The Best Lessons in Climate Diplomacy are Learned from Himalayan Villages
The glacier above Kumik is rapidly retreating, and the community is facing tough choices. Photo: Jonathan Mingle
“How on earth do these people manage to survive?”
This was the question British geographer James Claughton continually pondered during the winter of 1976, spent in the remote Himalayan valley of Zanskar in northwest India. It is a valid question. Zanskar is a very harsh place at any time. The average elevation of its few dozen villages is 12,500 feet (about 3,800 meters). The only connection to the outside world is a 160-mile (about 260-kilometer) jeep road that is closed by snow for more than half the year. The growing season for barley and other staple crops lasts only three months.
Amidst all these apparent shortages and hardships, Claughton was astonished by the vigor and vitality displayed by the hosts in Zanskar. Was there some cosmic joke they were in on that we were missing?
This is a question I have thought about every time I visit Zanskar and neighboring Ladakh, especially while living and working in the village of Kumik during research for my new book, Fire and Ice: Soot, Solidarity, and Survival on the Roof of the World. Kumik is one of the oldest settlements in the region with over a thousand years of history. It is now possibly one of the villages that might be abandoned first due to climate change.
“Older people think of Kumik as a perfect village,” says Tsering Rigzin, a government agriculture officer from Kumik. “Because it is close to the mountains and convenient for grazing animals and collecting fuel.” In other words, it had a pragmatic perfection providing access to essential necessities.
However, the limiting factor in living in Zanskar, which lies in the “rain shadow” created by the Himalayas, is water. And Kumik is now running out of that water.
The mountains block the summer monsoon, so there is little rain during the summer. Instead, meltwater and ice make agriculture possible in the arid Tibetan plateau. But the snowfields and glaciers towering above Kumik have been steadily retreating in recent years, with a decrease in winter snowfall. Warm spring days come early, and snowmelt occurs quickly, so the only stream that irrigates the fields runs dry by August, long before harvest. Every time I ask the people of Kumik whether they lament leaving behind their neat green fields and grand mud-brick houses, they patiently explain that “without water, nothing can be done.”
The only water source in Kumik. This canal often runs dry by the end of summer. Photo: Jonathan Mingle
Claughton’s question was rekindled when I first visited the wind-sculpted, sunbaked desert-like plain where the people of Kumik are building a new village community hall. They seemed to be colonizing Mars (the name of that place in Zanskar—Martang—actually means “red place”). How do these people, with little external help or government support, build new lives, new homes, and new fields and canals in this harsh wasteland?
As sustained droughts in places like California and Brazil continue, and as more people realize that we all live in dangerously warm worlds, even very serious people are beginning to grapple with Claughton’s question on a global scale: “How do we survive?”
Next week’s deadlines might offer some clues. By March 31, governments of 192 countries are supposed to submit their plans for reducing greenhouse gas emissions under the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change. While some countries, like the European Union, have already submitted, others will turn in their homework late.
There are no consequences for tardy countries. This is because the process agreed upon at the climate conference in Lima, Peru, in December is voluntary. These plans will form the basis for negotiations at the international climate agreement in Paris in December.
The transition from the original legally binding treaty targets has faced much criticism. However, other observers welcome this new, more flexible approach—because it may actually be feasible. They argue that calling for binding agreements could push governments to commit to the least ambitious action plans. For developing countries focused on economic growth to lift citizens out of poverty, demands for binding agreements may suppress clear commitments. The White House seems to embrace this voluntary “name and shame” approach, hoping it might trigger a “virtuous cycle.”
But this plan relies almost entirely on peer pressure, the force of leaders and nations not wanting to become pariahs. Can such public shaming really succeed?
It may seem unlikely, but there are powerful lessons to be learned from the villages in Ladakh and Zanskar, and what I discovered as the ultimate answer to Claughton’s question. It is something the local people call “Chu-Len-Mey-Len,” which means “connections of water and fire.”
During the harsh winter, people continuously burn animal dung in their rudimentary, smoky stoves to heat their homes and cook meals. Before going to bed, Zanskaris traditionally cover the embers in the stove with an ash cloth so they can rekindle the fire in the morning. But sometimes, the embers go out. In places where temperatures drop to minus 30 degrees, this becomes a very urgent problem.
Before the roads to Zanskar were built in the early 1980s, matches and kerosene were not available. Therefore, the only option was to go to a neighboring house and ask the neighbor to share hot embers from their stove. This “connection of fire” allowed unfortunate households to rekindle the fire that kept them alive.
The “connection of water” arose from the awareness that, in the harsh, dry Himalayan crossing landscape, each household, though vulnerable, supports each other. Most villages were established around a single stream flowing down from the snowy mountains, so villagers had to find ways to share that only water source equitably. The community developed complex unwritten rules that determine who gets how much water and when. Upstream farmers ensure that enough water is left for downstream neighbors. When water is scarce, the pain is felt equally. Conflicts do arise, but they are usually resolved quickly through listening, persuasion, and appealing to family, neighbors, or the village as a whole.
But the logic of “connections of water and fire” runs deeper. Water and stove fire are necessary for survival, but they are not enough on their own. The labor required to till, plant, grow, and harvest crops in nitrogen-poor alluvial soil during the short growing season is overwhelming for one farmer alone. That is why the people of Zanskar and Ladakh have developed sophisticated systems of labor and resource sharing to help with planting, threshing, and irrigation, and to share the burden of maintaining and planning village infrastructure.
How do these people manage to survive? It is very simple. They have a clear understanding of “connections of water and fire.” So they work together.
This may seem ideal, but in reality, it is the opposite. The entire cooperation system is backed by a strict custom called “Chu-Len-Mey-Len-Chaden,” which means “disconnection of the connections of water and fire.” It is akin to a nuclear option, taken only in extreme measures if village norms are seriously violated. When individuals or families fail to share fairly or disrupt the delicate balance of shared finite resources, it threatens the survival of the entire community. Rebellious behavior—such as someone who habitually starts fights or arguments—is also dangerous. In such cases, the village applies “Chu-Len-Mey-Len-Chaden.”
Kumik people share bread and tea while cooperating on the construction of the new village community hall. Photo: Jonathan Mingle
This amounts to a social boycott. If a household violates the norm, no one will bring embers to rekindle the fire in their stove. Water will not flow to their fields. No one will visit or speak to their household. The severing of these two connections is akin to a “living death.” As anthropologists have observed, “In such a situation, continuing to live in the village becomes impossible, so this is the ultimate sanction.” Therefore, it is rarely used (especially in Zanskar, where survival concerns are higher and conflict-avoidant). However, Chu-Len-Mey-Len-Chaden has long served as a powerful deterrent.
What does this teach the representatives arguing at the UN climate conferences and the leaders who make backdoor deals at the last moment? One could argue that cutting off access to neighbors’ water or power is equivalent to sanctions—and that sanctions like those imposed on Iran’s nuclear program are not enforced against climate offenders.
But what terrifies villagers about a boycott is the social impact of being ostracized. No one will talk to you. When a loved one dies, neighbors will not mourn with you or help carry the body to the cremation ground. The people of Zanskar and Ladakh are resilient in harsh situations—but only if they face them together. For them, the absolute worst, the only real disaster, is to be completely isolated. (This sentiment is frequently captured in their language by a warning: “Yat-Meta?” which essentially means “Are you alone? Seriously? Where are your friends?”)
It may seem absurd to stake the fate of civilization on such fragile threads—essentially playground politics—but there are few more powerful instincts in human behavior. The desire to avoid the stigma of being ostracized—and the related desire to be highly regarded by others—is likely one of the most primitive adaptive strategies. We are tribal and social creatures who seek approval and inclusion. World leaders are no exception. Similar motivations come into play when a nation’s reputation is at stake. Just look at what happened to defiant Australia last year. Prime Minister Tony Abbott loudly vowed not to contribute a cent to the UN’s Green Climate Fund, but when it became clear that this stance made Australia a pariah, he quickly did a 180.
The key to overcoming the climate crisis may lie in finding ways to turn peer pressure into a form of cooperation and a means of enforcing equitable sharing of resources, rather than a battle of nation-states. As the UN climate talks in Paris approach, there are compelling reasons to be cautiously optimistic. We should hope that the incentives to avoid embarrassment and shame will drive leaders to collectively tackle climate change, as it might help humanity avoid the worst.
In the end, those who have faced the cruelest realities of life—like the villagers of Kumik and the harsh winters of Zanskar—may have the best answers for the rest of us. When you face these challenges together and draw upon your connections, you can overcome the most difficult of problems. If only the world leaders would take a lesson from them.
The lesson of “chu len me len” is more than just an explicit manual; it offers a kind of organizational principle. Traditional frameworks of climate negotiations have pitted rich countries against poor ones. Countries that have gained wealth by burning fossil fuels occupy the space for carbon pollution in the atmosphere, leaving little for others. India and other developing countries are rightly arguing that they need money to transition to low-carbon energy systems or to prepare for the impacts of past carbon emissions by wealthy nations. So far, this issue has been perceived as a zero-sum game—with winners and losers. However, climate change is a somewhat unique game: we either all win or all lose.
On a micro scale, the people of Kumik are precisely experts and conscious practitioners of this “community game.” I have often asked, “Why not have some people move to a new village while others stay behind? That way, at least for a while, the remaining people could secure enough water.” I have always encountered their indifferent stares or laughter and headshakes at my naivety. “It is impossible,” they always respond. Unraveling their interdependent way of life is an issue that goes beyond complexity and touches the core of their identity. It’s either everyone goes or everyone stays. They either thrive together or experience thirst together.
One day, I witnessed a village-wide meeting where accusations of corruption and bribery were thrown around, culminating in one person threatening to slam a table over another’s head. The next day, I saw members of every household in the village—including those involved in the fight—sitting in a circle at the dusty site of the new village, laughing as they assigned pairs to rotate guarding the new fields from wandering livestock. They do not allow disputes to unravel the fabric of their cooperative life. Necessity always wins over outrage.
The reason “chu len me len” is such an effective risk management framework is that its practitioners recognize a simple fact: there is no option other than playing the community game. Without such clarity, neither binding agreements in Paris nor peer pressure agreements can save us.
Climate diplomats are becoming increasingly familiar with the power of this “community” frame. Last month, Manuel Pulgar-Vidal, Peru’s Minister of Environment and current president of the climate negotiations, predicted success in Paris, stating, “This is not a competition between us. This is one team for one planet.”
Of course, it is easy to say but very difficult to implement. For many of us, recognizing ourselves as part of a “team” requires heroic imagination. The world is not as painfully clear as Zanskar with its survival boundaries and the bonds between snow and fields and people.
This is one of the reasons I wrote a book on black carbon. I came to view black carbon as a kind of tracer element in the human and atmospheric circulatory systems of the Earth, revealing connections between climate, poverty, water stress, energy access, public health—and the hidden links between nations. These fine particles produced by incomplete combustion of fuel have astonishing effects at all scales: global, regional, household, and even individual lungs. Black carbon disrupts the South Asian monsoon (by altering land-sea temperature differences that drive moist air movements), melts Greenland’s ice sheet (by increasing the solar energy absorbed by darkened ice), and accelerates the retreat of Himalayan glaciers. It also blocks sunlight from reaching crops, nearly halving grain yields in India, and is a major factor in air pollution that claims more than 7 million lives annually. The smoky skies were the most certain sign of “progress” during the industrial revolution’s Dickensian peak. Today, black carbon is a flashing red warning light on civilization’s dashboard, signaling that it is time for serious maintenance. It reminds us that we all live downstream and downwind of others’ water and smoky hearths.
To address our black carbon problems and larger climate challenges, we need a global practice of “chu len me len” that moves “hot coals” from country to country. In the form of shared technology, funds, and ideas. Then, one day, neighboring countries might take it home and show other parts of the world what a rapid transition to a low-carbon economy could look like.
The reference Article 水と火のつながり: 環境と共同体の強靭な協力で描く未来のグローバルな持続可能性
