The latest victim of the climate crisis? Pashmina and the tribe that depends on it

Ever wondered where the finest of fine pashmina comes from? The answer leads you to a tribe of people and goats in a land not so far away but a world away from the luxurious shelves these pricey shawls are usually spotted on.

Up an elevation of over 4,500 metres in eastern Ladakh lies the Changthang plateau, a cold desert region. It’s a sombre landscape awash in tones of taupe and ash, strewn with wind-swept rocks, where ancestral peaks give way to bare desert plains. Rare migratory birds, such as the black-necked crane and golden eagle, flit by, while snow leopards, wolves, and Tibetan wild ass (kiang) freely roam these highlands. The region is home to the Changpa tribe, a semi-nomadic, pastoral community that leads a simple life by herding long-haired yaks, horses and Changra goats. These goats are special, and renowned for their fine, downy undercoat that yields the highly valued pashmina grade of cashmere wool. The goats’ soft tufts are painstakingly hand-combed and collected by the Changpa, then washed, sorted and hand-spun into delicate yarn.

Pashmina gets its name from the Persian word ‘pashm’, which means ‘fine wool’. However, it is often dubbed ‘soft gold’ due to its exquisite, regal feel. In the 16th century, emperor Akbar became a key patron of pashmina shawls (sourced from Ladakh and handwoven in Kashmir), popularising the do-shalla (double shawl) in Mughal courts, where two identical shawls were sewn together. He would elegantly drape them over his shoulders, making the shawl a symbol of prestige and nobility.

Pashmina’s appeal, however, didn’t remain confined to the Indian subcontinent. Centuries and miles away, Napoleon Bonaparte is said to have gifted the fine Kashmiri shawl to his wife, Empress Joséphine, who was immediately enchanted by its beauty. Eventually, she amassed a sizeable collection, and the shawls went onto capture the imagination of French aristocracy, setting off a widespread fashion trend across 19th-century Europe. The trend carries on till date. Nothing whispers luxury quieter than a finely spun pashmina.

However, behind this enduring retail legacy lies the quiet resilience of Ladakh’s Changpa nomads—herders who brave unforgiving climates to raise the very goats that make this Indian textile heritage world-renowned.

A precious legacy, a perilous ecosystem

In February 2013, disaster struck. A severe snowstorm hit Changthang, with temperatures plunging to between -40 to -30 degrees Celsius. The snowfall severed access to essential winter grazing pastures, leading to the death of 25,000 livestock from starvation. The loss of livelihood was immeasurable and irreversible, and it triggered the beginning of mass migration among the Changpa people.

A month later, Delhi-based photographer and National Geographic Explorer Siddharth Behl visited the region to document this fragile moment in time. His lens began capturing the dwindling population of the community, creating a visual record of a tribe that is known to produce 80 per cent of India’s pashmina fibre. His long-term project, Silent Disaster, explores how climate change is unravelling this community’s way of life. “For centuries, the Changpa and their goats have co-existed in these harsh terrains and survived. But now, climate change is threatening their very existence,” Behl says. “Families are being forced to sell their livestock and migrate to lower-altitude towns and villages, leaving behind ancestral professions grounded in generational wisdom.”

From nomads to entrepreneurs

The Changpa are faced with the modern dilemma—whether to pass the age-old tradition of goat herding to the next generation or steer their children towards newer opportunities in distant towns. In fact, there have been “major dramatic changes” within the community over the last decade. “The Changpa have either given up their life of shepherding and started commercial businesses like running hotels near tourist lakes, or they have migrated permanently to lower urban colonies like Kharnakling,” Behl notes.

One of the photographs Behl made in 2013 captures a striking scene in Karzok village, which overlooks Tso Moriri lake: shanks of meat hanging beside a pair of snow boots inside a villager’s home. “At the time, Karzok was a deeply nomadic settlement, still in a raw, undeveloped state,” Behl recalls. A local had welcomed him with po cha (butter tea) and showed him the modest room where he lived. Another image shows a smiling pair of Changpa women, dressed in goncha (long woollen robes) while sporting the perak, a traditional headdress usually made of black lambskin. “The perak extends from the forehead to the lower back, with flaps decorated with yak felt and animal hair,” explains Behl. “It’s a prominent piece of Ladakhi attire, known for its intricate design and use of precious stones like turquoise and coral.”

Such images capture the Changpa way of life, which might fade into oblivion in the decades to come. “Over the past 10 years, Karzok, for instance, has become fully commercialised. Many Changpa have begun building lodges and guesthouses for tourists, as it offers a more stable income to them,” Behl notes. That income can perhaps be saved for tougher times—especially in anticipation of future climate-induced crises.

The dregs of an ancient life

Despite these changes, the Changthang region, which is dotted with villages like Karzok, Pooga, and Hanle (once a crucial pitstop on the ancient trade route between Ladakh and Tibet), still holds remnants of the old ways. A few families continue to carry on their quotidian rituals. The men tend to herds, while the women spin wool and perform domestic chores. Fermented yak milk is used to make home-made curd and cheese. For butter, a large bag made of goatskin is filled with yak curd, nearly bursting at the seams, which is laboriously and rhythmically jostled by the women on their laps for hours—an age-old method that slowly separates butter from curd. The tribe subsists on meat, butter tea, and tsampa (a local dish made from hand-ground barley flour).

As Buddhists, they do not slaughter animals and only consume it once the animal has died of natural causes. Even then, no part is wasted—hides are used to line and insulate huts, heads are mounted in fields to scare off snow leopards, and horns are repurposed as hunting tools.

Tracking the Changpa is no easy feat. They are itinerant herders, following the traditional rotational grazing system that allows pastures ample time to recover and avoid depletion. “The tribe has different pastures,” Behl explains. “Each season, they shift their settlement. There is of course no network; so, I have to rely on the locals, many of whom are now my friends, who tell me exactly where to locate the community at a given time.”

But this ancient way of life is certainly under threat. “Today, the population of the community might not exceed 700,” he estimates. “If another catastrophe like 2013 occurs, we don’t know if they’ll be prepared. The wool yield per goat is only 100 to 120 grams. Production is dropping. Quality is declining. Pashmina might one day face extinction.”

While much of the world has moved forward and is hyper-integrated by technology, this remote Himalayan region remains suspended in time—peacefully isolated yet deeply vulnerable. As climate change creeps into even the most far-flung corners of the earth, the Changpa are left to navigate a painful crossroads: preserve a legacy shaped by nature and necessity, or adapt to a rapidly changing world to survive. Their future and that of pashmina itself—hangs by a thread.