Tsering Norboo, 26, is a civil engineer from Agling locality in Leh. On September 24, when the city erupted in violence, his neighbour Rinchen Dadul, 20, was shot in the head in police firing. The protest, which began as a hunger strike called by environmentalist Sonam Wangchuk at Martyr’s Ground in Leh, had spun out of control when a group of young men broke away from the main gathering and engaged in stone pelting and arson, setting fire to the BJP office in the city. Retaliatory police firing had claimed four lives, including that of Rinchen and ex-serviceman Tsewang Tharchin. The violence left Leh and the larger Union Territory of Ladakh stunned. The region has rarely witnessed such unrest; the only time bullets went off in the area was during the confrontation between Indian and Chinese forces at the Line of Actual Control in 2020. While the administration blamed the violence on a “foreign hand” and vested political interests, civil society groups in Ladakh interpreted it differently: the uprising, they said, was a “spontaneous reaction” from youth frustrated with the lack of jobs and growing disillusionment with governance. Norboo is currently working as a guide in Leh’s tourism sector, searching for employment aligned with his engineering qualification. “I have been doing odd jobs to keep myself afloat. When Ladakh became a Union Territory, then BJP MP Jamyang Tsering Namgyal had said some 12,000 jobs would be created. A few months later, he reduced the number to 7,000. Ultimately, only about 700 jobs were actually announced under the (Central) Staff Selection Commission in 2022. Yet, more than 30,000 applied,” Norboo says. The anger and frustration Norboo describes are rooted in the Centre’s August 2019 move, when Article 370 was abrogated and the state of Jammu and Kashmir was bifurcated into two Union Territories: J&K and Ladakh. The initial euphoria in Ladakh over UT status soon dissipated, giving way to resentment over the alleged lack of employment opportunities and perceived threats to land and culture. Civil society groups and student bodies under the twin umbrellas of Apex Body, Leh (ABL), and Kargil Democratic Alliance (KDA) — coalitions of socio-religious and political organisations in the two districts of Ladakh — have been in talks with the government over a four-point agenda: statehood; inclusion of Ladakh under the Sixth Schedule; the establishment of a Ladakh Service Commission; and two parliamentary seats, one each for Leh and Kargil. Yet, at the heart of these demands is employment. There are only three sources of employment in the region, says Norboo: the Army, the government, and tourism. “The charm of the Army is diminishing because of the Agniveer scheme – youngsters don’t want a four-year stint. Recruitment is not happening in government departments, so everyone rushes to tourism, which is saturated. Competition is too high,” he says. Of the four who died in the September 24 violence, three were in their early 20s and employed in the tourism sector. The wait for jobs In Choglamsar, a Leh city suburb that is home to three of the four who died on September 24, most youngsters have concerns that mirror Norboo’s. “When we were part of J&K, we could apply for jobs held by the J&K Public Service Commission. Now that’s not possible, and a public service commission hasn’t been established here. Many youngsters have crossed the age limit waiting for it. Most hirings are contractual, there is no job security, working conditions are poor, and PhD scholars work as clerks,” says Rigzen, 30, who took part in the September 24 protests. For fear of reprisals, Rigzen and many others declined to use their full names. “They arrested Sonam Wangchuk, who was only raising our voice,” says Rigzen. A service commission for Ladakh, he points out, would have given them a clear path to various Group A and B government posts in the administration, police, education, and other sectors. In its absence, most key government positions are filled either by Central deputation or through temporary arrangements. According to the office of Ladakh Lieutenant Governor Kavinder Gupta, the UT administration has notified around 8,000 jobs in the region since 2019. This figure is in addition to 4,000 positions for daily wagers and 5,000 recruitments in the Army’s Ladakh Scouts. Tundup Thinlas, president of the now-dissolved All Ladakh Unemployed Youth Association, offers a different estimate. “The administration often counts contractual engagements as jobs. Those are not jobs; they are temporary. The total number of jobs notified since 2019 in Ladakh is not more than 3,000, of which 45% has been in the Ladakh Police, largely for constables,” Thinlas says. Dr Mutasif Ladakhi, chief coordinator of the Ladakh Research Scholars Forum (LRSF), a group supporting students preparing for exams, says most of the posts notified are for Group C and D jobs: clerks, drivers, orderlies, peons, cooks. “Only recently has the government started notifying 400-500 graduate-level jobs. Even then, the applications run into 50,000-60,000,” he says. For a region with a population of roughly 3 lakh and a literacy rate of over 97%, such recruitment is seen as a trickle. “In Ladakh, most youth are well-educated, at least graduates. The least they expect is an opportunity matching their qualifications,” Ladakhi says. The last significant recruitment drive in Ladakh was in 2022, under the Central Staff Selection Commission, for 797 posts. Of these, 639 required graduation or higher. Positions ranged from junior stenographer and account assistant to prosecuting officers and junior engineers. Account assistants and junior engineers alone accounted for over 300 posts. Despite more than 30,000 applicants, no more than 600 posts could be filled, even as PhD holders applied for jobs requiring only a Class 10 qualification, according to Thupstan Tsewang of the Ladakh Research Scholars Forum. Small recruitment drives occurred intermittently. After the government introduced a domicile policy reserving 85% of jobs for tribals in May 2025, the Subordinate Services Recruitment Board of the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Council, Leh, notified 534 posts in July. Only 113 of these required graduate-level qualifications; the rest were for orderlies, watchmen, cleaners, gardeners, and other roles. More than 50,000 applicants competed for these positions. Government data shows that unemployment among Ladakh’s graduates jumped from 9.8% in 2021-22 to 26.5% in 2022-23, much above the national average of 13-15%. Tsewang Gailson, a graduate of political science and Urdu from Jammu University, is 29. He fears he will hit the age ceiling by the time Ladakh gets its own public service commission, if at all. “I took political science and Urdu aiming for UPSC, with state services as my Plan B. I have made three unsuccessful UPSC attempts. My peers in Delhi have secured positions in state service commissions, but since we no longer have our own service commission, not a single gazetted post has been filled here since 2019,” he says. Another aspirant, speaking on condition of anonymity, accused Ladakh’s politicians of inaction. “They could have pushed Delhi to create a service commission for Ladakh or allow students to appear for J&K civil services until an alternative was ready. Most politicians are hotel owners, focused on tourism, land protection, and political power — which they lost after the UT status. That is why the PSC remains third on their agenda,” he says. Ghulam Mehdi Shah, an education consultant and an ABL youth wing leader, says the government has failed to create employment beyond public jobs. “Ladakh has potential in horticulture and self-employment, but nothing substantial has been done. Government programmes are limited to coaching for exams. They have failed to engage with the youth,” he says. The demand for Sixth Schedule It’s not just jobs. Ladakh’s fragile ecology is a major talking point among its youth, driving the demand for Sixth Schedule protection. The Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution provides for autonomous governance for certain tribal areas in the Northeast. Designed to protect the rights, culture, and land of tribal communities while giving them political autonomy, the provision is currently in place in the tribal areas of Assam, Meghalaya, Tripura, and Mizoram. With 97 per cent of its population tribal, the protection that the Sixth Schedule offers is increasingly being seen as a way to protect Ladakh’s culture and ecology. The BJP had promised both UT status and the Sixth Schedule for Ladakh in its 2019 Lok Sabha manifesto. Since Article 370 was abrogated, investment flows — both public and private — have been allowed. A proposed solar park in Pang, part of a 13 GW green energy project, has drawn criticism for occupying grazing land used by Pashmina goat herders. Environmentalists, including Wangchuk, have warned this would disrupt livelihoods and destabilise the region’s ecology. LG Kavinder Gupta had in an interview to The Indian Express maintained that Ladakh’s industrial policy was ecologically sustainable. “If outside investments do not come, how will jobs be created?” he said. Yet, most people in Ladakh see the industrial projects as threats. View this post on Instagram A post shared by The Indian Express (@indianexpress) “To run this project (Pang solar park), you need 45,000 employees. The population there is only 15,000. Workers will come from outside, they will need accommodation and water. People here struggle for water… the area is ecologically fragile,” says ABL co-chair Chhering Dorje Lakruk. Tashi, a BSc student from Saboo, expresses a fear that’s commonly articulated here: “We are wary of large corporate investments. They will consume water and displace locals. That’s why we want Sixth Schedule rights over land use.” Similar concerns resonate in Agling, the locality that’s home to Rinchen Dadul, one of the four who died in the September 24 police firing. “Big business is okay as it will create employment. But it is we who must decide what kind of business should be allowed. The ecology is fragile; it cannot be ravaged for corporate interests. That’s why we need statehood,” says Chhering Norboo, a college student. Punchok Dorje, a taxi driver in Leh, recounts how people in his village, Skur Buchan, struggle for water during winters. “We have no water to use in our toilets. So the faeces is covered with soil. This accumulates over the winter and following decomposition, it is used as manure. That is our way of life. And you want to bring an industrial workforce here that will consume 16 litres of water on every flush,” he says. ABL’s Lakruk adds, “People in Ladakh live with nature and limited resources. Destroy that, and you destroy our culture.” Most youngsters are distrustful that private businesses will hire them. Rigzen from Choglamsar says, “How can we trust private investment when road contracts go to outsiders while locals sit idle?” Shifting politics This growing anxiety among the youth has reshaped the politics of the region. Leh, which is predominantly Buddhist, and Kargil, with its largely Muslim population, have historically rarely been in agreement. But now, both stand united, with Leh’s ABL and Kargil’s KDA coming together on Ladakh’s key issues. One of the reasons for their coming together is that the two autonomous hill councils of the Ladakh – LAHDC, Leh and LAHDC, Kargil – which enjoyed a high degree of autonomy when J&K had its own Assembly, now stand considerably weakened. “The hill councils, which once held significant powers, have become largely defunct. They are subservient to the UT administration. Deputy Commissioners now call the shots. Local political figures have little influence. Everyone realised this was no longer a time for politics among ourselves, so we came together,” says an ABL member. ABL’s Lakruk explains, “Though land is under the hill council’s jurisdiction, no recommendations are implemented unless it concerns government buildings. The UT Secretariat has commandeered council staff; they no longer answer to the councils.” Leader of Opposition in the Leh hill council, Congress leader Tsering Namgyal, agrees: “When a secretary issues an order, the hill council doesn’t even receive a copy. During events like Republic Day, there is no protocol for the councillors. The council is seen as a roadblock by the UT administration.” From scarce recruitments to administrative disconnect and the perceived lack of representation – Ladakh’s short journey so far as a Union Territory has been a slow burn. Investigations into the incidents of September 24 will eventually establish who is to blame. However, the violence and the deaths of four youths have already made the road to the Centre’s engagement with Ladakh tougher. Ladakh’s civil society groups have pulled out of all talks with the Centre, even though the Union Ministry of Home Affairs has expressed its willingness to engage. For a region as strategically significant as Ladakh, the growing discontent is a cause for worry for the security establishment. As an intelligence officer points out: “The caskets of the four youth who died had SPAWO written on them. In Ladakhi, it means warrior. That’s not a good sign.”
