My aunt Engte lives with her family in Ruma Upazila, Bandarban. She relies on the cultivation of Jum on a hillside close to her residence. In 2024, her house was flooded during the monsoon due to heavy rain. Water entered her home at night and remained there until morning. Their belongings were damaged, and the surrounding soil became unstable.
Since the house was no longer in good condition and repairing it required money she did not have, she and her family temporarily moved into a small hut beside their house, a place where their cow used to stay. It was very small and uncomfortable, yet it allowed them to remain close to their land. The main house would have to wait to be repaired.
At the same time, her Jum field on the slope above was visibly eroded. Rainwater had rushed down and carried away some of the topsoil. Small streamlines of runoff formed across the land. In hill farming, the loss of topsoil directly reduces productivity. She realized that she could not continue with her previous cultivation method if further rainfall kept worsening the damage.
She had no direct external financial support. So, she borrowed a small amount of money from neighboring families to purchase seeds. Instead of using that money to repair her house, she made a practical choice first: to secure agricultural production, because repairing the house would require far more money.
My aunt changed the way she cultivated her land. In the past, crops were planted along the downward slope. After the flood, she began planting across the hill, following the natural contour. This reduced the speed of runoff and minimized soil displacement.
She also stopped removing all the crop remains from the field. Leaves and plant remain were dried and spread over the ground to reduce the impact of direct rainfall and help retain moisture.
She cultivated ginger, turmeric, and millet in her Jum. These crops have stronger root systems and different harvesting periods. This diversification reduced the risk of losing everything at once and provided alternative sources of income if rice production declined.
She also made shallow drainage paths using hand tools to guide excess rainwater slowly away from the more vulnerable parts of the field. These were simple modifications based on her observation of how water moved across the slope.
Though the results were slow, soil erosion was less severe in the following monsoon season than it had been the year before. Crop survival improved. Ginger and turmeric became modest but steady sources of income. She sold some of the produce in the nearby market and gradually began to save.
During this time, she and her family continued living in the small hut because earning from the harvest took time. The house is still not fully repaired, but the security of farming has helped her rebuild her life one step at a time.
Other women in the village noticed that her field had become more stable during heavy rain. They asked about the way she planted and about her crop diversification. Some began applying the same practices on their own land. In this way, knowledge spread informally through everyday conversation.
My aunt has never encountered the phrase Locally Led Adaptation. She does not describe her actions in academic terms. Yet its main principles are present in her choices. She identified the climate risks affecting her livelihood. She acted using local knowledge, available resources, and community support. She also prioritized long-term sustainability over short-term reconstruction.
When I visited and listened to her story, I realized that her experience shows that Locally Led Adaptation is not just a policy framework. It is quietly practiced in hill communities like hers, where women respond directly to environmental change through practical decision-making.
