India’s largest solar-and-wind park, costing ₹60,000 crore, is planned on 48,000 acres of high-altitude pasture in Ladakh, home to the world’s finest pashmina goats.
Nomadic Changpa herders fear losing their only source of livelihood, with no written guarantees on grazing rights and no compensation for displacement.
Critics say the project’s shift from HVDC to AC transmission will require more land and infrastructure, intensifying environmental damage in the fragile Himalayan ecosystem.
Activists warn that the scheme risks “green grabbing” — seizing land in the name of climate goals — and could permanently erode Ladakh’s cultural and pastoral heritage.
Sonam Thargies stands outside his tent in Skyang-Chu-Thang, his fingers buried in the fleece of a pashmina goat as a cool breeze ruffles the high-altitude pasture, surrounded by Ladakh’s towering peaks in the far north of India.
At 4,657 metres above sea level and 175 kilometres from Ladakh’s capital Leh along the road to Manali, this is the summer home of the goats that produce the world’s finest pashmina — the softest and most expensive wool on earth.
But this pasture in the high Himalayas, where the July sun plays hide-and-seek with drizzly clouds, may soon be covered with solar panels and dotted with wind towers. A yellow survey stone marks the Indian government’s chosen site for its largest solar-and-wind park. Estimated to cost Rs 60,000 crore (£5.5 billion), it will see solar panels blanket at least 48,000 acres (19,425 hectares) of grassland that feed the pashmina goat. Ladakh’s chief secretary has promised grazing will continue, but herders are unconvinced.
“This may be the last time we graze [our goats] here,” says Thargies, 58, deftly wielding the scissors with which he carefully shears pashmina wool in the Samad-Rakchan area of the valley. “To reach this valley, we have to cross Taglang La, a mountain pass around 5,328 metres above sea level.”
Thargies is one of the nomadic herders who have made this annual journey for generations. “Once the solar park is here, the land will be gone. I don’t know where we’ll take our herds – or what happens to us after that,” he says.
The Pang Solar Park is projected to generate up to 9 gigawatts (GW) of solar and 4 GW of wind power – nearly five times the capacity of Rajasthan’s Bhadla Park, currently India’s largest solar facility. It is central to India’s clean energy push.
But it may come at the cost of Ladakh’s nomads. “This land is our only source of income. This is where we belong. This is our life and lifeline,” says Thargies. His community of 270 families, including 50 Tibetan refugees, raises some 50,000 goats, sheep and yaks here. Pashmina from these goats fuels a global luxury market and sustains Ladakh’s economy.
The finest pashmina from Samad-Rakchan and Kharnak, which are part of these pastures, has a Geographical Indication (GI) tag linking it to Ladakh’s high-altitude plains. The goats’ fleece is so delicate it measures just 12-15 microns, almost invisible to the naked eye. This rare fibre is woven into luxurious shawls sold in top fashion outlets worldwide.
Every year, Ladakh produces around 50 metric tonnes of raw pashmina from about 250,000 goats. Herders earn roughly Rs 4,100 per kilogramme through local cooperatives. The wool is cleaned, spun and woven into high-end garments. It remains one of Ladakh’s few successful traditional economies, supporting around 7,000 families in Kharnak and nearby areas. The skill and knowledge behind it, honed over generations, cannot be replaced.
The pastures have now been allocated to the state-owned Solar Energy Corporation of India (SECI). “Solar radiation is excellent here,” says Pawan Kotwal, Chief Secretary of the Union Territory of Ladakh. “The Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council (LAHDC) has agreed to allocate 48,000 acres for the 9 GW solar project. In return, SECI will pay five paisa (0.00058 US cents) per unit after power generation. Grazing rights will be protected, we will make sure of it.”
But herders say they have seen no such guarantee in writing. “There is no paperwork, no dialogue,” says Thargies. “They came, mapped the land and left. We told them we don’t agree.”
SECI will float tenders for electricity generation. The Power Grid Corporation of India Limited (PGCIL) has already begun installing the transmission line that will carry the power generated from here.
The government has launched the Ladakh Green Energy Corridor-II as an addition to its new inter-state transmission system under the Green Energy Corridor-II project. The corridor, 713 kilometres long, includes 480 km of high-voltage direct current (HVDC) lines and a 5 GW HVDC substation between Pang in Ladakh and Kaithal in Haryana, where it terminates.
In early 2025, however, PGCIL decided to switch from HVDC to alternating current (AC) after citing “technical difficulties” with transmitting direct current at high altitudes. “After conducting feasibility tests, we found HVDC transmission was facing problems in this terrain,” said a senior PGCIL official, speaking on condition of anonymity.
Not everyone is convinced. Saurabh Das, an electrical engineer from IIT Bombay who has worked on grid technologies in mountain regions, says HVDC is built for exactly these conditions: long distances and remote terrains. “Switching to AC means more lines, more land, more damage,” he says. “HVDC would have needed only two lines. AC will need far more.”
Documents accessed by Down to Earth show that LAHDC leased 300 acres (121 hectares) to PGCIL for transmission infrastructure in Pang in November 2024. But key details regarding the project and the land transfer remain unclear. In response to Right to Information (RTI) requests to the Union Ministry of Power, the Government of India and PGCIL about tenders, environmental clearances and HVDC systems, officials declined to answer most questions, stating the matters did not fall under the RTI Act. On environmental clearances, they said the information sought “does not fall under 2(f) of the RTI Act 2005”. On whether HVDC would be used, the reply avoided a direct answer.
The project is being carried out under the Regulated Tariff Mechanism (RTM), not through competitive bidding. “Since this region borders China and Pakistan, security concerns prevent open bidding,” a PGCIL official said. “Once we finalise a contractor, we’ll handle all the security clearances, including defence permissions.”
PGCIL has already surveyed the logistics to determine whether roads, tunnels and bridges can handle the heavy equipment – transformers, steel and more – needed for this remote location. “Many bridges on the Jammu–Pang route can bear only 70 to 100 tonnes,” the official said. “Some of our equipment may weigh over 100 tonnes. We’ve asked the Border Roads Organisation to upgrade bridge load limits wherever necessary.”
By the end of June 2025, India had installed 234 GW of renewable energy, with plans to reach 500 GW by 2030. The Ladakh project is a crucial part of that target.
Construction has already started at Pang. Workers from Lloyd Insulation Private Ltd., the contractor for infrastructure, are building offices, a helipad and a small hospital for PGCIL staff. Just 100 metres from the road, a group of workers is busy with shuttering work, powered by a diesel generator that pierces the silence of the pasture. The deadline for the transmission project is 2029-30.
The shift to clean energy appears to be coming at the cost of those who rely on these pastures. The herders have no ownership papers, no legal recognition of their rights over land where their livestock have grazed for centuries. These are common lands. Under the law, the local council — in this case the LAHDC — must agree to hand them over to the government and it has done so. Without land titles, nomads fear displacement without compensation.
“This isn’t barren land,” Thargies says, pointing to the plains where Tibetan wild asses drink from large puddles. “It’s our home. If they take it, they take our future too.”
The LAHDC’s agreement empowers the Ladakh government to hand all the land to SECI without considering the impact on people who depend on it. “They say there’s no question of rehabilitation because we don’t own any village,” says Thargies. “But we belong to this land. We keep moving across Changthang all year, following our herds and hearts.”
Like Thargies, most Changpas (as the herders are called) have no land deeds. They follow ancient migration patterns, passing on oral knowledge and lived experience. Without legal documents, their ties to the land are being ignored.
An international study on pastoralism and large-scale energy projects notes that across Africa, Asia and Latin America, solar and hydrogen schemes often bypass traditional communities, disrupting grazing access without consultation or consent. This phenomenon is known as “green grabbing”, seizing land in the name of climate goals. The report argues that such actions violate international human rights, including the right to land, livelihood and cultural survival.
The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), adopted in 2007, calls for protecting indigenous communities’ political, economic and spiritual systems, especially their rights to traditional lands and resources.
In these pastures, those rights are under pressure. “Our life is tied to the land. We don’t worship money. We worship mountains, wind, water,” says Thinless Norbu, a herder from Debring. “If you take the land, you take our culture, gods and stories from us. This community can’t survive that.”
Norbu sees the land not as a commodity but as a sacred partner. Life here is adapted to the extreme climate: poor soil, thin air, wild temperature swings. The Changpas have survived here for centuries through inherited knowledge like how to pitch a tent before a snowstorm, navigate dry winters, shear goats without damaging their fleece and remain content in this terrain.
Military build-up, road construction and expanding tourism have already eaten into this pastoral life, according to a 2012 study. The renewable energy project threatens to accelerate this disruption.
Only three major nomadic communities remain in eastern Ladakh, in Samad-Rakchan, Korzok and Kharnak. Some younger families have moved to villages or taken government jobs, but most still depend on livestock, especially the pashmina trade. With thousands of acres earmarked for other use, they are under unprecedented strain.
On the way to Kharnak, a group of nomads rests by a rivulet, discussing the looming project. “We have no information about this scheme,” says Tondup, a herder. “There are about 15 families in one place in Kharnak with 7,000 pashmina goats, sheep and yaks. We just want to preserve our life, livestock and culture.”
The anger is building. In Pang and even in Leh, many locals say the process behind the renewable energy land deal has been anything but transparent.
“No one knows how this land was allotted and on what terms and conditions,” says Sonam Wangchuk, Ladakh’s most prominent climate activist. At his Himalayan Institute of Alternatives Ladakh, in Phyang around 20 km from Leh, Wangchuk shares his experiences and knowledge about climate action. “If the LAHDC isn’t disclosing how it handed over thousands of acres, it may have broken the law.”
Wangchuk says the LAHDC has weakened over the years, though it once had real autonomy. “Back then, the Council had teeth. Now it’s being sidelined,” he says.
He is not opposed to clean energy. “I support moving beyond coal and diesel. But this isn’t the way to do it,” he says. “If Ladakh can supply solar power to the rest of India, it’s great news. But not by wiping out a traditional way of life that has survived for thousands of years.”
Herders, he says, are being pushed into a corner, with no clear answers. “Some are being offered jobs or infrastructure. Others are told their goats can continue grazing, but it’s all verbal. There’s no paper, no law backing it. How do you trust that?”
He suspects the promised grazing area will be no more than 10 per cent of the space used for panels, with the rest fenced off. “Once the panels are in place, that land will be fenced. There’s no way they’ll let goats roam near high-value infrastructure.”
Repeated RTI queries to SECI and the Union Ministry of New and Renewable Energy (MNRE) about grazing rights have gone unanswered. SECI officials say they are still finalising designs.
“We’re considering both standard photovoltaic and agri-photovoltaic models,” a SECI official in New Delhi says, requesting anonymity. “The Agri-PV model involves installing panels on elevated structures, about three feet high, so that grazing or limited agriculture can happen underneath.”
Agri-PV is common in Europe, where farming and grazing happen among solar panels and wind towers. Several pilot projects have begun in India.
But there’s a catch. “Agri-PV needs more steel and logistics,” the official adds. “In Ladakh’s terrain, transporting materials from mainland India is costly. That drives up the entire project’s cost.”
Since 2018, SECI teams have visited Ladakh over a hundred times for research and risk assessments. “We’re studying the climate extremes like landslides, flash floods, cloudbursts,” the official says. “All that has to be factored into how we install and protect these panels.”
Wangchuk warns that technical fixes do not address Ladakh’s deeper vulnerabilities. He estimates the full-scale project would need around 60,000 workers for operations and maintenance, about a quarter of Ladakh’s population.
“The standard rule is two to three people per megawatt after installation,” he says. “That includes engineers, guards and support staff. During construction, the numbers balloon. There will be hundreds of thousands of workers.”
Locals fear the pressure this influx will bring. “Ladakh’s carrying capacity is limited. Its water, waste systems and fragile ecosystem can’t absorb this kind of human influx,” Wangchuk says. “The worry isn’t just environmental. It’s about who gets to stay. If workers settle down and claim domicile, it changes our culture, politics and future.”
As bulldozers roll into Pang and rows of polyester tents for workers rise along ancient grazing trails, many here feel they’re being asked to sacrifice too much for a solar future offering little in return. “We are not against development,” Wangchuk says. “We’re against being invisibilised and erased in the name of development.”
The clean energy project looms over a fragile economy and it’s not the first time. “This solar project isn’t new,” says Gyurmet Dorjee, a representative of the Changpas. “It started in 2013, when Ladakh was part of Jammu & Kashmir and Farooq Abdullah was Union Minister for Renewable Energy. It was supposed to be set up in Hanle.”
The community then proposed three conditions: free electricity for Ladakh, jobs for locals and half the project’s revenue invested in local welfare. “Nothing came of it. The project was shelved. This new version was revived after 2019. And this time, nobody asked us anything.”
Dorjee believes LAHDC shifted the site from Hanle to Skyang-Chu-Thang. “If they take this much land here,” he says, “they should give us land in Delhi. Let them turn the old Parliament building into a museum of our culture. At least then, the country will know what it erased and who we were.”
He points to a contradiction: “On one hand, pashmina is GI tagged and sold as a national pride and brand worldwide. On the other, the land producing it is being taken away.”
“This isn’t just about income,” says Thinless Norbu, watching his animals nibble at dry grass. “We only know how to rear goats. That’s our skill, our tradition. If they take that away, they’re not just stealing land. They’re erasing our existence.”
As the sun dips behind jagged ridges, the wind rises over the open plains. Thargies gathers his goats into a wire enclosure, then walks to his rebo, the cone-shaped yak-wool tent that’s been his home for decades. Inside, a kettle steams over a wood stove. Outside, stars scatter across the sky.
Ladakh may light up India’s clean energy future. But as the goats settle for the night and the wind whips through empty meadows, the question remains: can its oldest way of life survive?
“I don’t know what happens next,” Thargies says, pulling a coarse blanket over his shoulders. “But I know this land knows us. And we know it. You can’t just trade that for power.”
Reporting for this project was supported by a grant from Earth Journalism Network.