Facing the 9/11 of global warming in Nepal

There was no premeditated attack. Just a combination of the complex laws of nature, and the ways we have altered fragile balances over decades. Like 9/11, the images had the same raw, visceral power: millions of cubic meters of mud and debris sweeping through at 200 km/h, trapping thousands of people, broadcast almost live. A terrifying reminder of how fragile our ecosystems are.

I was lucky to have been to this exact place in 2022, not in 2026…

The Himalayas are one of the most vulnerable regions in the world, but not the only one. Permafrost — which has acted as a natural cement for millennia — has started to melt and disintegrate, releasing entire mountainsides. In addition, within 30 years of climate change, glacial lakes’ number increased from 45,000 to 70,000 worldwide and sudden glacial lakes outbursts floods are threatening today 15 million people mainly in Asia.

The most exposed countries are often the poorest. Monitoring Alpine glaciers is hard — the Himalayas are a different scale entirely.

Even though Nepalis and Tibetans are especially frugal and low-polluting consumers, they pay the heaviest price for global warming.

I went on a trek precisely in this region in October 2022. What I saw there is not only due to global climate change, but also to the hand of man at work locally. Massive hydroelectric dams and bridges under construction coexist with crumbling roads and suspended vegetal footbridges. I saw the power of the rivers deep in the valleys. Perched at 5,000 meters, I looked out over neighboring China. I saw their footprint — the infrastructure they design, finance, and build, from which local populations will benefit only marginally. I passed hundreds of workers digging, disfiguring, shaking, and shattering fragile balances, leaving behind concrete monsters — artificial reservoirs just waiting to fail.

I had walked alongside the Trishuli River, on the road from Kathmandu to Langtang. It has been reported that its multiple concrete bridges were swept away over 70km. Footage has shown that nothing remains of the Rasuwagadhi/Gyirong border post – 6 floors high – separating Nepal from China, which had only just been rebuilt after last summer’s floods. The 25-megawatt Nuwakot solar plant is said to have been buried under the rubble. Nepal was so proud of it.

Today I think of all the Nepalis, of the pilgrims — many of them Indian, but also Israelis — and of the trekkers I crossed paths with; of the small town of Syabrubesi, whose lower streets were swept away; of the market in Trishuli where I once wandered; of this majestic nature we so relentlessly try to dominate. Of all the families who live closest to the river. Or those who live far up high, five days’ climb away, nearly cut off from the world.

We are, quite simply, not equal in the face of climate change.

Israel has built its resilience on turning scarcity and adversity into innovation. That same ingenuity is urgently needed elsewhere, at scale: real-time monitoring of unstable slopes and glacial lakes could give exposed communities the minutes or hours they need to reach higher ground. Climate resilience cannot remain a privilege reserved for the wealthy.