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Living with Water

In Bangladesh’s Haor wetlands, water is both a vital resource and a persistent risk. Each monsoon submerges extensive areas, isolating villages and halting agriculture for months. When water finally recedes, households have a short window to cultivate crops, often their only chance to secure food and income that year.

Austagram  (Kishoreganj district) in central-eastern Bangladesh illustrates this fragile balance. Using qualitative fieldwork across several villages, this post examines how climate variability, water insecurity and infrastructure challenges intersect within the Water–Energy–Food (WEF) nexus to shape resilience in haor communities. Here, daily life is marked less by dramatic disaster than by persistent uncertainty over water, electricity and livelihoods.

This post argues that resilience in haor regions must be understood as the product of interconnected sectoral dynamics. The interplay between water, food production, energy access, labour mobility, and governance constitutes a complex system in which climate change both heightens interdependencies and exposes policy shortfalls. Such complexity requires moving beyond sectoral silos to critically examine structural vulnerabilities overlooked by traditional policy approaches.

The Context

Broader regional patterns set the context for Austagram’s unique challenges. The area experiences seasonal flooding, submerging it entirely during the rainy season and making agriculture impossible. Farming resumes only in the dry months, so single-season cultivation underpins local livelihoods.

Most residents lack land ownership, cultivating borrowed plots or working as day labourers during the brief agricultural season. Dependence on a single season and insecure land access leaves households vulnerable to climate fluctuations, with few alternatives when farming is disrupted.

Fishing during the monsoon once supplemented livelihoods but few households now rely on it as a primary occupation. Many residents have shifted to informal work (driving auto-rickshaws or wage labour), adopting these strategies out of necessity.

Temporary migration is now a key coping strategy. During the agricultural off-season, and after climate disruptions, many workers move to urban centres like Dhaka and Chattogram. Migration is seen not as an aspiration but as a response to limited local opportunities and increasing livelihood insecurity.

Water Availability: Access without Security

Unlike northwestern Bangladesh where water scarcity during the dry season is common, Austagram presents a more complex situation. About 70–80 per cent of households report year-round access to water, mainly through shallow tube wells. Some families own wells while others use shared or government facilities.

However, access does not guarantee security. Water quality is a significant concern, as high levels of iron can cause skin conditions and other health issues. Awareness of these underlying causes remains limited.

For daily tasks such as bathing, cooking and cleaning, water from hand-operated tube wells is supplemented with water from ponds and rivers. During the rainy season, poor sanitation worsens water quality, as most households discharge toilet waste directly into rivers, polluting the same water they rely on for their daily life.

These dynamics highlight a key aspect of the WEF nexus: water insecurity impacts not only the availability and quantity of water but also food security through irrigation and energy needs for water extraction or treatment. Sanitation and health depend on energy for safe water processing, and all are especially vulnerable where institutional support is limited.

Energy Insecurity and Everyday Disruption

Electricity access is another vulnerability. Supply is relatively stable from October to February but severe disruptions occur during the dry and rainy seasons from March to September. Many households receive electricity for only five to six hours per day during these times.

Inconsistent power supply limits household activities, reduces economic productivity and restricts access to services. Small businesses struggle, food storage is difficult and communication with migrant family members is often disrupted. Energy insecurity also hinders adaptation by restricting the use of technologies that could address water and livelihood challenges.

Energy is not an isolated sector; its reliability directly affects how households manage water, food and income.

Climate Change as Uncertainty, Not Spectacle

In Austagram, climate change rarely manifests as sudden disasters. Instead, its effects appear through shifting seasonal patterns. Floodwaters once receded by November, allowing farmers to prepare and plant crops but in recent years they have lingered longer, delaying cultivation and shortening the growing season.

Informants also reported water arriving earlier than expected, sometimes flooding fields in the month of Baisakh (April–May) just before harvest. Such disruptions are devastating in an economy where households have only one opportunity to farm in a year.

Residents also cited factors such as ‘khata ghang’ (blockages in water flow) along with shallow rivers that cannot drain excess water efficiently. While climate variability contributes, infrastructure and governance issues worsen waterlogging and prolong submergence.

Here, climate change amplifies existing vulnerabilities by increasing uncertainty, heightening livelihood risks and reducing the margin for recovery when disruptions occur, due to unequal adaptation.

Fishing remains important but is in decline. Many informants recalled a time when fish were abundant, but today, fish stocks are seen as significantly reduced.

A common factor is the widespread use of ring-nets which indiscriminately catch fish, including juveniles. Many fishermen criticise ring-nets for harming ecosystems but still choose to use them. Those who can afford this equipment catch far more fish than those using traditional nets.

This leads to unequal adaptation. Wealthier fishermen invest in technology for short-term gains while poorer households are left behind. Although long-term sustainability is at risk, immediate survival needs drive continued use of these methods.

In some areas, government leasing (ijara) of rivers has further restricted access to them. Formerly independent fishermen now work as labourers for leaseholders, earning modest daily wages compared to previous earnings. These arrangements show how policy decisions and environmental stress reshape livelihoods.

Localised Vulnerabilities

In Baligaon, soil erosion during the rainy season is a persistent threat. Each year, homestead foundations are partially washed away, forcing families to spend scarce resources on repairs. Some households become isolated during floods, losing access to tube wells and relying on boats to collect drinking water from neighbours.

During the dry season, even deep tube wells (70–110 feet) often fail to provide a consistent water supply. When water is available, high iron content makes it unsuitable for many uses. This combination of unreliable supply and poor quality highlights the fragility of daily water security.

In Vatinagar, changes in fishing rights show how governance and climate stress intersect. The loss of open river access has forced fishermen into dependent labour arrangements with limited security.

These local experiences reflect broader patterns in the Haor region where environmental exposure, infrastructure gaps and policy decisions combine to create layered vulnerability.

Resilience, Borrowing and the Cost of Survival

Financial insecurity is common. Many households depend on loans from NGOs, banks or informal lenders to cover daily expenses especially during the off-season or after disruptions. Borrowing supports short-term survival but increases long-term vulnerability. Resilience in Austagram involves constant adjustment. Households diversify livelihoods, migrate temporarily, borrow money, and reorganise labour. While these strategies show adaptability, they also bring hidden costs such as social strain, debt and reduced well-being.

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The Austagram case challenges narrow views of resilience focused only on infrastructure or disaster response. Here, resilience is relational and systemic, shaped by water patterns; an energy integrated, analytical approach is necessary — one that systematically accounts for seasonal timing, labour mobility, water quality, and resource access as mutually reinforcing determinants of resilience.

Climate adaptation in haor regions must move beyond an emergency focus. The challenges in communities like Austagram are not temporary shocks but ongoing conditions shaped by climate variability and institutional decisions.

In Austagram, resilience means living with water amid profound uncertainty, not resisting it. Climate change has increased this uncertainty, reducing the margin for error in already fragile livelihoods.

The experiences of the haor communities offer important lessons for climate policy. Adaptation must address extreme events and the gradual loss of predictability affecting daily life. Recognising and responding to these impacts is essential for Bangladesh and other floodplain regions where water, food and work are closely linked.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 22 June 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner Image © Miraz Khan Salman, Ratargul Swamp Forest, Bangladesh, 2024, Unsplash.

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The post Water, Energy and Livelihoods in the Haor Wetlands of Bangladesh first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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For a region historically oppressed for centuries and never allowed an equal seat at the table until relatively recently, South Asia today represents some of the largest democratic and sovereign nations across the world. And perhaps, democracy in South Asia ought not to be working as well as it is at the moment because all parameters that make countries democratic — press freedom, electoral integrity, judicial independence, and government accountability — are under attack,  and the region is in worse shape than it was 20 years ago. But governments still keep changing, civilian uprisings keep succeeding and voters keep astonishing everyone. Something is working, and it is not the institutions.

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The last couple of years (2024–25) were crucial for South Asia in its post-colonial history, as six of the eight countries (India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Maldives and Nepal) held elections within months of each other. This set of elections proved consequential because of their strikingly unpredictable results. In a serious turn of events

• India’s ruling party lost the outright majority it held for the last decade;
• Pakistan’s citizens voted for a party whose leader was imprisoned and whose candidates were forced to run as independent candidates, and made them win; and
• two years after an economic collapse, Sri Lanka not only held a credible election but also removed the incumbent government, replacing it with a Left-of-Centre government.

The elections were not symbols of efficient democratic systems, rather they were the outcome of nations that refused to give up.

This essay argues that the reasons for this resilience are not electoral commissions, Constitutions or judiciaries (though they play a part), it is something more nuanced: the existence of a civil life beyond the state. Where citizens mobilise, question and hold authorities accountable beyond constitutional measures, democracies find a way to resurrect themselves. Take this spirit away and even completely developed systems will crumble.

Decay by Design

The danger to democracy in South Asia is rarely visibly aggressive. It does not exist in military coups or suspended Constitutions. It is never a single defining moment; instead, it happens through the gradual degradation of democratic norms through legal and political mechanisms. Security laws are used to silence journalists and election commissions become compromised. The idea of democracy is upheld while the substance is structurally dismantled.

A defining example of this was India’s Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA), introduced in 2019. Although designed to offer residency to persecuted minorities from neighboring countries, the Act was condemned globally as constitutionally discriminatory (Human Rights Watch, 2020) attributed to its explicit exclusion of Muslims from the category of displaced minorities. The Act was seen as directly offending the secular nature of India and going against the values of its Constitution. Elsewhere, anti-terrorism laws and sedition charges against academics, opposition politicians and journalists have accelerated, leading to India being ranked among the world’s top 10 jailers of journalists among other political writers in 2022 (PEN America, 2022).

In Pakistan, the removal and imprisonment of Prime Minister Imran Khan and the categorical suppression of his Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf party ahead of the 2024 elections demonstrated the violation of civilian democratic legitimacy not by military aggression but by legal and judicial means — the army did not disappear, its role simply evolved (International Crisis Group 2024).

In Bangladesh, elections were seen as merely ceremonial until 2024 saw a student uprising breaking the cycle in a way that no institution had managed before (Montlake, 2026).

After a near-total economic collapse, Sri Lanka still managed to channel civilian rage through constitutional process rather than against it, upholding the system in the face of political and economic unrest.

Where Resilience Lives Now

Democratic systems persevere not because they are structurally sound or their constitutions are intact, they survive because of what exists under the institutional façade — the ideologies and organisations that act as mediums for citizens to interact with public life outside the government and state.

A recent study spanning 18 Asian democracies makes a striking revelation: the single sufficient condition for the absence of democratic resilience is the absence of a strong civil society (Croissant and Waldner, 2025). Weak civil societies took precedence over ineffective institutions, polarised parties and ethnic divisions when it came to sustaining ideals of democracy in a country. This finding therefore describes the current context of South Asia with undeniable clarity.

The contemporary incidents of civil uprisings across South Asia act as a testament to the spirit of democracy in South Asia. The mass mobilisation across several of states against CAA in  2019–20 eventually forced the government to suspend its implementation at the time and, when it mattered, India’s voters enabled change of regime by making the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party lose its outright majority in 2024 and forcing it into coalition government with the same opposition it had spent years marginalising from mainstream politics. The student movement in Bangladesh forced Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina to resign and flee the country, effectively dismantling a government that had closed every possible formal avenue for accountability. The Aragalaya protests that erupted in Sri Lanka in 2022 as a student-led civil movement to force President Gotabaya Rajapaksa out of office came full circle in the 2024 elections when voters finally uprooted a political dynasty to elect a new leader without fracturing the Constitution.

These are not stories of decline, rather they are examples of how democracies absorb oppression and emerge stronger.

Before the Window Closes

The important issue is: structures that uphold democracy in South Asia are the ones under attack today. Throughout the region, space for civil society is diminishing. Regulations on freedom of press threaten authentic journalism, accusations of sedition make dissent come at a personal cost and, no it is not a coincidence that political structures favour the powerful. Governments that understand accountability know exactly where it exists: civil society.

This is precisely why judicial independence and electoral reforms matter. However, neither will hold without the civil infrastructure that gives them value. Institutional weakness can be compensated with a robust civil society, but where civil society is absent, institutional strength remains ineffective on its own.

Conclusion

The primary reason why democracy is able to survive its own erosion in South Asia is because of its citizens and their active participation in the politics of the region — in classrooms and courtrooms, on streets and screens, and in the polling booths. While the 2024 elections across the region exhibited both pressure and persistence to push back against oppressive, authoritarian regimes, it also exposed the paradox of resilience: the same pressure that weakens institutions also acts as an instrument to mobilise citizens,  resulting in their eventual rectification, in most cases.

Today, South Asia is home to a quarter of humanity. The fact that democracy has sustained and further strengthened in such contested and demanding situations is a living example of its reach and adaptability. However, if structures that are responsible for upholding democratic values are put under attack — specifically civil society — the consequences will move far beyond South Asia’s borders. In the end, the question of South Asian democratic resilience is a question about the future of democracy itself.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 15 June 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Dmitrii Vaccinium, 2024, Unsplash.

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The post The Resilience Paradox: How South Asian Democracy Survives Its Own Erosion first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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Quetta is the capital of the  politically wounded province of Balochistan (Pakistan). Everyday survival is more about which roads are open, whether the internet is available, a general strike, roadblocks, and unresolved security risks. Stepping out of home requires permission for women when fear thickens, where threats and surveillance seep into the lives of people. Amid the uncertainty, the city mirrors violence and inequalities, layered with multiple exclusions. Yet, life goes on.

Colonial Past shaping Geography

What Quetta is today cannot be detached from its past, as it carries the remnants of colonial history, the ‘Little London’ or  ‘Little Paris’ known for its pleasant climate. In 1876, the British developed the city into a garrison town, giving it geostrategic significance. British agents travelled through Central Asia as part of ‘trade missions’; when they came to Balochistan, they gathered local information on tribal politics for later colonial expansion. In time, Quetta became a strategic buffer city for British control of Afghanistan.

Following their defeat in the First Anglo-Afghan War (1839–42), the British installed a compliant Shahnavaz Khan as ruler of Quetta, which helped them to ‘divide and rule’; The city’s later reoccupation was formalised when Sir Robert Groves Sandeman was appointed in 1877. Quetta Cantonment was established in the 1860s and is one of the largest and oldest in Pakistan, housing the Southern Command Headquarters, and  now plays a central role in Pakistan’s military planning and defence across Balochistan. Within these cantonments, there are high-security residential zones, sports clubs, parks, and golf clubs, reflecting how a post-colony has continued with a segregated city and geography.

According to the  World Population Review, Quetta’s population in 2025 is 1,253,110 (approx.). Quetta functions as a frontier outpost between Iran and Afghanistan and is a key node in transnational conflicts, such as the war in Afghanistan, regional insurgencies, and militarisation — with state-sponsored militancy, Jihadist-militant groups and cross-border dynamics. This makes Quetta a distinct urban city that is highly segregated, and militarised with checkposts, an influx of militant groups, refugees, porous borders, and the pervasive presence of paramilitary forces. These impact social interactions, economic activities and people’s mobility.

Fears Shape Movement for Hazara People

The Hazaras (ethnic Perso-Afghan), local to Balochistan, confront many challenges in Quetta’s cityscape, and their lives are shaped by constant vigilance. Most live in Hazara enclaves (like Mariabad and Hazara Town) due to sectarian violence and prejudice and, after the end of the ‘War on Terror’, have faced brutal target killings by militant Sunni-Jihadist groups like Lashkar-e-Jhangvi (an Al-Qaeda-affiliated group), Islamic State-Khorasan Province (ISIS-K) and Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) (National Commission for Human Rights 2018).

In their daily lives, Hazaras also face sealed routes, checkpoints, and ‘high alert periods’, a now normalised segregation. They say they are unable to  travel or move freely in the city without facing uncertainty, so they rarely venture beyond their enclaves. The heightened securitisation produces a logic that certain communities need to be managed rather than understanding individuals with full rights and autonomy who have a right to participate in social, economic and political spaces.

Following the escalation of their target killings in 2013, the government deployed Frontier Checkpoints personnel to secure the Hazara community in Hazara Town and Mariabad. Additionally, permanent checkpoints have been established at the entry and exit points of these enclaves. There are also ongoing police patrols along common routes to ensure the safe movement of Hazaras from Quetta to Taftan (in south-eastern Iran on the west). However, some Hazara people say these measures have reduced their mobility.

Some Hazaras also said that  they have built markets, shops, buildings, and shopping malls in the heart of Quetta city, but land mafias are coercing them to abandon their businesses and properties, sometimes killing them if they refuse to do so.

Women’s Survival & Gendered Spaces

Élite-driven economic projects contribute to the unequal urban landscape.  Since 2000, real estate has become a major investment zone in Pakistan. Gated communities have mushroomed, aiming to provide security for upper-middle-class people, who also view informal settlements as  ‘backward’,  ‘uncivilised’ or  ‘criminal’. A research study on Quetta (2024) found that residents of higher-income, gated neighbourhoods (like Jinnah Town) experienced lower crime rates than those in lower-income or non-gated neighbourhoods (like Chaman Society and Arbab Town).

Similarly, there are many  informal settlements  (katchi abadi) on the outskirts of Quetta where Afghan refugees live. There are no paved roads or drainage systems here; instead, open sewage manholes are common. One afternoon, while visiting a mud-brick house in Ghousabad, an Afghan refugee woman who was cleaning peanuts from their husks, said that her husband does dihari mazdoori (daily wage work). ‘I do this labour for our livelihood, cleaning peanuts husks, and the daily wage labour contractors pay us 50 rupees per day.’ She has three children to look after; she also does all domestic chores.

Her experience reflects how refugee women are burdened with domestic labour and sustaining livelihoods for their families. These women face multiple layers of oppression, including invisible labour, state oppression and patriarchal constraints, immigration challenges, lack of protection from the state, restricted mobility, social constraints, ethnic discrimination, cultural othering, and economic poverty, limited access to financial independence, dependency on aid agencies.

But it overlooks how refugee women and their rights and existence are monitored or denied.

When everyday lives are disrupted, unpredictable public spaces also become gendered. This legitimises restrictions on women’s mobility, travel and claims on public spaces. Women feel unwelcome and unsafe in male-centric spaces. Men often claim communal spaces, including public transport, parks and streets.

This also produces a cyclical psychology where women, when visible in public, are harassed, judged, watched, and monitored like an outsider. On the other hand, men become visible through surveillance, bureaucracies and authorities. Men then internalise this behaviour and reproduce control against women, underlining how urban violence, militarisation, and patriarchy infiltrate everyday lives for everyone. For working women and middle-class women in Quetta, stepping outside becomes a negotiation over when to leave, which route to take, and weighing every calculated risk in the city. Not many women are comfortable driving a car or riding a bike;  some rely on public transport (like  rickshaws) or have male escorts. Restricted movement also limits access to healthcare, education, and civic engagement.

Informal Jobs and Labour

What is also overlooked is the expansion of the informal economy in Quetta, as businesses and households operate outside the formal economic framework. Because of job scarcity and unemployment, informal jobs are common across multiple sectors of Quetta’s urban economy — like transportation, food services, retail, and real estate.  Many wholesale traders in the city operate without formal registration, tax compliance or licences, operating outside regulatory oversight. Informal manufacturing activities also includes invisible women’s labour, often excluded from formal jobs because of ethnic or sectarian prejudice. Lower-income families, such as Afghan, Baloch and Hazara women work from home, which is also  underpaid. For Baloch women, their resistance is also an emotional labour, as they grieve for loved ones subject to enforced disappearances.

In a militarised, volatile city, a street vendor selling fruits, an Afghan refugee who is a waste-picker in the city, the informal work is considered as something that exists ‘outside the system’ but is, in fact, built on the cheap labour of these marginalised people. These informal works are shaped by the same development policies that build lavish malls, housing schemes, towering luxury apartments, and the privatisation of land. The irony is stark in how these mega-projects shape development policies that prioritise spectacle over the welfare of people. These people absorb the risk that a formal system refuses to carry, as they keep the food circulating, services running, and risk their lives and labour to make ends meet.

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Since the 1980s, Pakistan has experienced economic privatisation of public spaces, with land and property in the hands of a few élites. Public assets are converted into market assets, like the Defence Housing Authority (DHA) in Quetta, near Kuchlak. Liberalisation of the economy has meant opening cities for the market and allowing the flow of profit but public needs have been ignored. This has led to polarised and fragmented class divisions and new conflicts related to land, resources and opportunities.

Today, Quetta is a city of contrasts —  it  is harsh and agonising for the downtrodden, yet it is alive with the quiet pulse of everyday acts of resistance and human endurance. After 2000, Pakistani cities have been transformed not for citizens on the margins and those who live there but for global capital, surplus of capitalist development and wealth concentrated in corporate hands. On the flipside, there are working-class individuals who clean, cook, drive, and maintain urban life amid constant fear and threats. When élites  ‘redevelop’ cities, they also reorganise who can move freely, who is policed, and who is discriminated against — perpetuating new hierarchies, discrimination and technological surveillance. Inclusive city planning needs bottom-up, community-centred approaches that reduce people’s vulnerabilities, rather than providing band-aid solutions and development designed for the wealthy.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 8 June 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Syed Aoun Abbas, Quetta, 2021, Unsplash.

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The post Everyday Lives and Labour in Quetta’s Urban Spaces first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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When Sri Lankan Tourism authorities endorsed a project by Equal Ground to promote LGBTQI+ tourism in September 2025, the predictable backlash was swift. The Archbishop of Colombo condemned the move for destroying culture and religious traditions, while the Chief Prelates of all three Buddhist Chapters wrote to President Anura Kumara Dissanayake warning that such initiatives could harm cultural values and lead to serious social consequences. Member of Parliament Namal Rajapaksa amplified the opposition, citing the rich heritage of Sri Lanka. A familiar cycle of moral panic had begun. Again.

But beneath this predictable theatre lies a deeper question that nobody wants to ask: is LGBTQ+ tourism actually linked to queer liberation? Or does it simply repackage exploitation in progressive language?

The Retreat of the State

The full extent of the government’s retreat became clear in early 2026. In February, Attorney General Parinda Ranasinghe informed the Court of Appeal that the letter endorsing LGBTQI+ tourism would be withdrawn. Then, on 4 March came the decisive blow: the Attorney General confirmed the Sri Lanka Tourism Development Authority had taken a formal policy decision to not promote LGBTQI+ tourism in Sri Lanka. The petitioners withdrew their challenge.

Ranasinghe remarked:

People in Sri Lanka are still uncomfortable speaking on this topic. It’s a cultural issue. It’s not Europe, it is still Asia.

Rosanna Flamer-Caldera of Equal Ground expressed ‘total disappointment’, noting the government had come to power promising decriminalisation. The message was unequivocal: when ‘homocapitalism’ (as coined by Rahul Rao 2020) meets organised homophobic opposition, queer inclusion is the first casualty.

The Fragility of Corporate Inclusion

Earlier, just weeks after the initial controversy, in early October 2025, Watawala Tea released a short film titled ‘Him, Her and Them’ — a story about a family accepting a child whose gender expression defies societal expectations. When public backlash followed, the company apologised and removed the film (on 15 October).

This withdrawal reveals a crucial fact about market-based queer inclusion in Sri Lanka. The film’s  target audience was the urban, Sinhala, English-speaking, middle-class — ‘respectable’ queer subjects palatable to consumer capitalism. When consumer discomfort emerged, inclusion evaporated. The logic of ‘homocapitalism’ was laid bare: inclusion is permitted only when it does not disrupt market stability.

What the film rendered unimaginable was the Malaiyaha Tamil queer subject, the plantation labourer whose community has powered Sri Lanka’s tea economy since colonial times while receiving some of the lowest wages. These workers, especially women, remain the invisible backbone of an industry now performing symbolic inclusion for urban queers. True liberation cannot be built on unacknowledged bodies.

The Tourism Paradox

The government’s response to the tourism controversy was telling. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Foreign Employment and Tourism initially stated that tourism promotion ‘remains rooted in unity, tradition, and the shared values’ that define Sri Lankan society, a compromise that preserves conservative social order while hinting at inclusivity. The March 2026 policy decision has now made that compromise absolute.

But LGBTQI+ tourism raises uncomfortable questions that remain relevant despite the policy retreat. The global LGBTQI+ travel industry is valued at over US$357 billion, making it a tempting market even for countries that criminalise homosexuality. Who benefits when tourism is structured this way?

Consider Israel’s ‘pinkwashing’ strategy, which Jasbir Puar has documented, promoting a progressive image on LGBTQI+ rights to distract attention from Palestine. Similar dynamics risk playing out elsewhere. The very visibility that tourism promotes can become a conduit for greater persecution, as local queers — particularly trans sex workers already facing unemployment, harassment and violence — become commodified for foreign consumption.

The NGO-isation Trap

At the heart of these contradictions lies the NGO-isation of queer politics in Sri Lanka. When organisations like Equal Ground partner with state authorities, queerness becomes a tool for national branding, promising modernity and progress while leaving structural inequalities intact.

This approach imagines queer inclusivity as a ‘business case’ because it makes ‘business sense’ but it forecloses any questioning of who truly controls the narrative and for whose benefit. Meanwhile, right-wing groups weaponise homophobia with equal cynicism. The newly mushrooming ‘Mothers Movement’, ideologically aligned with Trumpism globally and ‘Rajapaksa-ism’ locally, mobilises moral panic around motherhood and cultural purity, securitising sexuality as a matter of national integrity.

The current National People’s Power (NPP) government had an opportunity to break this cycle. The 2024 election manifesto pledged to revise Penal Code Sections 365 and 365A (the colonial-era laws criminalising same-sex relations) and to expand constitutional protections. Yet, when faced with amplified sex panics, they retreated. The opportunity to decouple economic arguments for extractive tourism from broader debates over queer liberation is yet to be seized by the government.

Towards a Transformative Politics

A critical question remains: can homocapitalism actually end homophobia? Events of the past six months have revealed that it cannot do so. Market-based inclusion collapses under pressure, and the state retreats when confronted by organised religious and nationalist opposition.

Decriminalisation efforts, while necessary, will remain incomplete as long as the entanglement of religion and state goes unchallenged. This nexus, not merely the Penal Codes, is the structural foundation upon which queer exclusion in Sri Lanka is built. The Archbishop of Colombo and the Chief Buddhist Prelates did not merely offer opinions from the margins; their opposition was treated by the government as a binding veto. Until the structural power of religious authority over state policy is dismantled, queer rights will remain hostage to whichever moral panic religious leaders choose to amplify together with the homophobic politics that invariably accompanies it. The government’s retreat was not a failure of communication; it was a failure to assert that a secular state must govern for all citizens, regardless of theological objections.

Thus, repealing Sections 365 and 365A (laws unchanged since 1883) will not make environments safer without simultaneous changes at political, social and institutional levels. What is needed is a radical, intersectional (queer) politics that:

• Challenges the religion–state nexus as a non-negotiable prerequisite for lasting change;
• Recognises Malaiyaha queers and other marginalised groups as political subjects, connecting sexual liberation to struggles for labour justice, caste equality and ethnic minority rights;
• Resists the neo-liberal commodification of queerness, understanding that market-based inclusion will always be withdrawn when profits or political capital are threatened;
• Builds solidarity across movements, linking queer struggle to workers’, feminist and anti-colonial movements.

Such a politics would question how ‘progressive’ tourism reproduces colonial frameworks where local queer lives become invisible or exotic. It would challenge the binary between ‘traditional’ and ‘modern’ that both liberals and conservatives deploy. It would build local and transnational community-based alternatives outside market logics that seek consumption rather than emancipation.

The cycle of moral panic in Sri Lanka is overfamiliar, a predictable theatre that leaves injustice intact. The Attorney General’s announcement  (March 2026) is not an ending but a clarification: any kind of inclusion within existing power structures was always conditional. Breaking this cycle requires not performative inclusion within capitalism and religious majoritarianism but a politics that challenges both simultaneously.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 1 June 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Marek Studzinski, 2024, Unsplash.

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The post The Tourism Trap: Pink Money Will Not Liberate Queer Sri Lankans first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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India is experiencing, at rapid pace, a mode of cultural production centred on wealth and politics, a departure of sorts in many respects. The embrace of private affluence and the cultural shift in favour of wealth is largely attributable to the Liberalisation–Privatisation–Globalisation (LPG) reforms that began in 1991. The ultra-wealthy are no longer seen as ‘damned and profit-sucker industrialists’ of the dirigisme period, nor do they symbolise the counter-culture archetypes portrayed in Bollywood films of yore. Movies, videos, podcasts, reels, leadership manuals, (auto)biographies, and fiction now increasingly depict wealth-creators and their habits, beliefs and work cultures as vital talismans behind India’s billionaire-boom.

However, this cultural (re)production is most remarkable and impactful in the form of what, following Gary Poole, I call ‘wealth porn’, a phenomena primarily manifest across digital platforms. Material norms are seamlessly injected into social spaces where symbols of status and luxury like cars, lifestyles, watches, and mansions are projected as ultimate measures of life, success, identity, and fulfilment.

What does the idea of ‘wealth porn’ entail in the Indian context, what kinds of contradictory public discourses does it generate, with what implications for unequal societies?

A Double-edged Sword

Digital platforms are saturated with a particular kind of reels, videos and live-streams that glamourise symbols of affluence and the freshly minted wealth of India’s superrich. Luxury watches, shoes, gleaming cars, and curated lifestyles are paraded as emblems of aspiration. Some videos extol the ‘relentless’ work ethic of billionaires, others invite you to emulate their ‘special habits’ in the hope of becoming one yourself and yet others showcase the ‘benevolence’ of the wealthy. Wealth porn pictures the superrich as a discreet breed of ruthless, goal-oriented individuals, scrubbing their business endeavours clean of any trace of luck or political patronage. The pursuit of wealth and everything it returns are projected as the supreme ethic of life. This is world of wealth porn!

The logic of objectification here is not entirely unlike that of conventional pornography. The body in porn and luxury in wealth porn are both staged, curated and manipulated, with an incessant evocation of desire, admiration, fantasy, and perfection. Both conjure realities that are by and large unattainable, distort perceptions and arouse powerful emotions, sometimes awe, but many a time shame, discontent and resentment. In social parlance, wealth porn performs an important ideological function: it refashions our imagination of wealth and elevates wealth creation as the sovereign objective of life and the marker of fulfilment and success. So far it continually fixates our gaze with admiration for the wealth creators, it visualises them as nothing less than ‘builders of the nation’. Interestingly, they echo this norm, often declaring that each act of accumulation is made in the interest of the nation.

Wealth porn generates perpetual fascination with wealth and affluence, and it does so in a variety of forms. Some forms promote a simplistic hedonistic belief that being wealthy inherently represents a life of contentment, fulfilment and happiness. Others represent superrich wealth as a function of some extraneous ethic, hard work and sheer brilliance that few others possess. Still others promote habits, opinions and beliefs drawn from the lived life of billionaires as essential talismans to getting very rich. While wealth porn helps generate subtle popular narratives in favour of the superrich, it also renders poverty and destitution into existential conditions, the responsibility for which lies with individuals. It also generates envy, resentment and shame among those without wealth who do not succeed despite hard work, and who internalise the shame of failure.

In Search of India’s ‘Protestant Ethic’

Rapid economic transformations can unsettle and reconfigure the way wealth and its creation are perceived in collective imagination. Contemporary India’s superrich represent a bewildering rupture from its religio-cultural traditions which for centuries has frowned upon materialism, accumulation of wealth and display. The pursuit of wealth was once read as moral susceptibility, a pathway to corruption than a mark of achievement; social influence stemmed from one’s rank in socio-religious hierarchy rather than material possessions. The economic guilds and mercantile groups were largely preoccupied with rank order in religion and caste rather than economic interests, which perhaps explains why Max Weber argued that India lacked an equivalent of the ‘Protestant Ethic’ that propelled capitalist modernity in the West.

The dramatic spike in private wealth in India has led many to ‘reclaim’ the ‘suppressed’ material tradition believed to have existed in India’s distant past. For instance, the Economic Survey 2019–20 notes:

‘For more than three-fourths of known economic history, India has been the dominant economic power globally. During much of India’s economic dominance, the economy relied on the invisible hand of the market for wealth creation with the support of the hand of trust.’

These revisionist efforts seem almost compulsively determined to invent a coherent material tradition even if such a tradition did not fully exist. However, it would be a mistake to dismiss India’s material culture simply through the framework of Weber and Karl Marx. The meteoric rise of India’s billionaires points to a momentous transformation, one that some view as a rupture with the nation’s ‘spiritual history’ while others interpret as an emblematic rediscovery of India’s latent material spirit.

This tension requires serious reflection but what is undeniable is how wealth porn is increasingly reflecting and amplifying this rapidly evolving material culture by projecting it back into social imagination with all its dazzling allure and contradictions. 

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Wealth porn carries deep political undercurrents, particularly in unequal societies of South Asian countries where it can flare up existing social divides. The Gen Z protests in Nepal in 2025 are a case in point. For years, the children of Nepal’s political and economic élite flaunted their foreign education, luxury watches, flashy cars, and lavish parties online, providing a glaring visual testament to the country’s deep inequalities. This opulent display became a rallying point for a growing counter-movement targeting ‘nepo kids’ or ‘nepo babies’, widely perceived as beneficiaries of looted wealth and corrupt privilege. The simmering political anger suddenly erupted into a full-blown crisis in which young protesters stormed Nepal’s parliament (a symbol of the political élite) but their ire was most fiercely directed at the trappings of wealth itself — luxury hotels, upscale restaurants and other symbols of status and affluence. Wealth porn thus tore through façades and exposed deep-seated resentments even in a nation that officially outperforms India on income inequality measures like the Gini Coefficient.

India presents a more stark case if one looks at recent reports on wealth and income inequalities. World Inequality Report (2023) indicates that the top 1 per cent and the bottom 50 per cent of the population own 40.1 per cent and 6.4 per cent of total wealth respectively. This bottom-side deprivation paradoxically co-exists with opulence and grandeur at the top. The lavish wedding festivities for the son of business tycoon Mukesh Ambani’s son, much like his sprawling Antilia home, are definitive visual metaphors for understanding these paradoxes. As Pratap Bhanu Mehta points out, these festivities signify a fundamental shift in élite social expression in India: from traditional norms of functional distance from the public eye and reticence towards a paradigm of fusion and performative publicness. In other words, élites have come a long way to embody wealth, media and spectacle simultaneously.

Wealth porn is thus not merely a reflection of changing material culture in India but also a latent social process with sensationally dangerous implications, as it normalises inequality, legitimises superrich norms and holds the potential to trigger civil discord. It has brought the most advantaged and most disadvantaged in a single public epistemic frame perhaps for the first time in India. It incessantly seeks to secure cultural appropriation of affluence and luxury, shaping narratives that valourise the superrich, celebrate economic growth and sanctify philanthropy. Its potential to shape public perceptions about the distribution of economic growth, and the nexus between the political and economic élite, undermines democratic discourses and political equality.

Wealth porn is quietly shaping a new cultural production in India; it provides a glimpse into a popular fascination for affluence and communicates the magnitude of disparities to the public. While Mehta contends that such performative opulence rarely generates immediate resentment or envy among the public, the question of whether this fascination can sour into public resentment in India, as in the case of Nepal, warrants reflection. Scholarship on contentious politics suggests that public resentment does not escalate into violence automatically; it is a gradual process that feeds on a variety of factors, including state capacity, political opportunity, organisational resources, and economic shocks.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 27 May 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Jingming Pan, 2021, Unsplash.

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In February 2025, inside two of China’s largest shipyards — China State Shipbuilding Corporation (CSSC) Waigaoqiao in Shanghai (Photo 1) and China Merchants Heavy Industry (CMHI) Haimen near Nantong (Photo 2) — the contrast was hard to ignore. Highly automated production lines were delivering ever more sophisticated vessels, from ultra-large container ships to next-generation Liquid Natural Gas (LNG) carriers, with orders for more such vessels stretching years into the future. The question now is no longer what China can build, but what it is choosing not to build?

Photo 1: Large cruise ship construction, CSSC Waigaoqiao Shipyard, Shanghai © Author, 2026.

Photo 2: LNG vessel construction, CMHI Haimen Shipyard, near Nantong © Author, 2026.

The answer to the question started taking shape months earlier in Dhaka. In discussions with senior officials at the Bangladesh Inland Water Transport Corporation (BIWTC), a different pattern of demand emerged: more passenger routes, expanded coastal ferry capacity, the repair of ageing vessels, and long-delayed dockyard upgrades. These were not the segments East Asia’s leading shipyards were focusing on — but they were exactly what Bangladesh needed.

Between China’s industrial upgrading and Bangladesh’s unmet demand lies a widening gap. This gap is not accidental. It reflects a deeper shift in how global shipbuilding is organised: the gradual erosion of the ‘middle’.

The Hollowing Middle

The global shipbuilding industry is entering a period of clear divergence. On one end, leading producers — China, South Korea and Japan — are strengthening their dominance in high-value, technology-intensive vessels; on the other, demand for smaller, labour-intensive ships remains strong, driven by domestic transport needs, regional trade and fleet renewal in developing economies.

What is disappearing is the ‘middle’.

In 2025, China alone delivered over half of global shipbuilding output, capturing a dominant share of new green vessel orders. Yet, this dominance masks an important shift. Rising labour costs, tighter environmental standards and policy-driven upgrading have pushed major shipyards towards increasingly complex vessels. Lower-margin, mid-sized ships are not beyond their capabilities — they are simply no longer a priority.

This is not a short-term adjustment. It points to a deeper reorganisation in which production concentrates at the technological frontier while lower-end capacity becomes more dispersed. The result is not a complete disappearance of the ‘middle’, but a ‘missing middle’ in relative terms: a segment under increasing pressure, unevenly served and subject to intensifying competition. In some niches (like smaller feeder vessels) established producers have adapted rather than withdrawn. But across much of the mid-sized segment, gaps in cost, capability and strategic focus are becoming more visible.

Bangladesh as Systemic Outcome

Bangladesh is often described as an emerging shipbuilding nation. Perhaps a more accurate way to understand it is that this is a result of shifts in global pririties.

The advantages are not accidental. With labour costs around US$ 1.00 per hour, it remains one of the last large-scale reservoirs of cost-competitive industrial labour. More importantly, its ship-recycling industry at Sitakunda has created a self-reinforcing ecosystem: recycled steel reduces input costs while decades of dismantling complex vessels have generated a workforce with practical skills in welding, plating and outfitting. This combination — low costs, recycled inputs and accumulated skills — positions Bangladesh precisely within the space that advanced shipbuilding economies are vacating.

Domestic demand reinforces this trend. With over 5,000 kilometres of navigable waterways, Bangladesh depends heavily on inland and coastal shipping. Plans outlined by BIWTC — including new passenger vessels, expanded ferry capacity and dockyard modernisation — are not isolated projects. They point to a steady pipeline of mid-sized demand that could support long-term industrial growth.

Private shipyards have already shown export potential, delivering vessels to Europe, the Middle East, and South Asia at competitive prices and with internationally recognised classification standards.

Bangladesh is not just filling a gap — it is taking up a position created by changes in the global system. But the emergence of this ‘missing middle’ does not guarantee success. It creates opportunity — but within tightening constraints.

A Competitive but Constrained Niche

The global regulatory environment is shifting rapidly. New efficiency and emissions standards, driven by the International Maritime Organization and reinforced by regional measures such as the European Union’s carbon regime, are raising the technological threshold even for mid-sized vessels. Compliance increasingly depends on advanced engines, specialised coatings, digital design capabilities, and close integration with global classification systems — areas where Bangladesh remains heavily dependent on external suppliers.

In such a context, labour cost advantages alone are no longer sufficient. The central challenge is not just building ships more cheaply but building ships that meet evolving technical and environmental requirements. This raises a more fundamental question: whether Bangladesh can translate cost competitiveness into capability upgrading before regulatory and technological barriers become prohibitive.

Regional competitors face their own pressures. Vietnam is moving up the value chain but losing some cost advantages. India’s ambitions are tempered by bureaucratic frictions and higher input costs. The Philippines remains focused on repair and seafaring rather than new building, while Turkey competes successfully in specialised segments but not in large-volume, cost-sensitive production.

In this landscape, Bangladesh’s advantage is narrow but real: a cost-driven, ecosystem-supported niche in labour-intensive vessels. The key question is not whether it can compete with advanced shipbuilding powers — it cannot — but whether it can secure this niche before conditions change.

From Gap to Structure

What is unfolding in Bangladesh is not unique to shipbuilding. It reflects a broader transformation in how global production is organised.

As leading economies upgrade, they do not simply move up the value chain — they leave behind segments of production that must be taken up elsewhere. But this process is rarely smooth. It creates gaps and transitional spaces where new entrants can emerge.

The ‘missing middle’ in shipbuilding is one such space.

Whether it persists depends on two forces. The first is technological diffusion: if emerging producers can move into more complex segments, the ‘middle’ may be rebuilt. The second is structural concentration: if high-value production remains clustered while lower-end activities disperse, the ‘middle’ may continue to erode.

Navigating the Critical Juncture

Bangladesh’s trajectory will depend on how it navigates this moment.

If it can use its cost advantages to build capabilities — moving gradually from assembly to design, and from labour intensity to higher productivity — it may turn a temporary opportunity into a lasting position within global shipbuilding. If not, it risks remaining confined to a narrow segment of the value chain, exposed to rising costs and technological change.

The stakes extend beyond a single country. They raise a broader question: can global production systems sustain a meaningful ‘middle’, or will they remain divided between high-end concentration and dispersed low-cost manufacturing?

In shipbuilding, as in many industries, the ‘middle’ is no longer guaranteed. It must be rebuilt — but doing so will depend not only on cost but on whether emerging producers can meet the rising technological and regulatory demands of a decarbonising industry.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 18 May 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Refat Ul Islam, 2023, Unsplash.

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With intra-regional trade estimated at a dismal 5 per cent, South Asia is one of the least economically and institutionally integrated regions. The fragmentation remains entrenched despite the region’s natural predisposition towards integration — its geographic proximity, historical connections, cultural and ethnic similarities that cut across borders, and an increasing appetite for trade and investment. Ironically, the rigid territorial boundaries that now define South Asia are a notion that is historically alien to the region’s geographical and civilisational landscape, a construct that emerged with the advent of the Westphalian state system.

The region has, in fact, witnessed a series of connectivity initiatives, particularly since the beginning of this century. Among these are the rationalisation of tariffs within the South Asian Free Trade Area (SAFTA) framework, operation of several integrated check posts, modernisation of maritime infrastructure, and institutionalisation of sub-regional connectivity frameworks such as the Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, Nepal (BBIN) network and the Bay of Bengal Initiative for Multi-Sectoral Technical and Economic Cooperation (BIMSTEC). Yet, translation of these initiatives into meaningful integration remains elusive as regional connectivity is frequently held hostage to political rivalries and conflicts. Unlike regions where economic imperatives act as catalysts in softening political conflicts, recurrent conflicts disrupt or even reverse bi- and multi-lateral progress in South Asia. India’s indefinite suspension of rail connectivity and closing of six major land ports with Bangladesh following the student protests in Bangladesh in 2024 is the latest example of how connectivity in the region is vulnerable to political volatility.

Securitisation of Border Infrastructure

Connectivity often becomes the first casualty of political unrest in South Asia because countries in the region view their overland borders from a lens of national security. As such, the imperatives of security often shape the conception, management and implementation of border connectivity and infrastructure.

India  occupies the pivotal position in the regional connectivity landscape due to its geographic centrality, economic scale and military capacity. Two of India’s key institutions responsible for border connectivity, the Land Ports Authority of India (LPAI) and the Border Roads Organisation, are part of the government’s Ministry of Home Affairs and the Ministry of Defence respectively. This inclusion illustrates how India’s border infrastructure governance is embedded within the security paradigm.

India is not an exception in this regard; the responsibility for constructing and maintaining border infrastructure largely rests with paramilitary and military agencies across South Asia. In Pakistan, for instance, major frontier infrastructure is developed and maintained by the Frontier Works Organisation which is part of Pakistan’s Army. In Bangladesh, management of border and infrastructure is entrusted with Border Guard Bangladesh which not only safeguards territorial integrity but also addresses transnational crimes such as (human and drug) trafficking and smuggling of goods. In sum, development of border infrastructure in South Asia is often driven by concerns of national and territorial security, and includes complex infrastructure constructed by defence and paramilitary institutions.

Ethnic Spillovers and the Fragility of Regional Connectivity

Apart from this security-centric approach, another critical aspect undermining regional connectivity is the cross-border ethnic dynamics of the region. Ethnic linkages, which should be the glue connecting people across borders, often act as a conduit for cross-border spillage of violence in South Asia. For instance, the ethnic kinship between Tamils of Sri Lanka and Tamils in south India has historically influenced cross-border relations; this connectivity became embroiled in the protracted civil conflict in Sri Lanka. For example, the intensification of civil war in the 1970s rendered many air routes, particularly those connecting Jaffna in northern Sri Lanka with the Indian state of Tamil Nadu untenable; Palaly Airport at Jaffna became a military airfield, suspending civil and commercial flights. The fact that flight service between Jaffna and Tamil Nadu was renewed only after 50 years (in 2019) demonstrates the enduring impact of conflicts on connectivity in South Asia.

A similar dynamic unfolded with the promulgation of a new Constitution in Nepal in 2016. The Madhesi community in Nepal, which shares close familial and cultural ties with people in various parts of northern India, staged widespread protests against their perceived political marginalisation. This resulted in a blockade of the Indo-Nepal border in 2019 (re-opened in 2021), which led to an acute shortage of essential goods like medicines and fuel in Nepal. Sectors like energy and healthcare also witnessed severe disruptions; it also impeded much-needed humanitarian relief for earthquake-affected population in Nepal, and the lack of fertilisers and seeds impacted agricultural productivity.

Such examples illustrate how regional connectivity frameworks are easy hostages of political disputes in South Asia.

Recurring Conflicts and Connectivity Disruptions

South Asia is often viewed through the lens of conflict between India and Pakistan. Military escalations and terrorism have led to repeated suspensions of connectivity projects between the two countries. The much-talked-about Samjhauta Express train (samjhauta = understanding) and Delhi–Lahore bus service, which were supposed to boost people-to-people connectivity, have been affected by repeated flare-ups in bilateral relations. The terrorist attack in Pahalgam on 25 April 2025, which killed several Indian civilians, has for now sealed all hopes on any improvement in border connectivity between the two countries. India has stopped issuing visas for Pakistani nationals, closed integrated check posts, the Attari-Wagah crossing and the much hyped Kartarpur Corridor. 

Not just bilateral disputes, domestic conflicts also take a toll on connectivity. The student protests in Bangladesh (mentioned earlier) led to major logistical disruptions at key border points with India, leading to freight delays. Similarly, following the Gen Z protests in Nepal in 2025, trade routes to India were blocked, and the borders witnessed long queues of vehicles carrying goods.

Way Forward

The untapped potential for integration that exists in South Asia is immense. The latest testimony for this is the emerging interdependence in energy connectivity facilitated by grid integration between India, Nepal and Bangladesh. In a landmark initiative, Nepal has commenced the export of electricity to Bangladesh via India’s power transmission network from 15 June 2025. This advances Nepal’s aspiration to be a regional energy exporter and India’s role as a facilitator of regional energy exchange; India plans to extend this framework to include Sri Lanka, thereby signaling the vision for an energy corridor in the region.

However, the introduction of new initiatives alone cannot set things right in a region where mutual distrust is deeply entrenched and intermittent conflicts are the norm. For any initiatives to yield fruitful outcomes, the region should first cultivate a habit of trust and cooperation, institutionalise mechanisms to continue dialogue, and not compromise long-term foreign policy objectives for short-term political issues or gains. 

To make connectivity resilient to conflict, a mixture of political, institutional and practical measures are required. First, the region has to embed its connectivity initiatives in frameworks that are harder to suspend at the whim of political flare-ups. A useful example is the connectivity initiatives of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN), where commitments are tied to a regional identity and mutual benefits. Second, South Asian countries should make use of initiatives supported by multilateral or external institutions to secure some degree of insulation. Third-party monitoring, financing and dispute resolution mechanisms offer some respite against bilateral disputes that completely derail any projects. Last, and importantly, given the conflict-ridden nature of South Asian politics, connectivity projects should have a conflict-sensitive design. This should involve stakeholders from all sides, emergency protocols and alternative routes so that any domestic unrest in one country does not paralyse the entire corridor. The incorporation of these measures holds the promise of puttng the region on the path of collective growth and prosperity.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 11 May 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Abhinav Sharma, Wagah Border between India and Pakistan, 2022, Unsplash.

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Ladakh is a cold, arid region with terrain especially sensitive to changes in climate. With rapidly receding glacial water, some villages have already been abandoned and many more will be forced to move in search of water. For at least a century, people have practiced farming here, and crops like wheat, peas and barley are cultivated extensively. But untimely, and increasing less, snowfall — both results of global warming — has adversely affected the region.

The Eastern Himalayan region receives heavy rainfall but Ladakh (in the west) receives less than 80 mm (about 3 inches) rain annually, as it falls under the rain shadow zone of the Himalayas. Arid Ladakh has no rain-fed harvest, and agriculture depends completely on glacial water.

Chewang Norphel is known as the ‘Iceman of Ladakh’, responsible for several artificial glaciers in numerous villages in this region to help the farmers; he believes that since ‘we can’t make water, so our only option is to use the source available to us’. Climate activist Sonam Wangchuk invented the unique idea of making ice stupas to address water shortage, freezing water in the winter when there is a surplus (which is wasted) for use in drier times. Both Norphel and Wangchuk are pioneers in raising awareness of rapidly melting glacial water and its impact on Ladakh. Wangchuk’s ‘Climate Fast’, inspired by Gandhi, aimed to mobilise citizens about climate change and its impact on the high Himalayas.

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According to Vladimiro Pelliciardi (2010) has described Ladakh as a ‘constellation of villages’ at the ‘crossroads of Asia’. Historically, the region’s needs had been fulfilled through subsistence agriculture and pastoralist and caravan trade. However, Zanskar valley (in Ladakh) always had agriculture as the main occupation but due to scarcity of water in recent times, people have begun to abandon villages in the region. For example, residents of Kumik village migrated to lower areas in search of water for farming, where access to rivers is easier. More recently, Stok, Kan Yaste and Durung-Drung have witnessed rapid melting of glaciers due to increase in trekking tourists.  

This, in turn, raises an important question: how long can people who are relocating to access river water continue to rely on rivers? It is a pertinent question because upstream, it is glaciers that are the prime source of water for the river, being fed by smaller streams flowing from glacial points. When these channels dry up, the river too will run dry.

Another village is Shun, which was abandoned more than a decade ago due to scarcity of water in the village; residents migrated with their livestock to plain areas alongside Leh district, where water is available at the moment. This new ‘village’, called Chumik Chan, can be seen from the Leh–Manali highway. It is important to remember that the abandonment of Shun village did not arise from modern needs of proper roads and electricity but solely due to the irreversible crisis of water in the village.

A popular argument between the Global North and Global South is on emissions (carbon and gas), where the latter argues that the ‘developed’ North has historically produced, and is still producing, more than the ‘developing’ South, and should, as such, share the burden of reparation, and cost of becoming ‘green’ — the climate ‘Loss and Damage Fund’, as argued by Pakistan’s Climate Minister Sherry Rehman at COP27 in Sharm al-Shaikh (Egypt). If this argument of ‘historical responsibility’ is applied to the trans-Himalayan context, then big cities of India must take greater responsibility, and provide support, to mitigate the impact of climate change in the Himalayas.

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Ladakh has two hill councils, and neither of them has any specific policy to save the receding glaciers. There has been a demand that these councils should have some powers to enact laws to protect and conserve this ecosystem, especially with an increase in natural calamities.  In 2010, Ladakh was devastated by flash floods due to cloud burst, which was an indication of the threat of impending environmental catastrophes. Scholars like Ramchandra Guha (1989) have argued in The Unquiet Woods (1989) that timber extraction led to an ecological crisis in the Himalayas; eco-feminist scholar Vandana Shiva (1988) has criticised the prevailing ‘progress model’, questioning a development paradigm that views nature merely as an object for human profit; and Shekhar Pathak (2021) has shown how infrastructure projects (like dams and roads) represent a ‘plain-centric’ approach to development, arguing that these projects fail to respect the fragile Himalayan ecology, ultimately resulting in man-made catastrophes.

To understand the environmental crisis in the Indian Himalayas, there is a need to contextualise two important modern environmental theories: ‘shallow ecology’ and ‘deep ecology’. Coined by Norwegian philosopher Arne Naess against the background of growing anthropocentrism which (he argues) has led to environmental degradation, the two have differences in approach, nature and interpretation.

‘Shallow ecology’ talks about the preservation and protection of the environment as far as it benefits humans, and that the environment should be preserved to the extent that meets human necessities; this is what  is happening in the Himalayan region in the pursuit of human interest, neglecting nature and ecology.

‘Deep ecology’ prioritises nature, species and ecology over humans, arguing that everyone has a right to live, including non-human living things; it seems inspired by Buddhist philosophy, emphasising  a radical shift in our lifestyle. Deep ecology stresses the eco-centric and bio-centric idea that promotes the coexistence of nature, organisms and humans, highlighting their interdependence and interconnectedness.

Residents of Ladakh used to say that the glacier and snow are the ornaments of a mountain, discharging fresh water for the millions of people living in the foothills of mountains and surrounding hamlets. If these ornaments melt rapidly because of climate change, then society and economy in the mountains, specifically in desert areas like Ladakh, will be in trouble, and living in this region will become difficult in the future. Climate change has already knocked at the doors of the Himalayas; the Himalayan glaciers are melting rapidly due to global warming. If at this juncture we do not think about the crisis, then many villages in Ladakh may have to be abandoned, and their residents will need to relocate to other places in search of water. 

Destroying the fragile ecology of Ladakh, which will be irreversible, will also, eventually, affect other sectors: development, tourism, industry, and commerce — those very sectors that stand to gain from this region’s protection.

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The views expressed here are those of the authors and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 4 May 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Aman Gupta, Thang (Ladakh), 2022, Unsplash.

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The likelihood of a major accident is abnormally high in mountains higher than 8,000m, and most climbers die from frigid conditions, low oxygen and bad weather with fierce gales often setting off an avalanche. Despite the high death rate and perils, Sherpas continue to work in high-altitude mountains, frequently putting their lives at risk. Originally an ethnic community that migrated from the Kham region of Tibet in the 16th century to escape savage internal group rivalries, ethnic Sherpas eventually settled in Nepal around the Everest massif and inhabited Solukhumbu, (northeast) Okhaldunga, (northeast and far east) Sankhuwasabha and (central) Rolwaling, below massive mountain peaks including Everest, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, Cho Oyu, and Makalu.

Having lived at altitudes of up to 5,000 metres for over 500 years, the physiological adaptation of Sherpas to hypobaric hypoxia at high-altitude environments makes them less susceptible to altitude-related sickness, and more suited for high-altitude work. From carrying loads as porters on the mountain to being recognised as an integral part of Summit teams, ethnic Sherpas are considered prestigious and indispensable labour in high-altitude mountaineering, transforming their physiological adaptation and skills into professional guiding, training, performing high-altitude search-cum-rescue operations, and removal of garbage.

The Two Sherpas

Sherpas are recognised as janjati [indigenous] of the mountains in Nepal who have historically been a part of Himalayan reconnaissance and expeditions as porters, sardars and climbing partners. Since majority of local high-altitude work was done by Sherpas, their ethnic affiliation got a professionalised connotation, and different ethnic groups started to situationally pass themselves off as ‘Sherpas’ to secure employment in Nepal’s mountaineering industry. The term ‘sherpa’ continues to be used in local parlance as an occupational referent to assistant guides in expedition teams.

Shifting Power Dynamics

Sherpa participation in mountaineering began in the first decade of 1900s when erstwhile mountaineers, explorers and army officers including Alexander Kellas, Francis Younghusband, Frank Smythe, and John West recognised the ability of ethnic Sherpas to outperform others at higher altitudes. Living in the upper reaches of the Himalayas, Sherpas traditionally relied on herding yak, agro-pastoralism and trade across the Nangpa La with Tibet for salt to feed their livestock. Amoment inthe British-led Great Trigonometrical Survey of India (1802–71) extending into the Himalayan region played a pivotal role in the fame and glory associated with Mount Everest and Sherpas.

The 1953 Everest ascent was a game-changer for high-altitude mountaineering; hereafter, almost everyone in the climbing fraternity wanted to reach the summit of the tallest peak in the world. To ensure regular and timely transportation of essential medicines and goods into Khumbu, the Tenzing–Hillary Airport known commonly as the Lukla airstrip (in Khumbu) was undertaken in 1964 by Edmund Hillary of The Himalayan Trust, the idea of which was conceived by him and James F. Fisher. However, the airstrip came to serve as a major conduit for thousands of tourists to the region each year.

The 1990s triggered commercial expeditions to Mount Everest. Foreign expedition companies sold the idea of reaching the top of Everest and coming back down safely with guaranteed success. The 1996 Everest disaster which culminated in several books and accounts — each offering contested realities instead ended up attracting more tourist traffic to Everest. The very thought of scaling the tallest peak surrounded by glory and renown was an adrenaline rush. Thus came a whole new generation of adventure enthusiasts forming a beeline for the summit of Mount Everest, before scattering over to other 8,000m high peaks. What is more interesting is that this decade saw Makalu, Sankhuwasabha and Okhaldunga Sherpas actively participating in high-altitude climbing on Everest and other 8,000m high mountains as high-altitude porters, kitchen boys, cooks, assistant guides, and sardar (lead guide).

However, it was mainly in the aftermath of the 2013 Everest brawl when the rope-fixing team was insulted and humiliated by European alpinists for preventing them from using the ropes that high-altitude workers were fixing for their clients that resentment deepened. It spilled over into 2014, when 16 climbing Sherpas perished in an avalanche on Everest, further amplifying the unequal power dynamics between local and foreign expedition companies into sharper focus. The climbing season was cancelled following a collective call from the labouring bodies who pushed the government of Nepal and foreign teams to recognise their labour with greater respect, and institutionalise financial security. Even though the 13-point list of demands eventually afforded them increased insurance compensation, local workers decided to invest heavily in their own expedition/trekking companies. The hitherto subaltern labouring bodies who worked for their Western counterparts decided to emerge out of their shadows and compete with the foreign companies by offering cheaper prices for Everest and other 8,000m peaks without compromising the safety of mountain tourists or their local high-altitude staff.

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In the post-2010 era, mountaineering has emerged not only as a profitable commercial venture employing thousands of Nepalis as Base Camp staff, kitchen crew, managers, outfitters, world record-holders, and brand ambassadors but also as an indigenous sport embodying national pride that has helped Nepali mountain workers reclaim Himalayan mountaineering. Today, most commercial Himalayan expeditions are organised and led by locally owned Nepali companies which have also taken the lead in garbage clean-up efforts, search-and-rescue operations — using their own longline rescue systems and helicopters that employ ‘white masculine bodies’, and in continued success in setting new world records in high-altitude mountaineering, further establishing their credibility as expert mountain guides.

As ‘subaltern’ labouring bodies become acutely aware of their indispensability and positionality in Himalayan mountaineering, a strong resistance to condescension and obscurity is seen in multiple narratives of the local HAWs who now demand equal respect, equal pay and equal opportunities as they reclaim Himalayan mountaineering.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here  for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 27 April 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk  for queries.

Banner image © Peter Thomas, The Himalayas, 2019, Unsplash.

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The post Sherpas, High-Altitude Mountaineering and Recognition in Nepal first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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As orange flames atop Gul Plaza in Karachi (Pakistan) licked the dark sky, neighbours and bystanders once again stepped up to coordinate rescue efforts as the state, unsurprisingly, lagged behind. Shopkeepers and volunteers broke open shutters and formed human chains to ensure the safety of those trapped inside, while charities showed up with food and water. Social media filled the vacuum left by official media channels. The state leisurely strolled in later to survey the damage and promise monetary compensation to the victims.

Such apathy and mismanagement from the state is nothing new to Pakistanis, and underlines the reason why common people and non-state actors jump to action instead of waiting for authorities to manage critical situations; in times of crises, Pakistanis have normalised the shift of responsibility from state to society.

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The Gul Plaza fire on 17 January 2026 is one of numerous tragedies that exposes the state’s absence and society’s resolution, often mistaken for resilience. From floods to fires, charities entirely dependent on private donations such as Edhi Foundation, Akhuwat Foundation, Alkhidmat Foundation and Shaukat Khanum Memorial Hospital, to name just a few, are expected to coordinate with civilian volunteers to ensure quick and efficient action, unintendedly providing the state with a socially acceptable and globally celebrated escape route from its responsibilities and accountability. Hence, although there was outrage against the state’s inefficiency and admiration for the heroism of civilians in the aftermath of the Gul Plaza tragedy, there was absolutely no surprise, as Pakistan operates a unique type of welfare system, where the guarantor of welfare is not the state but the society.

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Since Pakistan has never had a welfare state system but has always had a population in desperate need of welfare, the moral economy of care has become deeply embedded in society, further driven by Islamic notions of charity in the form of zakat and sadaqah. This also transfers into the legal governance of Pakistan and the role of taxation, as Pakistan has one of the narrowest tax bases in the world, with the majority of the population, especially the élite, not filing tax returns. Conversely, Pakistanis remain among the world’s top donors to charitable and philanthropic causes, highlighting how most Pakistanis choose to bypass the state and prefer to take matters into their own hands because repeated incidents of mismanagement and corruption by the state has eroded the trust of the public.

The élite’s resistance to taxation is further sustained by the philanthropy of Pakistanis to charitable organisations, as NGOs and welfare trusts are believed to deliver more efficiently than the state. As such, little need is perceived to increase public spending of an inefficient and corrupt state. Thus, the moral economy of care has not taken root as a supplement to the state’s efforts; instead, it has emerged from the flames of charred buildings as a means of survival. It also carries out a double function: apart from simply exchanging moral capital, it serves as a shock absorber of state failure by relieving the pressure from the state to rebuild and reform, and instead transfer that responsibility onto the citizens.

Such a profound substitution effect has in turn recalibrated public expectations, where survival is framed as a collaborative effort instead of a political right. People no longer demand from the state, they simply improvise, and view governance and accountability as a favour from the state instead of an obligation.

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While philanthropy can be viewed as a visible and efficient substitution of state responsibility, it can never replace the state primarily because it should not have to do so. Philanthropy cannot build institutions, nor can it enforce regulation or prevent recurrence; it can simply respond after the volcano erupts. If society races to rebuild every time something breaks down, the underlying causes of the crises remain unresolved, as philanthropy does not have the reach, the resources, and the legitimacy that the state does. Nor should society have to shoulder the responsibilities of the state, which promises basic provisions and apt governance in the Constitution.

Also, the state is expected to distribute care equally throughout the country, while philanthropic organisations are governed by donor priorities and conditionalities, media visibility, public perception, and personal judgement. When welfare is perceived as charity instead of right, inequalities within society may become morally embedded as prejudices and limited resources may govern the distribution of care. Hence, the quiet acceptance by Pakistanis that the state will not protect and society needs to quietly fill the void leads to a wholly unsustainable and unfair model of a ‘welfare state’ entirely dependent on citizens’ morality, philanthropy, initiative, ability, and skill.

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Pakistan’s response to the Gul Plaza tragedy was, yet again, a tale of resolution instead of resilience. Once again celebrating society’s undeniably admirable efforts without questioning the absence of the state paints an adverse picture, as the underlining question remains: why does society always have to step up instead of the state?

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 20 April 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Samar Ahmad, Money Stack, Pakistan, 2021, Unsplash.

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The post Resilience or Resolution? How Pakistan Has Learnt to Live Without the State first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.