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Climate change played a key role in the “catastrophic” 2023 floods in the Himalayan state of Sikkim in India, a new study says.
The breach of one of the “largest, fastest-growing and most hazardous” glacial lakes in Sikkim, the South Lhonak lake, led to cascading floods that killed 55 people and washed away a 1,200 megawatt (MW) hydropower dam.
The event was identified as a glacial lake outburst flood (GLOF), which is a sudden release of water from a lake fed by glacial melt.
The research, published in Science, explores the many drivers of the GLOF, its extensive impacts and policy implications going forward.
“There are many, many factors that came together here,” the study’s lead author tells Carbon Brief, but the “main driver” was the destabilising effect caused by thawing permafrost.
The research also finds that the South Lhonak lake has been expanding for decades, due to meltwater from the glacier above, with its area growing 12-fold between 1975 and 2023.
The paper concludes that the GLOF highlights the “complex interactions” between climate change, glacier mass loss and human infrastructure in mountainous regions.
It also demonstrates the importance of “robust monitoring systems and proactive measures to minimise devastating consequences and enhance resilience”, the authors add.
Flood cascade
Sikkim is a small Himalayan state in north-east India, bordering China in the north, Bhutan in the east, Nepal in the west and the state of West Bengal in the south.
Part of the eastern Himalaya, Sikkim is host to more than 90 glaciers and Kanchenjunga, the world’s third-highest peak. Sikkim serves as the origin and upper river basin for the Teesta river, one of the largest tributaries of the Brahmaputra river system.
On the night of 3 October 2023, a ridge of frozen rock and other debris on the side of the South Lhonak glacier – called a “lateral moraine” – collapsed into the glacial lake. This set off a tsunami-like wave nearly 20 metres high that breached the front of the lake, sending 50m cubic metres of water – almost half the lake’s volume – downstream.
According to the study, the GLOF’s peak discharge “vastly exceeds” the magnitude of any meteorological flood in the region’s history, equivalent to a “rare” one-in-200-year event.
Dr Ashim Sattar, a glaciologist at the Indian Institute of Technology, Bhubaneswar and the lead author of the study, tells Carbon Brief the sheer scale of impact is not always evident in satellite images. He explains:
“Here, 270m cubic metres of sediment was eroded, enough to fill 108,000 Olympic swimming pools. The South Lhonak Lake itself is 2.2km long. Just walking around it will make you sweat.”
Two hours later, the GLOF and huge volumes of eroded sediment reached the village of Chungthang 35km away, destroying the 1,200MW Teesta-III hydropower project on impact and damaging four other dams downstream.
Exclusive visuals from completely damaged Chungthang Dam in Sikkim
Received from Pokhraj Rai Ji pic.twitter.com/x9gFxs1PC6
— Weatherman Shubham (@shubhamtorres09) October 12, 2023
As the GLOF travelled, it set off 45 secondary landslides, many of them deep-seated and up to 150 metres in depth, with impacts not just in Sikkim, but also in neighbouring West Bengal and Bangladesh.
In all, the flood cascade damaged 25,900 buildings, 31 major bridges and flooded 276km2 of agricultural land. The most heavily inundated zone was in Bangladesh 300km away, where intense cyclonic rainfall – initially attributed as a main GLOF driver – exacerbated flooding.
The figure below, taken from the study, shows before-and-after images and illustrations of the moraine collapse and the flood’s path from Sikkim to Bangladesh, where floodwaters finally discharged into the Brahmaputra river.
Dr Jakob Steiner, a geoscientist at the University of Graz and a member of the Himalayan University Consortium, who was not involved in the study, says the assessment captures the “cascading” impacts of GLOFs and their interaction with other complex, climatic factors in great detail. He tells Carbon Brief:
“Even if the glacial lake is relatively small, it can trigger other movements downstream and that can have far-reaching consequences, even for hydropower plants miles away from any lakes. So the message [of the study] is that you’re not safe anywhere and, hopefully, that’s a message that policymakers will get. Institutionally, however, we are not yet prepared to receive that kind of message.”
What caused the flood?
To study such a complex and multifaceted event, researchers combined satellite imagery, meteorological data, field observations and numerical modeling.
Study lead Sattar tells Carbon Brief that “capturing this entire process into one model is very tricky and complex”.
Throughout the paper, the authors emphasise the “multi-hazard” nature of the disaster, explaining that multiple short- and long-term changes in the climate and terrain converged to create the conditions needed for the event.
However, Sattar tells Carbon Brief that the “main driver” of the GLOF was the long-term impact of rising temperatures on permafrost – the perennially frozen ground that makes up much of the mountain’s slope.
According to the authors, decades of rising temperatures have led to permafrost thaw, which caused “extensive, rapid deformation” of the slope for years preceding the collapse. The paper estimates that permafrost warming has reached a depth of 100 metres below the surface of the soil.
The study also identifies the expansion of the South Lhonak lake as an important driver. The authors find that the South Lhonak glacier, which sits above the lake, has been melting for decades. Meltwater from the glacier flows directly into the lake, which has been gradually filling up.
The charts below show the annual mass balance of the glacier (left) – where a negative number indicates a shrinking glacier – and the increasing area of the lake (right) between 1951 and 2023.
The research finds that the lake has been expanding by 0.32km2 per year over 1975-2023. It notes there has been a “doubling” in the rate of expansion over the past two decades.
The authors suggest that rising temperatures are responsible for the glacier losing mass, as the annual average temperature in the region has been increasing by 0.08C per decade since the 1950s.
The long-term permafrost thaw and growth of the lake means that, by October 2023, the region was in a state of “increased sensitivity” to a multi-hazard cascade, the paper says.
The authors say the final “trigger” was the intense rainfall that hit Sikkim on 3-4 October. Though the rainfall was “typical” for the region and season, the authors say that it “saturated the soil and increased the vulnerability of slopes to failure”.
Dr Stephan Harrison – a researcher from the University of Exeter – tells Carbon Brief that the study is “very significant” and is “written by some of the leading scientists in the field”.
Dr Miriam Jackson is the programme coordinator for the cryosphere initiative at the International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development, and was not involved in the study. She echoes Harrison’s praise, but warns about the “lack of good data” in the region for these sorts of studies. She says:
“We desperately need more data on the status of glaciers and glacial lakes, more meteorology measurements at high elevation and more data on the status of frozen ground in the Hindu Kush Himalaya.”
Harrison and Jackson gave conflicting answers about whether GLOFs are increasing or decreasing globally. However, both pointed to the lack of data on GLOFs, noting that datasets are incomplete or unavailable in many regions and emphasised the need to get better records before definitive answers can be drawn.
Hydropower rush
The Sikkim GLOF event joins a chain of recent disasters in high-mountain Asia that have destroyed hydropower plants. Given the sheer “physical magnitude” of these events and their impacts, the study highlights “potential limits to adaptation” in the Himalaya, warning that “even the most diligent and comprehensive suite of disaster risk reduction strategies [is] unlikely to entirely prevent” loss and damage.
The study draws attention to a “surge” of hydropower development in the Himalayan region near glacial lakes, which it attributes to a rising demand for “stable and renewable energy”.
With more than 650 projects planned or under construction in high-mountain Asia, it warns that many dams are “moving closer to these hazard-prone areas” and this could “exacerbate” GLOF impacts. The Teesta basin, for instance, hosts the highest density of hydropower projects in the Himalayan region, with 47 dams planned, including the reconstruction of the Teesta-III project.
While dams themselves are “susceptible” to a wide array of high-mountain hazards, they also increase the exposure of communities, workers and infrastructure investments to a “greater likelihood” of GLOFs in the future, according to the paper.
Comprehensive risk assessments, stringent building standards, regulating land use and regional cooperation among river-sharing countries are among the measures suggested by the study to reduce GLOF risks.
Sattar says governments “can make a start” by developing “basin-scale” early-warning systems. However, he cautions that structural measures such as draining glacial lakes “are easy to say, but difficult to do” in harsh terrain.
Meanwhile, geoscientist Steiner says it is critical that the key role played by infrastructure development in damage caused by GLOFs is not downplayed – noting that a failure to do so risks “absolv[ing] local institutions of their responsibility”. He concludes:
“As scientists, we find it important to show that climate change is involved, but we have to be aware that the science we create is very, very political… [A] big part of the disaster is not climate change; it’s institutional failures, it’s infrastructural failures.
“If nobody takes the responsibility and everyone just says: ‘it’s my neighbour and not me’, then we are truly in deep shit. Maybe we already are.”
The post ‘Catastrophic’ 2023 lake outburst in India driven by glacial melt and permafrost thaw appeared first on Carbon Brief.
‘Catastrophic’ 2023 lake outburst in India driven by glacial melt and permafrost thaw
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An older teaching about land acknowledgement
As I have come to understand the spirit and intention of land acknowledgement, I often return to fond memories of my grandmother and her words of wisdom. She taught that the health of the places we call home comes first, because the wellbeing of the people depends on it.
In her teaching, land acknowledgement began with the land. Long before it became a paragraph read at the start of a meeting, it was a way of recognizing a homeland: its waters, its species, its seasons, and the spirit that revealed whether the place was well.
Her teaching echoes a practice found across many Indigenous Nations. Haudenosaunee gatherings, for example, have long opened with the Ohén:ton Karihwatéhkwen, the Thanksgiving Address, often translated as “the words that come before all else.” The speaker greets and gives thanks to the people, the earth, the waters, the plants, the animals, the winds, the sun, the moon and the stars. Only after everything that sustains life has been acknowledged does the gathering turn to its own business.
That order changes what an acknowledgement is for. Its purpose was to share the story of a place with neighbours and to draw them into the work of tending it. People entered the story second, as the ones responsible for what had just been named.
Understood this way, an acknowledgement does more than open a meeting. It asks us to reconsider where we stand, and what we owe the ground beneath us.
Nations among nations
In her teaching, people are one nation among many. The salmon are a nation. So are the cedars, the bison, the medicine plants, and the pollinators. Each belongs to a place, carries its own responsibilities, and offers gifts no other nation can give.
This idea of kinship runs through many Indigenous philosophies. The phrase “all my relations,” heard in ceremonies and gatherings across Turtle Island, is a reminder that family extends beyond people to the animals, plants, waters and lands that make life possible. Some Indigenous languages carry the same understanding in their grammar, speaking of many plants, animals and natural forces as living beings rather than objects.
Sovereignty, understood through this relationship, is a kind of standing more than a form of control. Each nation belongs fully to its place and carries its share of that place’s life. No nation thrives alone, and none thrives by taking over the whole.
The land is also the source of instruction. Over generations, people watched how a river valley or a stretch of prairie kept itself well: who arrived when, who fed whom, and how much could be taken before the giving stopped. In my grandmother’s telling, those observations became instructions, and those instructions helped shape law and protocol. They guided when to harvest, where to camp, how to enter a neighbour’s territory, and what was owed in return.
Indigenous legal scholars today often describe this as law that comes from the land itself, learned by watching how living systems sustain one another. A plainer name for it is knowing how to live somewhere.
The host and the guest
One of the clearest teachings in this understanding of the world is the relationship between host and guest. My grandmother invited us to recognize that relationship in the lives of plants and animals.
A host prepares the place before anyone arrives. A beaver family dams a stream, and the pond becomes a home for fish, frogs, birds and plants. A fallen tree becomes a nurse log, feeding the next generation of seedlings as it returns to the soil.
A host offers first. A flowering plant sets out nectar. A berry bush ripens fruit. These provisions come in their own season, not whenever a visitor happens to want them.
A host also makes its presence known. Birdsong, scent and the marks left along a trail tell newcomers that a place is already inhabited. The visitor does not arrive in an empty world.
The guest has responsibilities too. A guest attends to the season and to what the place can offer. A guest does not assume that everything within reach is theirs to take. A guest leaves something that helps sustain the relationship.
A bee takes nectar and carries pollen. Read through this teaching, that exchange offers an image of visiting well: receiving a gift while helping the host continue its life.
Many Indigenous harvesting protocols carry the same ethic into daily practice: ask before taking, take only what is needed, offer thanks, and leave enough for others and for the plant or animal to recover.
None of this suggests that every relationship in nature is peaceful or generous. These are ways of seeing responsibilities that people can learn to carry.
Everyone is both
No being is only a host or only a guest.
A tree makes room for other life while depending on soil, water, sunlight, fungi, and relationships beyond itself. People, too, may welcome others into their homes while remaining dependent on the larger homeland that sustains them.
The distinction between host and guest is therefore about roles, not ranks. Everyone receives. Everyone has something to give.
The question is whether the exchange sustains the place.
A visitor who takes without restraint leaves less for those who come next. A host who neglects the place has less to offer. Both have responsibilities, and neither can fulfil them alone.
This is the heart of reciprocity, a principle found across Indigenous philosophies: relationships stay healthy when gifts move in both directions. The Haudenosaunee teaching of the seventh generation extends that exchange across time, asking that decisions made today leave the place well for those not yet born.
Mutual benefit begins here, with the recognition that different beings carry different gifts and obligations.
What people carry forward
My grandmother’s teaching connects these relationships to the ways people meet their neighbours.
The host prepares a place, offers food and rest, and explains where the visitor has arrived. The guest makes themselves known, explains why they have come, listens to the terms of the visit, and brings something in return. The gift may be material. It may also be labour, knowledge, news, or a commitment to help.
Nations around the Great Lakes carried this ethic into treaty. The Dish with One Spoon, an agreement among the Haudenosaunee, Anishinaabe and allied Nations, describes shared hunting grounds as a single dish. Everyone eats from it with one spoon, takes only what they need, leaves enough for others, and keeps the dish clean. The Two Row Wampum, between the Haudenosaunee and European newcomers, shows two vessels travelling side by side on the same river, each keeping its own ways and neither steering the other.
In this understanding, acknowledgement is more than naming the people associated with a territory. It is learning enough about a homeland to behave responsibly within it.
Whose home is this? What sustains it? What laws and agreements guide our presence? What can we receive, and what must we return?
These questions make acknowledgement a relationship rather than a recital.
They also make it diplomatic. A guest who recognizes the host’s homeland recognizes that they have entered a place with its own relationships and responsibilities. A host who welcomes the guest makes room for an encounter governed by those relationships.
Neither arrives without standing. Neither arrives without obligations.
Beginning with place
I write from the shores of the Bay of Quinte. Here, the teaching asks me to begin with the water, the shoreline, and the life they sustain. Before I describe myself, I must attend to where I am.
That does not make people or history less important. It places them within the homeland that gives them meaning. The people, their laws, their agreements, and their responsibilities all belong to the place.
In a time of longer fire seasons, troubled waters, and uncertainty about what the next season will bring, this teaching asks something difficult and useful of us: pay attention before you speak.
An acknowledgement cannot tell the story of a place if the speaker has stopped noticing it.
The land came first. Beginning there again means learning to name what sustains us, and accepting that what sustains us also asks something of us.
By Rye Karonhiowanen Barberstock
Photo by Andrik Langfield on Unsplash
The post The Land Came First appeared first on Indigenous Climate Hub.
Carbon dioxide (CO2) emissions from fossil fuels and cement are projected to fall by around 0.4% in 2026 to 38.2bn tonnes of CO2 (GtCO2), according to new figures from the Global Carbon Project.
This guest post is by:
- Dr Zeke Hausfather, Carbon Brief’s climate science contributor
- Prof Pierre Friedlingstein, chair of mathematical modelling of climate systems at the University of Exeter