The Ordeal of Phunsukh Wangdu

IN AUGUST 2008, THE BRITISH HISTORIAN Patrick French interviewed a Ladakhi man, a Buddhist by the name of Tashi Norbu. The elderly man recalled how, in 1948, Buddhist monks had built an improvised airstrip near their monastery where a Dakota airplane carrying Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru landed afterwards. In a touching moment that French later describes in his book, India: A Portrait, Norbu affirms Ladakh’s integration with India. His people, he says, would have never got along with Pakistan or China. “In India, you can speak your mind, so I’m happy to be with them,” he tells French. Looking at how New Delhi has treated one of Ladakh’s prominent sons, Norbu or his people wouldn’t be so sure today. Even as the streets of Leh quietened under curfew, another front of the Ladakh unrest raged on. In the digital square, a mob carrying pitchforks of rumour, and fed on a collective hatred for the activist Sonam Wangchuk, committed him to the gallows. From a spontaneous criticism of his stand against what he called the Modi government’s apathy towards Ladakh, a concerted effort to vilify him was set in motion. A man whose life inspired the character of Phunsukh Wangdu in one of the most popular films in Hindi cinema, Wangchuk was quickly dubbed as a Pakistani agent. His earnest reflections on constitutional protections were deliberately tailored into fragments that recast him as something sinister. In the current scenario, there is perhaps nothing more menacing than connecting an individual to Pakistan; and that is something that was done quickly in Wangchuk’s case. Ladakh’s police chief said they had arrested a Pakistani intelligence operative, who, he said, was reporting back to Pakistan and sending his handlers videos of Wangchuk’s protest. Even if that were true, how exactly did that make Wangchuk guilty enough to be arrested under the National Security Act and sent away like a terrorist to Jodhpur jail baffles the mind. But the insinuation did not stop there. Wangchuk was among several people invited by a Pakistani media group for a conference earlier this year on climate change. It took minutes for this information to go viral, shared by social media zombies who refuse to adhere to any tributary of logic. It almost felt as if Wangchuk had not travelled legitimately to Pakistan with a passport but through a mountainous pass somewhere along the Line of Control in Kashmir. But even that insinuation was punctured once Wangchuk’s wife shared a video clip of his presentation in Pakistan. At one place, Wangchuk says: “I am happy that Prime Minister Modi has not only taken many initiatives but also launched a special mission called mission for life... to urge the people to lead simpler life. This kind of initiative we expect from our leadership…” In another instance, Wangchuk quotes a comedian who, frustrated with government’s apathy towards Ladakh, says that the Ladakhis are the first line of defence against the Chinese. But now, if they came, the Ladakhis would let them come in. Wangchuk uses this as an example to portray how angry the Ladakhis are. Saying that the comedian’s statement evoked a response from the police, Wangchuk appeals in the video that the government should not shoot the messenger. This statement was edited mischievously to give an impression that Wangchuk desires the Chinese be let inside. This tactic of fabrication and deliberate decontextualisation has become a hallmark of politics in India. Stripped out of nuance, political adversaries or those who oppose the government in some way are turned into villains and traitors. The kangaroo courts on social media dispense justice quickly; in the reel world where the finger is almost programmed to swipe, many don’t have time to even hear the whole video. They make up their mind based on what the spin doctors have said, and from there, there is no turning back. It also paves the way for legitimising unjust arrest, as has happened in Wangchuk’s case. It is particularly ironic because Wangchuk had in 2019 congratulated the Modi government after it revoked the special status of Jammu & Kashmir, carving out a way for Ladakh’s Union Territory status. The optimism around that decision stemmed from an old Ladakhi grudge that the outsiders—and this in earlier days meant people from Kashmir—were benefitting more from Ladakh than its own people. Wangchuk, who in many ways represented Ladakhi sentiment, welcomed the Centre’s move as he felt that it would now give them a direct say over their affairs. But, in the absence of a legislature, they felt short-changed. The Leh Apex Body, an umbrella of local leaders, has been demanding inclusion of Ladakh under the Sixth Schedule of the Constitution, as it feels the people will have autonomy over land and resources through elected councils, which will also protect them from outside exploitation—it is something BJP had promised to them in their 2019 manifesto. AFTER SEVERAL ROUNDS of talks with the Centre did not produce any result, Wangchuk and his supporters carried out a march on foot from Ladakh to Delhi last year to press for their demands. One of their complaints is how the Union Territory administration is full of non-Ladakhis who, they say, have limited understanding of their culture and their ecosystems. There were other minor demands such as an increased parliamentary representation. But more than the government’s inertia, what hurt the Ladakhis most was their perceived sense of New Delhi’s arrogance. Like most remote areas of India, Ladakh has also changed. There is more political consciousness among its young people who, unlike their previous generations, have studied in places like Delhi and have returned with an exposure far bigger than before. But when they returned, they felt that their future was bleak. In 2023, the government’s figures in Parliament revealed the sharpest increase in the number of unemployed graduates in India between 2021-23 in Ladakh—a jump of over 16 per cent in a year. Ladakh has a literacy rate of 97 per cent; but as figures revealed, in 2022, over 30,000 youths applied for about 800 non-gazetted posts that were advertised that year. In a place where the population is 300,000, that is a huge number. As time passed and the talks with the Centre did not yield much result, the frustration among the youth continued to rise. It even prompted the Buddhist and Muslim communities, who are otherwise two distinct groups, to work together. As the Gen Z protests in Nepal unfolded, there is a likelihood of youth drawing inspiration from it. This is what possibly led to the violence on September 24, which was then swiftly attributed by government supporters to foreign agents. If there indeed were foreign agents who dissolved among the protesters, did the police and intelligence agencies not get a whiff of it? In the subsequent pouring of hatred for Wangchuk, though, hardly any space remained for such questions. One wonders what message government’s brute action has sent to young Ladakhis, and what kind of cynicism has it given rise to. The government could have easily taken a middle path, but strangely chose not to. In its arrogance, it even remained blind to what strategic blunder it could easily become—after all, Ladakh is the first line of defence against China, and in many ways, against Pakistan, too. The first signs of political fallout have already surfaced. The Leh Apex Body has called off its informal talks with the Centre scheduled on September 30. In its response, the Centre said that it was open to talks and hoped that these would resume in the near future. But with Wangchuk’s banishment and the consequent anger it has generated, it has given a signal that it is not invested in a good-faith dialogue. Many of the ardent supporters of Modi government’s policies have sensed Ladakh’s mishandling. Retired Army officer, General GD Bakshi posted on X that Ladakhi demands were not “outlandish”. “We simply cannot afford to alienate these brave and patriotic people,” he wrote. Former Director-General of the Border Security Force Prakash Singh wrote: “Ladakh’s demands are not secessionist but rooted in the desire for meaningful self-governance within India. Ignoring these aspirations risks converting disappointment into chronic unrest.” It is this unrest that New Delhi cannot afford in Ladakh. The violence on September 24 itself is ominous—Ladakh has never witnessed anything like this in the past. There is also another reason to address Ladakh quickly: in Kashmir Valley, people are keeping a close watch on its developments. Road closures, including that of the Srinagar-Jammu highway, due to rainfall in September have led to the rotting of thousands of tonnes of apple. As horticulture remains the backbone of Kashmir’s economy, this loss has created a fresh wave of dissatisfaction. If the government views Ladakh’s crisis as a self-contained eruption, it risks missing the wider resonance.

The Ordeal of Phunsukh Wangdu

Sign in to read full story