Mongolia's Ger District: The World's Largest Informal Settlement Going Vertical

Ulaanbaatar's sprawling ger districts, home to over half the capital's population, face a controversial transformation as the government bets on high-rise redevelopment to solve its housing and pollution crises.

contributor:sstonelabs@gmail.com • Profile • 2026-02-17

Ulaanbaatar is a city of relentless contrasts, a place where the glass towers of a modernizing economy cast long shadows over the sprawling, felt-covered gers that house more than half its population. These are the ger districts, the world's largest informal settlement, a vast urban sea of tradition, poverty, and resilience. For generations, they have been the first stop for nomadic families seeking a new life in Mongolia's capital. But now, a dramatic and controversial transformation is underway. The government, allied with private developers, is betting on a vertical future, aiming to demolish the gers and replace them with soaring apartment blocks. This is more than an urban renewal project; it's a high-stakes gamble with the city's soul, pitting the urgent need for modern living conditions against the deep-rooted cultural identity of a nomadic people.

The Weight of Heritage

The ger is not just a tent; it is the nucleus of Mongolian life, a symbol of family, heritage, and a profound connection to the land that has been passed down through centuries. Its circular design represents the universe, with the central stove considered the sacred heart of the family. "I was born in a ger, I grew up in a ger, I got married in a ger. I have never lived in a house. I love my ger," explains 63-year-old resident Tagtokhbayar Tuvaan, voicing a sentiment shared by many. This deep cultural attachment is a powerful undercurrent in the redevelopment debate. The transition from a self-sufficient, ground-based lifestyle to a vertically-stacked apartment existence is not merely a change of address but a fundamental shift in cultural identity.

A City Divided

The ger districts are a city within a city, home to over 60% of Ulaanbaatar's 1.5 million residents. This urban landscape is a patchwork of traditional gers and self-built, often precarious, wooden houses. The rapid expansion began in the 1990s after the fall of the Soviet Union, when economic upheaval and a series of brutal winters, or dzuds, drove tens of thousands of herders to the capital. They brought their gers with them, settling on any available land and creating a sprawling, unplanned metropolis.

Life here is a daily struggle. Most of the districts are not connected to central water, sewage, or heating systems. Families haul water from public kiosks and rely on pit latrines. The lack of paved roads turns the districts into a maze of mud and dust. Unemployment is rampant, and the poverty rate is significantly higher than in the city's formal apartment districts. These harsh realities are the primary justification for the government's aggressive redevelopment agenda.

The Vertical Solution

The government's answer to the ger district problem is to go up. Ambitious masterplans envision a new Ulaanbaatar, one where the ger districts are replaced by orderly rows of high-rise apartment buildings. Projects like the "Nogoon Nuur" (Green Lake) residential complex, with its eight 21-story towers, are presented as the gleaming future. This vertical push is driven by a genuine desire to address the city's housing crisis and provide residents with modern amenities like running water, central heating, and indoor plumbing.

International actors, including the World Bank and the Asian Development Bank, have provided significant funding and technical support for these redevelopment efforts, producing comprehensive blueprints for a "green, resilient and affordable" housing future. Private developers, seeing a massive market, are key partners in this construction boom.

Fractured Foundations

Beneath the surface of this modernization drive, however, lie deep fractures. The redevelopment has been plagued by controversy and criticism. Human rights organizations like Amnesty International have documented cases of forced evictions and violations of residents' right to adequate housing. Many redevelopment projects have stalled, leaving families in a state of legal and financial limbo, sometimes homeless, after their land was taken and the promised apartments never materialized.

Safety is another major concern. Experts warn that many of the new high-rises are being constructed without adequate consideration for Ulaanbaatar's location in a seismically active zone. The rush to build has led to fears of shoddy construction that could lead to catastrophic failure in a major earthquake. Furthermore, corruption is a pervasive issue in Mongolia's construction sector, raising questions about the transparency and fairness of the land deals and building contracts.

For many residents, the new apartments are simply unaffordable. The cost of even the cheapest apartment is more than double the price of a traditional ger and plot of land, effectively pricing out the very people the projects are meant to help. This has led to fears of displacement, where the original residents are pushed to the city's periphery while wealthier buyers move into the new developments.

The Air We Breathe

The most immediate and deadly crisis facing Ulaanbaatar is its air quality, which is among the worst in the world. During the long, brutal winters, when temperatures can drop to -40°C, a thick, toxic smog blankets the city. The primary source of this pollution is the burning of raw coal in the simple stoves used for heating and cooking in the ger districts. This pollution is responsible for thousands of deaths each winter and a host of respiratory illnesses, cancers, and birth defects. The government has banned raw coal use, but enforcement is difficult, and cleaner fuels are often too expensive for the poorest families. The redevelopment is seen as a long-term solution to this public health emergency, as centrally heated apartments would eliminate the need for individual coal stoves.

The Future of the Ger

Ulaanbaatar is at a precipice. The push to go vertical is an attempt to solve a complex web of social, economic, and environmental problems in one fell swoop. Yet, this top-down approach risks steamrolling the rights, culture, and financial stability of hundreds of thousands of people. The future of the ger districts, and of Ulaanbaatar itself, depends on finding a more inclusive and sustainable path forward. This may involve upgrading existing ger areas with essential infrastructure, a solution many residents favor, rather than wholesale demolition. It requires a collaborative effort that respects the heritage of the ger while providing the modern standards of living that all citizens deserve. As the cranes and concrete transform the skyline, the question remains: can Mongolia build a modern capital without dismantling its own soul?