The Fragile Eternity of Bon: Climate Change and the Battle for Cultural Survival in Nepal’s Highlands
There’s something profoundly humbling about the way ancient cultures cling to existence, especially when the forces arrayed against them seem insurmountable. In the remote highlands of Nepal, the Bon faith—one of the world’s oldest spiritual traditions—faces a threat as relentless as it is invisible: climate change. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the struggle to preserve Bon isn’t just about rituals or beliefs; it’s a fight to safeguard a way of life that has endured for centuries, intertwined with the very landscape that now betrays it.
A Landscape in Rebellion
The village of Lubra, nestled in northwest Nepal, is a living museum of Bon traditions. Here, the air hums with the weight of history, and every stone seems to whisper stories of resilience. But the landscape that once nurtured this culture is now its greatest adversary. Dane Carlson, a landscape architect studying the region, notes how the traditional earthen buildings—including the Phuntshok Ling Monastery—are crumbling under heavy rainfall. The flat roofs, designed for snow, now leak incessantly, causing structural rot and eroding the rammed-earth walls.
What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just a matter of architecture; it’s a metaphor for the fragility of cultural heritage in the face of environmental upheaval. The monastery isn’t just a building—it’s the heart of Lubra, where men mold tormas (dough and butter effigies) and women brew chyaang (rice beer) for ceremonies. Its decay threatens to sever the community’s connection to its spiritual roots.
The Rituals That Bind
Bon is a faith deeply rooted in nature, with deities residing in every crag, cave, and stream. The yulsa, the protector god of Lubra, was once a demon terrorizing the valley until tamed by a Tibetan master. Today, the villagers still perform rituals to appease this deity, offering food in exchange for protection. This raises a deeper question: What happens when the very landscape that houses these spirits becomes unrecognizable?
Personally, I think this is where the tragedy of climate change becomes most poignant. It’s not just about rising temperatures or shifting weather patterns; it’s about the erosion of meaning. The lu (serpent spirits) of Lubra’s cliffs, for instance, are believed to control water—a resource now increasingly scarce. When the villagers perform rituals for these spirits, they’re not just practicing tradition; they’re pleading for survival.
Education as a Lifeline
One of the most inspiring efforts to preserve Bon is the Chasey Kengtse Hostel, a boarding school run by Nyima Dhundul Gurung, a celibate Bon monk. Established 25 years ago, the school aims to keep children connected to their culture, teaching them the Bon language and rituals. What this really suggests is that education isn’t just about imparting knowledge; it’s about fostering a sense of belonging.
In my opinion, this is a brilliant strategy. By anchoring the younger generation in their heritage, the community hopes to ensure that Bon doesn’t fade into obscurity. But it’s also a gamble. As children grow up in a rapidly changing world, will they see their traditions as a burden or a treasure?
The Symbol of Eternity
Bon’s symbol, the yungdrung, represents eternity and indestructibility. For centuries, the people of Lubra have embodied these qualities, weathering invasions, political upheaval, and now climate change. But eternity feels fragile when the very earth beneath your feet is shifting.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how the villagers are reluctant to move, even as their homes and temples deteriorate. Proximity to the temple and ancestral lands is non-negotiable, says Carlson. This attachment to place speaks to something deeper: the belief that identity and spirituality are inextricably tied to geography.
The Future of Bon: A Provocative Question
When asked about the future, Lama Tsultrim, a village elder, simply says, “Who can tell? You cannot write of the future.” Yet, his words carry a quiet determination. “One thing is for sure, Bon will continue,” he asserts, his hands clasped behind his back as he walks toward his new home.
If you take a step back and think about it, this is the essence of resilience. The Bon faith has survived because it adapts, because its practitioners refuse to let it die. But adaptation has its limits. As the rains intensify and the roofs leak, the question isn’t just whether Bon will survive—it’s whether the world will care enough to help.
A Global Responsibility
The plight of Lubra isn’t unique. Across the globe, indigenous cultures are grappling with the same existential threat. What makes Bon’s story particularly compelling is its ancient lineage and its profound connection to the natural world. Its loss would be a blow not just to Nepal, but to humanity’s collective heritage.
From my perspective, this is where the global community must step in. Organizations like Mustang Bon Action are already seeking restoration funds, but more is needed. Preserving Bon isn’t just about saving a religion; it’s about honoring the diversity of human experience.
Final Thoughts
As I reflect on Lubra’s story, I’m struck by the irony of it all. A faith that has endured for millennia now faces its greatest challenge in the form of an invisible, man-made force. Yet, there’s something profoundly hopeful in the villagers’ resolve. They’re not just fighting for their culture; they’re fighting for the idea that some things are worth preserving, no matter the cost.
In the end, the story of Bon isn’t just about survival—it’s about the human spirit’s capacity to endure, to adapt, and to believe in something greater than itself. And that, I think, is a story worth telling.
