December 18, 2025
THIMPHU – A warming winter, shifting migrations, and unknown illnesses swept through Merak last year, killing hundreds of yaks, zo, and zomu, leaving this semi-nomadic community fighting for its future.
At Merak Sheytimi, on a patch of browning winter grass that should have been frozen stiff, 81-year-old Memey Sumko sat slowly turning a rosary bead in his weathered hand. Nearby, his grandchild slept beneath a thick blanket while his son and daughter-in-law gathered firewood. The morning sun cast a pale warmth across the grazing land, a warmth that unsettled him.
“In the past, around this time of year, the ground would be so frozen you could barely walk on it,” he said. “Now it is just brown grass and warm ground.”
Sumko herded yaks his entire life until age and changing family choices pulled him from the mountains. He sold his herd eight years ago after his children leaned toward carpentry and weaving. Yet he remembers every migration route, every cliff crossed, and every winter snowfall that once signalled the true arrival of cold.
Last winter, Merak lost hundreds of yaks, zo, and zomu along migration routes and pasturelands. For a community whose livelihood, culture, and identity depend on these livestock, the losses were not only a financial blow but an emotional wound.
The die-off began quietly as herders moved their animals from the high summer pasturelands of yardrok toward tendrok, the lower winter grounds. What should have been a familiar seasonal descent turned deadly. “It happened suddenly,” said 41-year-old Hrangchung, who lost six yaks over two nights while guiding his herd to Choelung Tsamdro. “We depend on yaks. When they die like this, without warning, it feels deeply saddening.”
Selling the meat recovered barely 30 percent of the animals’ value. A single zomu can cost between Nu 45,000 and Nu 50,000, losing several at once can cripple a family’s income.
The causes were not singular. Rising heat, unprecedented insects, stagnant water turning toxic, erratic snowfall, and disrupted migration cycles converged into one of Merak’s worst winters in memory. Some animals died from tshatpa (heat stress). Others succumbed to chudhuk, water poisoning caused by warmer stagnant pools where insects and bacteria thrived.
Merak’s village head, Gup Nima, said the land is changing in ways he once thought impossible. “Ticks were never seen here,” he said. “Now they survive in pasturelands like Sakshom. We see insects we have never seen before. Even juniper trees, which never used to die, are yellowing from the inside.”
He recalled childhood winters when snow arrived early and stayed long. “Around this time of year, it would be snowing,” he said. “But not now. This year we had only a little snowfall, and it melted quickly. Climate change is accelerating each year. Sometimes the warm season feels cold, and the cold season feels warm.”
These shifts have disrupted the traditional migration pattern known as la brok, which brokpa herders have followed for generations. They would spend winters in the lower tendrok and summers in the higher yardrok, a rhythm that kept pastures healthy and livestock strong. But last year, the rhythm faltered.
“When we brought them down, several died,” said Merak Mangmi Tashi Dorji. “Even zo and zomu died. That never happened before. The weather confused the animals, and it confused us, too.”
This year, many herders were forced to keep their animals at higher altitudes longer because the lower grounds were unusually warm. But staying too long in the high mountains exhausted the fodder. “Then the yaks become weak,” he said. “Either way, we lose.”
Families with smaller herds face the hardest blow. “People think losing one or two yaks is normal,” said 63-year-old Tshogpa Jurmey, who owns about 70 livestock. “But for families with only 10 or 15 animals, losing four or five in one night causes the deepest sorrow.” With no alternative income, any loss pushes families into uncertainty. Jurmey said pastureland scarcity is worsening the crisis.
The emotional toll is heavy for older herders. Sixty-one-year-old Tashi Wangdi lost five yaks last year. His family’s annual income of around Nu 400,000 depends almost entirely on livestock. “Even losing one yak is depressing,” he said. “We raise them like our children.”
He has watched Merak’s landscape transform rapidly. “New plants growing, leeches appearing, sudden floods, landslides, these things never used to be part of Merak.” He recalled childhood winters when snow would bury the village overnight. “The snow wouldn’t melt for a week,” he said. “Now it disappears the next day.”
The younger generation faces a different dilemma. Many love the animals, but the lifestyle is becoming unsustainable.
Seventeen-year-old Rinchen Wangmo began herding at age five and spent years alone in jangsa (a herder’s camp) protecting her family’s livestock. Last year, they sold their yaks after losing access to tsamdro. “My parents want me to continue herding,” she said. “But after selling them, I told them I will not go back. It is too difficult alone.”
Passang Choden, a 20-year-old Sherubtse College student, grew up with zo and zomu. Her family lost five animals last year, something she had never witnessed. Their annual income of about Nu 400,000 supports her education. Standing outside her home, she pointed to slopes once buried in snow. “Now the trees stand bare,” she said. “If yaks disappear, our culture disappears too. Even the choba men wear is made from yak hair. Without yaks, we are as good as lifeless.”
Government support, however, remains limited. Merak Gup Nima said the gewog has no dedicated compensation mechanism for climate-related livestock deaths. “The dzongkhag tshogdu will send fodder soon,” he said. “We are also discussing insurance. Some people want it, some do not. We need a middle path.” Policy guidance, he added, is urgently needed. “If the government helps us adapt, the yak-herding culture will survive longer. Without support, we cannot sustain this life.”
Today, Merak faces not just an economic crisis but a cultural one. The community’s identity is woven through Na Lu, the herder’s song, through migration routes passed down for centuries, and through a spiritual landscape tied to Ama Jomo. As tsamdro shrinks, winters warm, and the youth migrate, fewer families remain to sustain these traditions.
Back at Sheytimi, the afternoon sun warmed the brittle ground as Memey Sumko continued reciting his mantras. The warmth that soothed his bones was the same warmth that killed hundreds of animals last year. Looking toward the mountains that no longer hold snow as they once did, he softly began humming Na Lu, the ancient herder’s prayer for abundance, safety, and continuity.
It was once a song for thriving herds.
Now it is a prayer whispered for a future slipping out of reach.
This story was covered as part of a media reporting grant funded by the Australian Government through ABC International
Development and JAB.