
High in India's Himalayan mountains, yak herders struggle to survive a warming world
A few herders tending livestock are the only people visible for miles on the wind-swept plains where patchy grass gives way to gravelly foothills and stony peaks. For generations, herders such as Dolma have relied on snowmelt that trickled down the mountain folds to sustain the high-altitude pastures where their herds graze. But now, herders say, the snow and rain are less predictable, and there is less grass for yaks to eat.
'Earlier, it used to snow and rain, but now it has reduced a lot,' the 32-year-old says. 'Even the winters are getting warmer than before.'
Much of the herding, milking and gathering of wool is done by women in Ladakh, an area near Tibet that was part of the ancient Silk Route. It's work mostly done by hand.
In another valley, Kunzias Dolma is busy making tea with yak milk and checking her yak butter, while spinning her Buddhist prayer wheel with her right hand. The 73-year-old, who's not related to Tsering Dolma, has spent her life around yaks, working long hours to make products from their milk and sewing blankets from their wool.
'We wake up early morning around 5 a.m. every day,' she says. 'My husband and I milk the yaks and do all of the other yak-related work until about lunch. Then we take a break and get back to work in the evening. We have been doing this all our life.'
But that way of life is threatened as
climate change
makes Ladakh less hospitable to yaks and many in the younger generation
seek other jobs
.
Rising temperatures and erratic rainfall in the area have made it harder for yaks, which are related to bison and cattle, to find nourishing vegetation and have also exposed the shaggy, cold-loving animals' bodies to more stress. Researchers have found that the average temperature in the Ladakh region has increased by 3 C (5.4 F) in the last four decades, while heat waves have become more extreme and rains more unpredictable.
While it's hard to precisely quantify climate change's impact on yak numbers in the area, scientists say it appears to be a factor in their decline. The government estimates the yak population in Ladakh has fallen from nearly 34,000 in 2012 to fewer than 20,000 in 2019, the most recent year for which the data is available. Globally, the yak population remains in the millions, but scientists say the ecosystem in this part of the Himalayas is particularly vulnerable to global warming.
A threatened way of life
Herder Kunzang Angmo has seen the changes up close.
'Earlier, there were a lot of yaks, but now there aren't as many,' she says. 'It used to snow a lot before, but now the snowfall is decreasing, and due to less water, we have less grass available.'
Generations of Tsering Angchok's family have relied on yaks, but the number of herders in the area is dropping.
'We get everything from the yak—food, milk, clothing, butter, cheese, meat, wool, even dung,' says the 75-year-old who has 80 yaks. 'Nothing goes to waste. We and our ancestors have grown up living on all of this.'
As weather patterns change, native vegetation is being crowded out by less nourishing shrubs and weeds, according to researchers. Herders say grazing lands are becoming smaller.
Thering Norphel, a 70-year-old former yak herder, remembers when pastures had more vegetation and life with yaks was easier.
'When I was younger, there was more grass, more water and more wildlife,' he says. Pointing to bare mountains in the distance, he said: 'Earlier, all those mountains were filled with snow. Now it's just rock. As there is no snow or ice, there is less water. This affects the growth of grass that yaks feed on.'
Consequences for a fragile ecosystem
Tashi Dorji, a livestock and rangelands specialist with the International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development, says the region and its people are being hit especially hard by global warming.
'Fast-melting glaciers, intense, erratic rainfall and reducing snow levels are all having a direct impact on both the herders and their animals,' Dorji says.
Stanzin Rabgais, a livestock officer with the Ladakh government, attributes a rise in bacterial diseases among yaks in recent years to hotter temperatures in the region.
Experts warn that the decline in yak herding has consequences for Ladakh and its fragile Himalayan ecosystem, because pastoralists manage grazing lands, keep invasive plants in check and help maintain the area's biodiversity. The sparsely populated region, most of which is is above 3,000 meters (9,842 feet), is also home to wildlife including the snow leopard, red fox and blue sheep.
'If the herders disappear, the landscape changes,' Dorji says. 'Unpalatable shrubs take over, wildlife loses food sources and the ecosystem starts to collapse. This is not just about animals—it's about a way of life and the health of the land.'
Rabgais believes that yak products could sell beyond the area if properly marketed and developed. He describes yak calf wool, for example, as finer than most commercial wool, rivaling cashmere in softness.
A traditional livelihood in a changing job market
Jobs in tourism and other industries, along with educational opportunities, also draw people away from herding. Herders say younger Ladakhis prefer less arduous work with potentially better pay than tending to yaks. Herders travel long distances over rough mountain land to find grazing areas and are constantly on the move.
'The next generation doesn't want to do this work. They work for the Indian Army as laborers or are getting an education and looking for other jobs,' says Norphel, the former yak herder.
Ladakh, famous for its Buddhist monasteries and hiking trails, has experienced a significant increase in tourism in recent years as transportation infrastructure has made the area easier to reach, which has created new jobs.
Rabgais, the government official, says most yak herders are older now and unless greater numbers of young people take up herding, 'the future is bleak' for the occupation.
Among the exceptions is 32-year-old yak herder Punchuk Namdol, who chose the traditional profession even as other people his age look for different options.
'Earlier, we didn't have any other work — we only had yaks and other cattle,' Namdol says. 'But now, there's no one to take care of them. Yak herding is a difficult task, and fewer people are willing to do it.'
___
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The Associated Press' climate and environmental coverage receives financial support from multiple private foundations. AP is solely responsible for all content. Find AP's
standards
for working with philanthropies, a list of supporters and funded coverage areas at
AP.org
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Hamilton Spectator
10 hours ago
- Hamilton Spectator
How one Gaza family dedicates each day to finding enough food to survive
DEIR AL-BALAH, Gaza Strip (AP) — Every morning, Abeer and Fadi Sobh wake up in their tent in the Gaza Strip to the same question: How will they find food for themselves and their six young children? The couple has three options: Maybe a charity kitchen will be open and they can get a pot of watery lentils. Or they can try jostling through crowds to get some flour from a passing aid truck. The last resort is begging. If those all fail, they simply don't eat. It happens more and more these days, as hunger saps their energy, strength and hope. The predicament of the Sobhs, who live in a seaside refugee camp west of Gaza City after being displaced multiple times, is the same for families throughout the war-ravaged territory. Hunger has grown throughout the past 22 months of war because of aid restrictions, humanitarian workers say. But food experts warned earlier this week the 'worst-case scenario of famine is currently playing out in Gaza.' Israel enforced a complete blockade on food and other supplies for 2 1/2 months beginning in March. It said its objective was to increase pressure on Hamas to release dozens of hostages it has held since its attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023. Though the flow of aid resumed in May, the amount is a fraction of what aid organizations say is needed. A breakdown of law and order has also made it nearly impossible to safely deliver food. Much of the aid that does get in is hoarded or sold in markets at exorbitant prices. Here is a look at a day in the life of the Sobh family: A morning seawater bath The family wakes up in their tent, which Fadi Sobh, a 30-year-old street vendor, says is unbearably hot in the summer. With fresh water hard to come by, his wife Abeer, 29, fetches water from the sea. One by one, the children stand in a metal basin and scrub themselves as their mother pours the saltwater over their heads. Nine-month-old Hala cries as it stings her eyes. The other children are more stoic. Abeer then rolls up the bedding and sweeps the dust and sand from the tent floor. With no food left over from the day before, she heads out to beg for something for her family's breakfast. Sometimes, neighbors or passersby give her lentils. Sometimes she gets nothing. Abeer gives Hala water from a baby bottle. When she's lucky, she has lentils that she grinds into powder to mix into the water. 'One day feels like 100 days, because of the summer heat, hunger and the distress,' she said. A trip to the soup kitchen Fadi heads to a nearby soup kitchen. Sometimes one of the children goes with him. 'But food is rarely available there,' he said. The kitchen opens roughly once a week and never has enough for the crowds. Most often, he said, he waits all day but returns to his family with nothing 'and the kids sleep hungry, without eating.' Fadi used to go to an area in northern Gaza where aid trucks arrive from Israel. There, giant crowds of equally desperate people swarm over the trucks and strip away the cargo of food. Often, Israeli troops nearby open fire, witnesses say. Israel says it only fires warning shots, and others in the crowd often have knives or pistols to steal boxes. Fadi, who also has epilepsy, was shot in the leg last month. That has weakened him too much to scramble for the trucks, so he's left with trying the kitchens. Meanwhile, Abeer and her three eldest children — 10-year-old Youssef, 9-year-old Mohammed and 7-year-old Malak — head out with plastic jerrycans to fill up from a truck that brings freshwater from central Gaza's desalination plant. The kids struggle with the heavy jerrycans. Youssef loads one onto his back, while Mohammed half-drags his, his little body bent sideways as he tries to keep it out of the dust of the street. A scramble for aid Abeer sometimes heads to Zikim herself, alone or with Youssef. Most in the crowds are men — faster and stronger than she is. 'Sometimes I manage to get food, and in many cases, I return empty-handed,' she said. If she's unsuccessful, she appeals to the sense of charity of those who succeeded. 'You survived death thanks to God, please give me anything,' she tells them. Many answer her plea, and she gets a small bag of flour to bake for the children, she said. She and her son have become familiar faces. One man who regularly waits for the trucks, Youssef Abu Saleh, said he often sees Abeer struggling to grab food, so he gives her some of his. 'They're poor people and her husband is sick,' he said. 'We're all hungry and we all need to eat.' During the hottest part of the day, the six children stay in or around the tent. Their parents prefer the children sleep during the heat — it stops them from running around, using up energy and getting hungry and thirsty. Foraging and begging in the afternoon As the heat eases, the children head out. Sometimes Abeer sends them to beg for food from their neighbors. Otherwise, they scour Gaza's bombed-out streets, foraging through the rubble and trash for anything to fuel the family's makeshift stove. They've become good at recognizing what might burn. Scraps of paper or wood are best, but hardest to find. The bar is low: plastic bottles, plastic bags, an old shoe — anything will do. One of the boys came across a pot in the trash one day — it's what Abeer now uses to cook. The family has been displaced so many times, they have few belongings left. 'I have to manage to get by,' Abeer said. 'What can I do? We are eight people.' If they're lucky, lentil stew for dinner After a day spent searching for the absolute basics to sustain life — food, water, fuel to cook — the family sometimes has enough of all three for Abeer to make a meal. Usually it's a thin lentil soup. But often there is nothing, and they all go to bed hungry. Abeer said she's grown weak and often feels dizzy when she's out searching for food or water. 'I am tired. I am no longer able,' she said. 'If the war goes on, I am thinking of taking my life. I no longer have any strength or power.' ___ Magdy reported from Cairo. Error! Sorry, there was an error processing your request. There was a problem with the recaptcha. Please try again. You may unsubscribe at any time. By signing up, you agree to our terms of use and privacy policy . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google privacy policy and terms of service apply. Want more of the latest from us? Sign up for more at our newsletter page .


The Hill
11 hours ago
- The Hill
From dawn to dusk, a Gaza family focuses on one thing: finding food
DEIR AL-BALAH, Gaza Strip (AP) — Every morning, Abeer and Fadi Sobh wake up in their tent in the Gaza Strip to the same question: How will they find food for themselves and their six young children? The couple has three options: Maybe a charity kitchen will be open and they can get a pot of watery lentils. Or they can try jostling through crowds to get some flour from a passing aid truck. The last resort is begging. If those all fail, they simply don't eat. It happens more and more these days, as hunger saps their energy, strength and hope. The predicament of the Sobhs, who live in a seaside refugee camp west of Gaza City after being displaced multiple times, is the same for families throughout the war-ravaged territory. Hunger has grown throughout the past 22 months of war because of aid restrictions, humanitarian workers say. But food experts warned earlier this week the 'worst-case scenario of famine is currently playing out in Gaza.' Israel enforced a complete blockade on food and other supplies for 2½ months beginning in March. It said its objective was to increase pressure on Hamas to release dozens of hostages it has held since its attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023. Though the flow of aid resumed in May, the amount is a fraction of what aid organizations say is needed. A breakdown of law and order has also made it nearly impossible to safely deliver food. Much of the aid that does get in is hoarded or sold in markets at exorbitant prices. Here is a look at a day in the life of the Sobh family: A morning seawater bath The family wakes up in their tent, which Fadi Sobh, a 30-year-old street vendor, says is unbearably hot in the summer. With fresh water hard to come by, his wife Abeer, 29, fetches water from the sea. One by one, the children stand in a metal basin and scrub themselves as their mother pours the saltwater over their heads. Nine-month-old Hala cries as it stings her eyes. The other children are more stoic. Abeer then rolls up the bedding and sweeps the dust and sand from the tent floor. With no food left over from the day before, she heads out to beg for something for her family's breakfast. Sometimes, neighbors or passersby give her lentils. Sometimes she gets nothing. Abeer gives Hala water from a baby bottle. When she's lucky, she has lentils that she grinds into powder to mix into the water. 'One day feels like 100 days, because of the summer heat, hunger and the distress,' she said. A trip to the soup kitchen Fadi heads to a nearby soup kitchen. Sometimes one of the children goes with him. 'But food is rarely available there,' he said. The kitchen opens roughly once a week and never has enough for the crowds. Most often, he said, he waits all day but returns to his family with nothing 'and the kids sleep hungry, without eating.' Fadi used to go to an area in northern Gaza where aid trucks arrive from Israel. There, giant crowds of equally desperate people swarm over the trucks and strip away the cargo of food. Often, Israeli troops nearby open fire, witnesses say. Israel says it only fires warning shots, and others in the crowd often have knives or pistols to steal boxes. Fadi, who also has epilepsy, was shot in the leg last month. That has weakened him too much to scramble for the trucks, so he's left with trying the kitchens. Meanwhile, Abeer and her three eldest children — 10-year-old Youssef, 9-year-old Mohammed and 7-year-old Malak — head out with plastic jerrycans to fill up from a truck that brings freshwater from central Gaza's desalination plant. The kids struggle with the heavy jerrycans. Youssef loads one onto his back, while Mohammed half-drags his, his little body bent sideways as he tries to keep it out of the dust of the street. A scramble for aid Abeer sometimes heads to Zikim herself, alone or with Youssef. Most in the crowds are men — faster and stronger than she is. 'Sometimes I manage to get food, and in many cases, I return empty-handed,' she said. If she's unsuccessful, she appeals to the sense of charity of those who succeeded. 'You survived death thanks to God, please give me anything,' she tells them. Many answer her plea, and she gets a small bag of flour to bake for the children, she said. She and her son have become familiar faces. One man who regularly waits for the trucks, Youssef Abu Saleh, said he often sees Abeer struggling to grab food, so he gives her some of his. 'They're poor people and her husband is sick,' he said. 'We're all hungry and we all need to eat.' During the hottest part of the day, the six children stay in or around the tent. Their parents prefer the children sleep during the heat — it stops them from running around, using up energy and getting hungry and thirsty. Foraging and begging in the afternoon As the heat eases, the children head out. Sometimes Abeer sends them to beg for food from their neighbors. Otherwise, they scour Gaza's bombed-out streets, foraging through the rubble and trash for anything to fuel the family's makeshift stove. They've become good at recognizing what might burn. Scraps of paper or wood are best, but hardest to find. The bar is low: plastic bottles, plastic bags, an old shoe — anything will do. One of the boys came across a pot in the trash one day — it's what Abeer now uses to cook. The family has been displaced so many times, they have few belongings left. 'I have to manage to get by,' Abeer said. 'What can I do? We are eight people.' If they're lucky, lentil stew for dinner After a day spent searching for the absolute basics to sustain life — food, water, fuel to cook — the family sometimes has enough of all three for Abeer to make a meal. Usually it's a thin lentil soup. But often there is nothing, and they all go to bed hungry. Abeer said she's grown weak and often feels dizzy when she's out searching for food or water. 'I am tired. I am no longer able,' she said. 'If the war goes on, I am thinking of taking my life. I no longer have any strength or power.'


San Francisco Chronicle
11 hours ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
From dawn to dusk, a Gaza family focuses on one thing: finding food
DEIR AL-BALAH, Gaza Strip (AP) — Every morning, Abeer and Fadi Sobh wake up in their tent in the Gaza Strip to the same question: How will they find food for themselves and their six young children? The couple has three options: Maybe a charity kitchen will be open and they can get a pot of watery lentils. Or they can try jostling through crowds to get some flour from a passing aid truck. The last resort is begging. If those all fail, they simply don't eat. It happens more and more these days, as hunger saps their energy, strength and hope. The predicament of the Sobhs, who live in a seaside refugee camp west of Gaza City after being displaced multiple times, is the same for families throughout the war-ravaged territory. Hunger has grown throughout the past 22 months of war because of aid restrictions, humanitarian workers say. But food experts warned earlier this week the 'worst-case scenario of famine is currently playing out in Gaza.' Israel enforced a complete blockade on food and other supplies for 2½ months beginning in March. It said its objective was to increase pressure on Hamas to release dozens of hostages it has held since its attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023. Though the flow of aid resumed in May, the amount is a fraction of what aid organizations say is needed. A breakdown of law and order has also made it nearly impossible to safely deliver food. Much of the aid that does get in is hoarded or sold in markets at exorbitant prices. Here is a look at a day in the life of the Sobh family: A morning seawater bath The family wakes up in their tent, which Fadi Sobh, a 30-year-old street vendor, says is unbearably hot in the summer. With fresh water hard to come by, his wife Abeer, 29, fetches water from the sea. One by one, the children stand in a metal basin and scrub themselves as their mother pours the saltwater over their heads. Nine-month-old Hala cries as it stings her eyes. The other children are more stoic. Abeer then rolls up the bedding and sweeps the dust and sand from the tent floor. With no food left over from the day before, she heads out to beg for something for her family's breakfast. Sometimes, neighbors or passersby give her lentils. Sometimes she gets nothing. Abeer gives Hala water from a baby bottle. When she's lucky, she has lentils that she grinds into powder to mix into the water. 'One day feels like 100 days, because of the summer heat, hunger and the distress,' she said. A trip to the soup kitchen Fadi heads to a nearby soup kitchen. Sometimes one of the children goes with him. 'But food is rarely available there,' he said. The kitchen opens roughly once a week and never has enough for the crowds. Most often, he said, he waits all day but returns to his family with nothing 'and the kids sleep hungry, without eating.' Fadi used to go to an area in northern Gaza where aid trucks arrive from Israel. There, giant crowds of equally desperate people swarm over the trucks and strip away the cargo of food. Often, Israeli troops nearby open fire, witnesses say. Israel says it only fires warning shots, and others in the crowd often have knives or pistols to steal boxes. Fadi, who also has epilepsy, was shot in the leg last month. That has weakened him too much to scramble for the trucks, so he's left with trying the kitchens. Meanwhile, Abeer and her three eldest children — 10-year-old Youssef, 9-year-old Mohammed and 7-year-old Malak — head out with plastic jerrycans to fill up from a truck that brings freshwater from central Gaza's desalination plant. The kids struggle with the heavy jerrycans. Youssef loads one onto his back, while Mohammed half-drags his, his little body bent sideways as he tries to keep it out of the dust of the street. A scramble for aid Abeer sometimes heads to Zikim herself, alone or with Youssef. Most in the crowds are men — faster and stronger than she is. 'Sometimes I manage to get food, and in many cases, I return empty-handed,' she said. If she's unsuccessful, she appeals to the sense of charity of those who succeeded. 'You survived death thanks to God, please give me anything,' she tells them. Many answer her plea, and she gets a small bag of flour to bake for the children, she said. She and her son have become familiar faces. One man who regularly waits for the trucks, Youssef Abu Saleh, said he often sees Abeer struggling to grab food, so he gives her some of his. 'They're poor people and her husband is sick,' he said. 'We're all hungry and we all need to eat.' During the hottest part of the day, the six children stay in or around the tent. Their parents prefer the children sleep during the heat — it stops them from running around, using up energy and getting hungry and thirsty. Foraging and begging in the afternoon As the heat eases, the children head out. Sometimes Abeer sends them to beg for food from their neighbors. Otherwise, they scour Gaza's bombed-out streets, foraging through the rubble and trash for anything to fuel the family's makeshift stove. They've become good at recognizing what might burn. Scraps of paper or wood are best, but hardest to find. The bar is low: plastic bottles, plastic bags, an old shoe — anything will do. One of the boys came across a pot in the trash one day — it's what Abeer now uses to cook. The family has been displaced so many times, they have few belongings left. 'I have to manage to get by,' Abeer said. 'What can I do? We are eight people.' If they're lucky, lentil stew for dinner After a day spent searching for the absolute basics to sustain life — food, water, fuel to cook — the family sometimes has enough of all three for Abeer to make a meal. Usually it's a thin lentil soup. But often there is nothing, and they all go to bed hungry. Abeer said she's grown weak and often feels dizzy when she's out searching for food or water. 'I am tired. I am no longer able,' she said. 'If the war goes on, I am thinking of taking my life. I no longer have any strength or power.'