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Analesha Gurung carries buckets to her Tsirangtoe School classroom, but not for experiments. Every day, the tenth grader places them next to silent taps, waiting for the occasional trickle of water. At a school with 767 students and 78 teachers, water is a luxury. As documented in the field reporting of Lee (2025), “Students should strive for excellence,” she muses, “but I strive for water.” For Analesha, the crisis is not just inconvenient, it is stressful. The bathrooms are sometimes locked to prevent the unsanitary smell, and she drinks less water, not because she is not thirsty, but because it is unhygienic. “Our minds are supposed to be filled with knowledge,” she says, “but mine is often filled with unhygienic thoughts.”
This battle, as detailed in recent reports from the Adaptation Fund, is not unique; it is the human face of a national tragedy. In Shaba, Paro, Sangay Lham, a local Gup (leader), has seen the rhythm of her valley disappear. According to the accounts recorded by Lee (2025), the rains that used to come with such predictability to feed the famous apples and grains of Paro are now unpredictable. “Many of our natural water sources have either dried up or are in the process of drying,” she notes. Shaba is the worst-hit community in the district — ironic given that its beauty is luring new settlers even as the water disappears. The village has long been caught in a vicious cycle: its infrastructure is washed away in summer and frozen in winter.
Bhutan is a global environmental hero, a carbon-negative haven, constitutionally bound to maintain more than 60 per cent forest cover. But this green haven is now suffering from a fever it didn’t cause. Bhutan, which absorbs 6-12 million tonnes of CO2 each year, is shouldering the disproportionate burden of a global problem. In the north, more than 560 glacial lakes are time bombs. According to the National Center for Hydrology and Meteorology (NCHM), glaciers are shrinking at 30-60 meters per decade. Seventeen are considered high-risk for Glacial Lake Outburst Floods (GLOFs), a double-edged threat to Bhutan's “white gold” (hydropower) and the livelihoods of millions in India.
The transformation from hopelessness to security came when communities like Analesha and Sangay were given the chance to be not just beneficiaries, but custodians. A partnership between the Adaptation Fund and the Bhutan Trust Fund for Environmental Conservation ushered in a new era. It was not just 30 kilometres of pipeline or 250-cubic-meter water storage tanks in Tsirang; it was watershed restoration and Water Users Associations.
In Dagana, farmers can double their yield. In Paro, community-based systems monitor irrigation. More importantly, the change is mental: Sangay’s community now plants trees on higher ground and allocates funds for their upkeep. As Analesha nears graduation, she is comforted that the next generation will not suffer. Their minds will be free to embrace knowledge, she says.
Bhutan’s 2023 National Adaptation Plan (NAP) offers a blueprint for this, but it needs US$14 billion by 2050, which is not forthcoming from international climate finance. A “climate contract” between neighbours is the way forward. India’s Rs 4,000 crore hydropower credit line is a critical first step, but collective action on river basin management and early warning systems is essential. For the “Thunder Dragon” to roar, the world must understand that Bhutan’s resilience is our own. Fresh water for a school child in Tsirang and a reliable river for a farmer in Paro are not just local concerns, they are the foundation of South Asian security.
Dica Acharya is a Bhutanese researcher pursuing an MSc in Ecology and Environment Studies at Nalanda University, with a background in development economics from Royal Thimphu College, Thimphu
Views expressed are the author’s own and don’t necessarily reflect those of Down To Earth
