At first glance, linking climate inequality to the caste system may seem unexpected, and risks the kind of “essentialisation” Appadurai critiques, where communities are framed as fixed and homogeneous. Yet caste in Nepal is not a static cultural marker; it is a political system that has organised power, territory, and resources for centuries. The state has repeatedly codified it, in laws, in land distribution, and in governance structures, ensuring that marginalisation is not accidental but engineered. When climate disasters now strike unevenly, they do so along lines laid down by this long history. To talk about climate vulnerability without talking about caste would ignore the very foundations on which these inequalities stand.

The caste system in Nepal has shaped everything: who gets access to resources, who lives where, and who holds power. Social hierarchies existed long before the modern state, but during the Malla period, particularly under King Jayasthiti Malla in the late 14th century, they became more formally regulated.

While the Bhaṣāvaṃśāvalī credits Jayasthiti Malla with introducing the caste system to the Nepal Valley, historians note that caste already existed during the Licchavi period (5th–8th century) and that the king merely reinforced it.

Largely dominated by Hindu culture and specifically by the dominant Hindu ruling class, the Hindu way of living, or belief system, has influenced societies and communities that might not essentially align with the said religion.

“As Indigenous peoples, we were not Hindu, historically. We have our own ways of life, our own belief systems, yet Hindu ideologies have significantly determined our life and choices.” says Arnab Chaudhary, an indigenous youth lawyer and climate activist. 

Born and raised in the Manpur village of Dang district in Lumbini province, Arnab has been a dedicated voice for human rights, indigenous and marginalised people’s rights issues and the social, climate and environmental justice movement. 

Also the operation director for Harin Nepal, a youth-led organisation promoting intersectional environmentalism, Arnab states that the Hindu-dominant framework has controlled the status quo of history, politics and resources for centuries and continues to do so. 

Under Jayasthiti Malla, caste categories were codified primarily to distribute resources. While the historical records don’t show exactly who got which land, Arnab points out that Brahmins and Kshatriyas, claimed the most fertile lands, less prone to natural and climate vulnerabilities. Similarly, Vaishyas, as traders, chose lands near cities and trade routes. And, the remaining, less favourable lands were pushed onto oppressed caste communities, often in disaster-prone, geographically distant areas cut off from infrastructure.

“Casteism was so evident that dominant caste groups did not even want marginalised caste folks to walk the routes leading to a Brahmin’s house. Dominant caste folks would do anything to avoid even the shadows of people from oppressed caste groups,” Arnab echoes the not-so-distant history. 

The 19th century brought further codification. In 1854, Jung Bahadur Rana enacted the Muluki Ain, institutionalising Hindu‑influenced hierarchy across Nepal. The code divided society into Tagadhari (those who wear a sacred thread, like Brahmins and Chhetris), Matwali (alcohol-drinking groups, historically Indigenous, such as Magars, Gurungs, Tamangs, and Tharus), and Acchut (so-called untouchables). Matwali was further split into Masinya Matwali (enslavable) and Namasinya Matwali (non-enslavable) in law. 

When King Mahendra introduced the partyless Panchayat system in 1961, land reforms followed. But these reforms largely favoured the Brahmins, elites and members of the ruling class. Even the resources from conservation areas continued to be extracted by upper-class and upper-caste groups. Historically, it was the kings and elites who frequented these areas for hunting and recreation.

The Land Reform Act of 1964 set ceilings on land holding: up to 10 bigha in the Terai and Inner Terai, 25 ropani in the Kathmandu Valley, and 70 ropani in other hilly regions. However, in practice, upper‑caste families often retained control by dividing land among smaller nuclear units.

“Indigenous families often are community-centric, so a family of sixteen could own the same land as an upper-caste/class family of four. These policies of land ceiling laws didn’t help marginalised people much because upper-caste families could still divide land among smaller nuclear families and retain control,” Arnab explains.

So, the seemingly progressive legal intentions yet again benefited those already in power, reinforcing structural inequalities. This legacy shaped modern Nepali society: the push of Indigenous and Dalit communities to the margins mirrored not just social exclusion but topographical separation as well.

“When you look at land ownership, city planning, and irrigation, everything is built around those who historically held power: the upper castes,” Arnab adds. “So climate change doesn’t ‘happen’ equally. It lands harder on communities who already have fewer resources.

Climate change affects us all, but are we all equally bearing its impacts? The lexicon that frames climate change as affecting all groups, without acknowledging marginalised populations, is a deflective notion that undermines those who were already vulnerable long before it became a global buzzword.

“Some of us were already starting from a place of exclusion, be it from land, resources, or political power. What climate change does is widen those preexisting gaps,” Arnab strikes with a reality check.

Despite federalism under the 2015 Constitution, structural inequalities persist, marginalised voices are often ignored, and the capital remains overly centralised.

When heavy rain triggered floods in Kathmandu in September 2024, recovery was relatively faster than in remote areas. In contrast, the glacial lake outburst flood (GLOF) in Til Village, Limi Valley, Humla, on May 15, 2025, caused by the bursting of two glacial lakes in nearby Thakra, damaged the village’s micro-hydro plant, irrigation systems, drinking water supply, and access roads, displacing 18–19 households and highlighting the extreme vulnerability of remote communities.

This pattern reflects climate injustice. The communities most exposed to environmental disasters are often those historically left out of resource access and decision-making. And these disasters, floods, droughts, and landslides, occur in the same areas repeatedly.

So, who should be held accountable when climate change is, at its core, a justice issue?

“In a democratic society, everyone should have equal power and civic rights. But historically, some groups have had more access to resources than others. Therefore, any conversation about accountability has to begin from that history of exclusion and inequality.” Arnab answers. 

For a long time, the definition of climate change centred narrowly on human, or “anthropogenic” causes, essentially pointing to human activity in general. But this framing is misleading, as it places equal blame on everyone, when in reality the crisis stems from systems of extraction and the actions of those with power.

He argues that such broad blame on “humanity” erases accountability for the systems causing damage rooted in inequality. It was this perspective that shaped Arnab’s involvement in climate discourse. He began engaging more actively around 2017, as global calls grew for youth to speak from a justice-focused standpoint.

Having participated in numerous forums, often in formal and elite spaces, from big hotels to policy rooms, he believes it is equally important to hold these conversations in schools, on social media, and in local spaces where communities can relate and respond. And it’s even more important that these discussions must happen in local languages and contexts to allow for nuanced input and understanding. Representation, he stresses, is imperative. 

By 2019, the push for greater inclusion of gender and Indigenous perspectives in climate conversations was gaining momentum, and Arnab contributed in whatever ways he could. One of his strengths is highlighting that the real solutions often already exist within Indigenous communities.

In Indigenous communities, ecological practices are deeply tied to land and life. Local plant knowledge is one key example: knowing which plants are resilient to drought or floods, how to grow them, and how to use them for food, medicine, and other needs.

Water management is another critical area. Many communities have traditional ways of harvesting, conserving, and distributing water that are often more sustainable than modern systems. Their knowledge also extends to forest management, soil conservation, and seasonal cycles, reflecting a deep understanding of how to live in balance with nature rather than against it.

Much of this knowledge is passed down through Indigenous languages, but colonisation and marginalisation have put these languages and the wisdom they carry at risk.

“When languages start disappearing, we lose the words we used to describe nature, land, and weather. That disconnects younger generations from the environment and erases ancestral knowledge,” Arnab emphasises. 

Efforts to revive these languages are also acts of climate resistance. Yet much of Nepal’s mainstream climate discourse, especially in national policy and technical forums, still overlooks these connections, leaving the knowledge, perspectives, and voices of marginalised communities like the Tharu, Arnab’s own community, unheard.