In villages across Ladakh, a quiet but telling transformation is underway. Traditional mud roofs, long designed to endure one of the harshest winters on the planet, are being replaced by steel sheets. At first glance, this appears to be a practical response to changing weather. In reality, the rise of steel roofing reveals a deeper crisis shaped by climate change, development pressures and a profound shift in Ladakh’s social world.
When residents returned to their villages after the unprecedented rainfall of August, the damage was unmistakable. Leh alone recorded nearly 80 millimetres of rain, an almost tenfold increase over its historical average. For generations, flat mud roofs had been perfectly suited to Ladakh’s climate, which received most of its precipitation as snow rather than rain. But sudden, intense rainfall overwhelmed these structures, prompting villagers to turn to steel roofs as an emergency solution.
This decision has altered seasonal priorities. Traditionally, Ladakhis spent summers preparing for the long, punishing winter, storing food, fuel and fodder to survive months of extreme cold. Now, people are preparing for erratic summers instead, signalling a reversal of ecological logic that once governed life in the Himalayan desert.
Until the early 2000s, winter defined Ladakh. Rivers froze solid, agricultural work stopped entirely, and snowfall blanketed villages for months. Food scarcity was common by mid-winter, forcing families to borrow grain, hunt wild animals or depend on monasteries for survival. People adapted their daily routines to conserve warmth, sleeping early and clustering near livestock for heat.
Local architecture embodied this relationship with cold. Houses were built with thick earthen walls that acted as insulation. Families lived in winter rooms known as yokhang on the ground floor, often sharing space with animals to retain warmth. These structures were not cultural choices alone but survival strategies shaped by centuries of environmental knowledge.
Ladakh’s social institutions also evolved to manage scarcity. Village-level cooperation regulated water sharing, agricultural labour and social obligations such as funerals and weddings. The goba, or village chief, played a central role in decision-making. Practices such as polyandry helped control population growth, while monasteries absorbed younger siblings as monks and nuns, ensuring food security and continuity.
At both the individual and collective level, Ladakhis shared a clear purpose: to endure the cold.
That purpose has been steadily eroded. Increased military presence, government welfare systems, infrastructure development and tourism have made food, fuel and employment more accessible. While life has become materially easier, the social systems built around cold-weather survival have lost relevance. Agro-pastoralism declined, traditional housing was abandoned, and long-standing settlement patterns began to break down.
This disruption has generated a pervasive sense of crisis. Across Ladakh, there is now an intense focus on preserving heritage — from architecture and crafts to languages, seeds, livestock breeds and water systems. Villages emptied by migration are being documented and commemorated. Heritage preservation has become both a cultural movement and a response to existential anxiety.
Climate change has intensified this unease. Rising temperatures have dried springs, forced entire villages to relocate and increased the frequency of glacier lake outburst floods. Scientific studies show that Ladakh has warmed by approximately 1.6 degrees Celsius over the past century, with winters warming faster than summers. Events like the 2010 floods and the 2014 Gya village disaster have reinforced the perception that Ladakh’s environment is becoming unpredictable and dangerous.
These ecological threats intersect with politics. A growing sense that Ladakh and its people are endangered underpins recent political movements demanding stronger constitutional protections, recognition of tribal rights, greater local governance and inclusion under the Sixth Schedule. Heritage, autonomy and environmental security are increasingly framed as interconnected struggles.
Yet beneath these demands lies a more unsettling question: how does a society built around cold survive on a rapidly warming planet?
Steel roofs offer temporary protection from rain, but they do not address the deeper loss of meaning caused by Ladakh’s altered relationship with its climate. Modern amenities can improve comfort, but they cannot replace the social coherence once provided by collective preparation for winter.
The spread of steel roofing, then, is not just an architectural change. It is a symbol of a society adapting to climate uncertainty while grappling with the erosion of its ecological foundations. Ladakh’s challenge is not only how to protect its heritage or secure political safeguards, but how to reimagine life in a landscape where cold no longer defines existence.
Steel roofs may shield homes for now. They cannot resolve the deeper crisis unfolding beneath them.