This Business Gave Middle-Aged Tibetan Women Their Voices Back
Drolma Lhamo used to be someone who gave up easily.
That changed one day when, during payroll, an employee quietly asked her:
“Will you still be here next year?”
“She told me she prayed to the Buddha every day, hoping we’d still be here — and that things would get better.” Lhamo’s eyes welled up. “That was the moment I realized — I was truly changing these women’s lives.”
From that day on, she stopped hesitating. Kadhak became something she knew she would keep building.
Kadhak began with an unexpected opportunity. Out of more than 400 applicants, Lhamo had been selected for a business course at the University of Virginia. That was where she first heard the word “organic.” And she immediately thought of home — the Tibetan plateau, with its clean soil, barley, and yak butter.
“We already had the purest ingredients,” she said. She decided to start with handmade soap, blending elements of her homeland — highland barley, butter, and tsampa — into every bar.
And in 2018, Kadhak was born.
Having once been a struggling woman herself, Lhamo wanted Kadhak to be more than just a brand. She hoped it could create opportunities for women from remote pastoral areas — especially those in her hometown of Litang — who lacked financial independence.
So she posted the hiring notice — and to everyone’s surprise, nearly all the applicants were between 40 and 50 years old. This age group, long abandoned by the market, became the backbone of Kadhak.
“It made sense,” she smiled. “Most of the younger ones had probably left for school or jobs elsewhere. We didn’t set any age limits — and yet this beautiful story unfolded.”
Before joining Kadhak, 53-year-old MiMi said she had survived by harvesting cordyceps and mushrooms. Like many women living on the plateau, her income depended on these seasonal wild goods — unstable and unpredictable, especially in a region with such harsh weather. Most of their days were spent cooking for their families and herding livestock. That was life — until Kadhak came along.
“They always asked me, ‘How can a job have such good hours and pay?’ And they told me I had to keep going. It gave me pressure,” Lhamo said, laughing. “You know, I used to be someone who always changed her mind.”
The workday at Kadhak started late, because Lhamo knew that women in these pastoral communities had to prepare every meal for their families. Kadhak respected their lifestyle while quietly reshaping it. Lunch was intentionally provided at work, giving them a moment to rest and relax. Without it, they would have had to return home and cook for the entire family all over again.
Still, Lhamo noticed a deeper conflict: full-time employment wasn’t welcomed. She once tried offering full-time roles, but complaints followed — on the surface, from the women themselves, but in reality, from the men in their households.
Living beneath the snow-capped mountains they had never left, these women were born into a life bound to the concept of family — and with it, the expectations of being a “good wife” and a “good mother.” Their voices were minimized from a young age. Education. Marriage. These decisions were never theirs to make. Over time, through the quiet erosion of autonomy, they lost the impulse to live for themselves. They lived for the men — for the people in their families.
So when forced to choose between home and work, they still chose home. Kadhak adapted once again, offering a more flexible model: whoever was available that day could come in to work. It allowed them to earn income without being pushed out of work entirely.
Issues like this ran deep in the plateau — stubborn and slow to change. Lhamo supported the women with quiet compassion. She guided, but never imposed.
She recalled one woman who had endured a serious gynecological illness for over a year and a half, too ashamed to tell her family. By the time she sought help, it had already become severe. Lhamo was shocked. From that moment on, she recognized the importance of spreading awareness — helping the women at Kadhak understand that gynecological health issues were nothing to be ashamed of.
“We didn’t lecture them. That would only have pushed them away,” she said. “We waited until they’d settled in — maybe a week or two — and then shared stories: ‘A friend of mine once went through this…’ At first, they glanced at each other awkwardly. But now, they didn’t think it was a big deal anymore.”
Were things changing for women in Tibetan rural communities? Compared to when I was younger, I believed so — even if slowly. But it was happening.
Recently, in Litang, these women came together to start a women’s activity center, using their own funds. But once again, the men had something to say about it.
“These women have way too much say now — it’s like putting a chamber pot on a Bodhisattva’s head,” they said, Lhamo recalled. One man even dragged his wife home and beat her.
Once again, something meaningful — a space for women to gather and feel seen — was twisted into something shameful. The metaphor of a chamber pot on a Bodhisattva’s head was a way to tell these women: this was a command from above — they must not cross the line. And the violence was used to reinforce the belief that those who stepped out of line deserved to be punished.
But was that the end of the story — just another sad sigh about women?
One Kadhak employee bought a new coat with her salary. She hid it in a sack every time she went home — but when she went out with her friends, she wore it proudly. That coat was hers — bought with her own money. It belonged to her.
The women’s center, despite the backlash, was still open. And beneath the snow-capped mountains, more enterprises like Kadhak were beginning to emerge.
This was their persistence. Their quiet courage. Their pride.
Through their own labor, these women were building something that truly belonged to them. From being wives and mothers to others, they were becoming individuals, shaping their own futures through their work.
Yes, it was a slow path. But it was moving forward. The coat, the women’s center, even lunch at work — these small, vivid moments became symbols of dignity, change, and hope.
That was why I wrote this piece: to let the world see these resilient women. To lift up ethical enterprises like Kadhak. And to warmly invite you to join me in shining a light on the slow, brave path they are walking — even if it began small.
Want to support Kadhak’s journey? Learn more at kadhak.org.
