In the shadow of the Himalayas, the serene landscapes of Ladakh turned into a battleground on September 24, 2025. What began as a long-standing demand for statehood and constitutional protections spiraled into deadly violence, leaving at least four dead, over 60 injured, and the streets of Leh scarred by arson and clashes. The Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) office was set ablaze, vehicles torched, and prohibitory orders imposed under Section 163 of the Bharatiya Nagarik Suraksha Sanhita (BNSS), banning gatherings of more than five people. Amid the smoke and fury, climate activist Sonam Wangchuk—often hailed as a peaceful crusader—ended his 15-day hunger strike, lamenting that his “message of peaceful path failed.” But was this truly a spontaneous “Gen Z revolution,” as Wangchuk described it? Or was it a calculated escalation to derail a resolution that was just days away?

The official narrative paints a picture of frustrated youth pushed to the brink by unfulfilled promises. Since Ladakh was carved out as a Union Territory in 2019 following the abrogation of Article 370, locals have demanded full statehood, inclusion under the Sixth Schedule of the Constitution (to safeguard tribal lands and autonomy), job reservations, a separate Public Service Commission, and two parliamentary seats for Leh and Kargil. Wangchuk, the engineer-activist who inspired the character in the film 3 Idiots, has led multiple hunger strikes, including this one starting September 10, to press these demands. On September 23, two elderly protesters from the 35-day fast were hospitalized due to deteriorating health, sparking a shutdown called by the Leh Apex Body’s (LAB) youth wing. By Wednesday, thousands—students, monks, and locals—marched, only for the protest to erupt into stone-pelting, police baton charges, and tear gas deployment.

Yet, a closer look reveals a troubling timeline that suggests the violence was not inevitable but engineered to sabotage progress. Discussions on extending the Sixth Schedule protections were already locked in for October 6, with the Centre inviting LAB and Kargil Democratic Alliance (KDA) representatives on September 20. Informal talks were slated for September 25 and 26, followed by a delegation’s trip to Delhi on the 26th. By all accounts, a breakthrough seemed imminent—peaceful negotiations that could have addressed the core grievances without bloodshed. So why the sudden frenzy? Why risk lives when dialogue was at the doorstep?

The answer lies in the shadows of incitement. Videos circulating on social media show masked figures, hooded and armed with rods, leading the mob toward the BJP office. One such leader? Phuntsog Stanzin Tsepag, a Congress councillor from Upper Leh Ward, captured on camera hurling stones and rallying the crowd. Tsepag, a vocal admirer of Rahul Gandhi—whom he once hailed with “Mohabbat Ki Dukan” during Gandhi’s Ladakh yatra—is no stranger to controversy. BJP IT cell head Amit Malviya highlighted the footage, accusing the Congress of orchestrating the riots to destabilize the region. This isn’t isolated; BJP MP Nishikant Dubey linked the unrest to Gandhi’s “fantasies of unrest,” while sources allege foreign NGO funding and political backing fuel Wangchuk’s campaigns.

Wangchuk himself has fanned the flames of radicalism. In recent statements, he invoked the “Arab Spring” as a model for Ladakh and praised Nepal’s youth-led protests that toppled governments—hardly the rhetoric of a pacifist. “Ladakh needs a Nepal-like situation,” he reportedly said days before the clashes, urging protesters to mask up and confront authorities head-on. Critics on X (formerly Twitter) branded him “Kejriwal 2.0,” a populist agitator dreaming of chaos in Leh while local youth bear the brunt. One post summed it up: “Sonam Wangchuk is not an independent actor; he is a paid asset of the Congress ecosystem.” Another called for his arrest under UAPA, citing his role in provoking the mob alongside absent “youth leaders” like Stanzin Chosphel and Jigmet Paljor, who vanished as bullets flew.

We must be clear: the local youth of Ladakh are not the villains here. Jobless for five years, stripped of democratic rights, and betrayed by the 2019 UT promise that stripped away safeguards without delivering statehood—they’re victims of a system that ignored their pleas. But on September 24, they were misled into a trap. Wangchuk’s “Gen Z frenzy” label romanticizes the tragedy, glossing over how his inflammatory words turned frustration into fatalities. As he addressed a virtual press conference post-violence, admitting “nobody had an inkling something like this will happen,” one can’t help but question: Who benefits from derailing talks just as they were set to resume?

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