of land rights and constitutional safeguards, but Wangchuk and others were detained by Delhi Police for violating prohibitory orders on assembly. Even after this, Ladakhis continued to rely on non-violent methods, with a fresh hunger strike launched in Leh on September 10, 2025. Yet when even this form of protest failed to draw adequate attention from the authorities, frustration finally spilled over into violence on September 24, 2025, leading to the tragic clashes in Leh and Kargil.
This series of events made it painfully clear to Ladakhis that even their most disciplined, non-violent methods were being ignored. It is not difficult, then, to understand why young people in particular grew disillusioned. Their anger resonates with the youth-led political movements seen in Nepal and Bangladesh, where disaffection translated into mass mobilisation.
While violence in Ladakh must be condemned unequivocally, the frustration and despair of the younger generation cannot be overlooked. The escalation into stone-pelting, arson, and clashes with security forces marks a turning point.
Wangchuk, claimed by many as a "peace-loving Gandhian" seems to be paying the price for daring to question the government.
It would be a grave error to treat Ladakh’s agitation as a purely regional issue. The region shares over 1,600 km of disputed borders with China and Pakistan. Since the Galwan Valley clashes in 2020, the area has witnessed heightened military deployment. Strategic analysts have long stressed that alienation in border communities weakens national resolve. If local populations feel politically voiceless while simultaneously bearing the brunt of militarisation, their resentment may be exploited by hostile powers. Democracy is not a distraction from national security—it is its very foundation.
The Union government constituted a High-Power Committee (‘HPC’) in 2023 under the Ministry of Home Affairs to engage with representatives from Leh and Kargil. But leaders such as Qamar Ali Akhoon of the Kargil Democratic Alliance and Thupstan Chhewang of the Leh Apex Body argue that talks have produced “only assurances, no commitments.” This policy ambivalence has eroded trust. New Delhi appears cautious of setting a precedent where Union Territories demand statehood or constitutional autonomy. Yet Ladakh’s case is distinct—it is rooted in its historical identity and demographic vulnerability.
There are clear constitutional pathways available. Inclusion in the Sixth Schedule can be achieved via Presidential Notification, based on the Governor’s recommendation. A legislature can be created for Ladakh under Article 239A, similar to the model in Puducherry. Full statehood, too, can be granted through parliamentary legislation under Articles 3 and 4. None of these options requires a constitutional amendment—they only require political will.
In a move to quell the dissent, key leader Sonam Wangchuk was arrested and charged under the strict National Security Act (‘NSA’), accused of inciting violence. His NGO also had its FCRA license revoked over minor infractions, and a CBI probe was initiated into his HIMAL organization for alleged financial irregularities.
Wangchuk, claimed by many as a "peace-loving Gandhian" seems to be paying the price for daring to question the government. These blatant actions of crackdown and the legal cases against a well-known scientist and environmentalist—are not helping to build trust with the Ladakhi people but are instead further alienating them from the government.
As violence escalated, Sonam Wangchuk in fact issued a heartfelt appeal, urging the 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 words must be heeded, not only by the protesters but also by policymakers. The longer constitutional silence persists, the greater the risk of radicalisation.
Ultimately, Ladakh is not seeking separation from India. It is seeking security within India’s constitutional framework—security for its land, its culture, and its democratic voice. This is not a law-and-order problem; it is a constitutional question. Can a tribal-majority border region be governed indefinitely without elected representation or legal safeguards? The people of Ladakh are appealing to the spirit of the Constitution—invoking federal justice, cultural dignity, and democratic participation. New Delhi must act now—not out of political compulsion, but out of constitutional morality.