Author: Greta

strengthening traditional wisdom for elephant welfare

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Feature image: A captive tusker is being given a scrub bath

“In the olden days, after completing timber work, the elephants were left unfettered in the forest, to forage with a long chain tied to one leg and a bell hanging around their necks, which helped us to track them later. Some elephants would cleverly turn the bell upside down and fill it with soil, preventing it from ringing,” recalls Devasikutty, a 70-year-old retired mahout from the Thrissur district of Kerala, India. 

“Sometimes, they would grab the chain with their mouths and walk for kilometres, ensuring that no marks are left behind by the dragging chain. Only a trail of footprints would remain on the ground, making it difficult to locate the individual. We could easily mistake the tracks for those of a wild elephant. Elephants are highly intelligent and use tactics like these to escape work the following day. But they usually returned on their own at the time of feeding kanji (rice porridge).” 

Despite bearing scars from an attack by the last elephant he cared for decades ago, Devasikutty speaks without resentment and with only reverence. His words reflect the deep, almost spiritual bond that some mahouts share with these beings. He views elephants as intelligent and emotional, capable of remembering those who have wronged them and punishing them later. For generations, mahouts have been custodians of a largely unrecognised body of traditional ecological knowledge (or TEK), built through years of observation, shared learning, and an intimate understanding of the lives of individual elephants.

The Kerala connection

The domestication of elephants in India can be traced back to ancient rock paintings dated around 6000 BC. The Rig Veda Samhita (circa 1500 BC) contains evidence of elephant domestication, including references to elephants as gifts, richly caparisoned elephants, elephants responding to commands, and even elephant keepers’ villages. By the 6th century BC, the capture and taming of wild elephants had become a sophisticated art. 

Elephants lined up during Aanayoottu (“feeding of elephants”) ceremony held at
the Sree Vadakkumnathan Temple in Thrissur, Kerala

Indian TEK related to elephant care was well developed long before the same began to take shape in the West. Ancient treatises like the Nakula Saṁhita detailed methods of capture, training, and husbandry, reflecting the role of elephants in warfare and their importance to kings. Among these, the Hastyayurveda (Ayurveda of elephants), attributed to Palakapya, remains one of the most well-known texts on elephant health. Structured as a discourse, it covers a wide range of ailments and treatments and continues to serve as a guide for traditional elephant healers even today.

Elephants have been woven into Kerala’s cultural identity, not only as working animals but as sacred and ceremonial figures. Traditionally owned by big landlords, captive elephants are now privately owned, coinciding with a shift in the primary type of work from timber extraction to use in religious festivals. Beyond the grandeur of decorated elephants surrounded by a sea of people during these ceremonies lies an age-old system of elephant care, deeply rooted in a blend of TEK and Ayurvedic principles. According to Dr. Sankaran, an Ayurveda doctor and second-generation elephant healer based in Thrissur, the dosage of Ayurvedic medicines administered to elephants is traditionally calculated based on principles outlined in Hastyayurveda. “It is generally considered to be 16 times the human dosage or adjusted according to the elephant’s body weight,” he explains.

Ethnoveterinary knowledge is gradually fading, as traditional practices are often perceived as anecdotal or informal when compared to modern veterinary science. However, rather than existing in opposition, these two systems have the potential to complement one another. For instance, the month of Karkidakam (17 July–17 August), which coincides with the monsoon season in Kerala, is traditionally set aside for rest and rejuvenation. After the physically demanding festival season, this period provides elephants with a much-needed break and a time for immunity-boosting treatments. The renowned Guruvayur temple houses around 37 elephants at a camp called Anakkotta (which translates to ‘elephant fort’), where these treatments are supervised by an expert panel of veterinary doctors—including an Ayurveda specialist—ensuring a thoughtful integration of TEK and modern science.

Ayurveda doctor and traditional healer examining an elephant (Photo credit: Dr. Sankaran)

Elephant whisperers

Ramakrishnan is an 80-year-old mahout who began his training at the age of nine. He attributes much of his knowledge to the time he spent with the Malayanmaar (forest-dwelling tribal communities). They taught him how to navigate the forest, tame wild elephants, and use traditional medicines—knowledge that he says was shared only after years of trust and close association. He recalls how close daily interactions enabled him to read subtle signs in an elephant’s behaviour. 

In Ramakrishnan’s experience, “If we truly care about the elephant or have the necessary knowledge, we can detect illness by simply observing its drinking habits. For instance, if an elephant drinks half its usual amount of water in the morning, we might assume it’s because it is not thirsty or it ate water-rich foods such as plantain stem, watermelon, or orange. But if it happens a second time, we start getting concerned. After a while, we will try to offer water again. If the elephant still drinks less, we realise that something is wrong. We get to know it by observing changes in its behaviour, much like how we can discern if a close person is feeling sick or is in pain just by looking at their face.” 

Reflecting on present day practices, he observes that this kind of intuitive understanding is becoming increasingly rare. In his view, the relationship between mahouts and elephants has grown more transactional over time. In the past, mahouts spent decades with a single elephant, forming lasting bonds; however, many now treat their role as merely a temporary job. Elephants are often reduced to decorative showpieces at festivals, valued more for their spectacle than for their sentience. Without genuine affection or a deep understanding of an elephant’s needs, he argues that the quality of care inevitably suffers.

Mahouts like Ramakrishnan have extensive knowledge of using locally available natural ingredients such as turmeric, coconut oil, ginger, neem leaves, salt, ghee, garlic, the touch-me-not plant, and asafoetida to treat common ailments. These remedies, recognised for their medicinal properties in Ayurveda, have long been passed down orally. But as traditional mahoutship declines and fewer youth see it as a viable or respected career, the continuity of this knowledge is at risk.

A mahout with his elephant at Anakkotta Elephant Camp

Today, captive elephants are more prone to health problems as they are frequently transported by lorry, made to stand for long hours, and receive inadequate rest due to the high demand for their presence at temple festivals. As a government veterinary officer explains, “Transporting elephants by lorry is never good for them. First, they do not get a chance to rest. Once a festival is over, they are loaded back onto the lorry and taken to another festival the next day. They have to balance and stand in the lorry, which prevents them from getting any sleep. An elephant is supposed to be taken for a procession only four days a week, but this guideline is often ignored. Also, it is recommended that elephants walk at least 20 km every day, but that has stopped since lorries came into the picture.”

Amid ongoing debates about elephant welfare, there is an urgent need to rethink what it truly means to care for these gentle giants. While modern veterinary science offers standardised protocols and diagnostic tools, it can sometimes overlook the depth of understanding that comes from years of close companionship, which is the kind of wisdom possessed by experienced mahouts. The future of elephant care lies not in favouring one system over another, but in creating synergy through a collaborative approach that combines ecological knowledge, scientific insight, and empirical observation. Such an approach will honour Kerala’s living heritage while adapting to the realities of a changing world.

Further Reading

Bist, S. S., G. Nair,  J. V. Cheeran, K. Kutti Nayar and K. C. Panicker. 1997. Practical elephant management: A handbook for mahouts. Elephant Welfare Association.

Dubost J. M., E. Deharo, S. Palamy, C. Her, C. Phaekovilay, L. Vichith L, S. Duffillot et al. 2022. Interspecific medicinal knowledge and Mahout-Elephant interactions in Thongmyxay district, Laos. Revue d’ethnoécologie 22. https://doi.org/10.4000/ethnoecologie.9705.  

Mazars, G. 1994. Traditional veterinary medicine in India. Revue Scientifique et Technique 13(2): 433-51. 
Oviya Jayashima Author

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paradise lost: the importance of road verges in a changing world

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In 1970, Joni Mitchell took a big yellow taxi to her hotel in Hawaii, only to wake up the next morning and find they’d paved paradise and put up a parking lot. It was a small moment, but it’s since become a universal lament—a line that captures the blunt sorrow of watching something beautiful disappear beneath concrete.

That same sorrow hums under the surface of many of our landscapes today. Meadows flattened. Hedgerows lost. Wildflower fields traded for sterile lawns. Paradise, again and again, casually paved. But sometimes—on the edge of a field, by the curve of a lane—it survives in the margins, tended by those who understand what we stand to lose.

My father-in-law Paul is one of those caretakers. A trained ecologist who studied at the University of Leicester before working for the railroad and eventually becoming a self-employed conservationist, he has spent over 30 years in Longparish, Hampshire, England, watching over the landscape with the kind of quiet dedication that runs in families. His father, Peter—a lawyer by profession but a naturalist by passion—kept meticulous nature diaries and wrote for local magazines, recording the rhythms of the seasons with the eye of someone who truly saw. Peter once asked his future wife, Doreen, to be his girlfriend under the sound of blackbirds on a picnic, and noted throughout his life how blackbirds had been present at every milestone, even toward the end.

This love of the natural world wasn’t unique to Paul’s family. Growing up, I declared at age three that I wanted to be a lepidopterist. My father, a former scout, built me a large bug house where I raised butterflies. After his unexpected death, my mother transformed our inground pool into a garden. I kept pet squirrels that had fallen from our loft, and my grandfather brought home turtles from his fishing trips. My brother and I spent family camping trips catching salamanders, our hands muddy with creek water and wonder. Paul’s brother Anthony raised atlas moths in his home, just as I later did in my university accommodation closet. Nature wasn’t just around us—it was in us, passed down like an inheritance we couldn’t imagine living without.

Now that inheritance is slipping away at an alarming rate, which makes what Paul tends all the more precious.

A legacy in the grass

In Hampshire, a narrow verge along a village road in Longparish is quietly defying that disappearance. What might seem like an unremarkable strip of grass to passing drivers is, in fact, a blaze of yellow each spring—thick with cowslips, nodding in the wind like something out of an older, gentler world.

This verge has been cared for, not neglected. It’s been watched, protected, allowed to change with the seasons. Paul understands that these small scraps of land can carry deep meaning—ecologically, yes, but personally too. His work is part conservation, part memory. The verge is a living tribute to his father’s ideals, to the belief that our relationship with the land matters. That what we take, we owe. And that what we ruin, we must answer for.

Through a local countryside club, Paul is quietly passing on those ideals to a new generation. Children from the village come to the fields to learn the names of the flowers, to spot butterflies rising in bursts of colour, to notice the slow, seasonal magic of the land. Paul doesn’t teach with speeches—he teaches by doing. And the children, naturally, follow, just as I once followed my father to check the bug house, just as Paul once followed Peter through Buckinghamshire fields.

Verges as vessels of life

Road verges are often treated like non-places—mowed flat, littered, dismissed as nothing more than the ragged edge of somewhere else. But they’re not nothing. They are everything to wildflowers that have lost their meadows, to bees in search of nectar, to butterflies drifting on the wind hoping for a patch to land on.

When managed well, verges support hundreds of native species—nearly half of the UK’s total wildflower diversity can be found in them. They serve as corridors, connecting fragmented habitats. They feed pollinators and shelter small mammals. And they remind us, if we’re paying attention, that even the smallest effort to care for the land can ripple outward.

Good management mimics the rhythms of traditional hay meadows: allowing growth in spring and early summer, then cutting in late summer and removing the clippings to keep nutrient levels low. This encourages a broader variety of perennial herbs and flowers, curbing the dominance of aggressive species like thistles, nettles, and docks. It’s slow work. It’s deliberate. But it works—something Paul learned through his years as a professional conservationist, knowledge now applied with the patience of someone who has found his calling.

A misunderstood dove

The European turtle-dove—so often romanticised, so rarely understood—is one of the many species whose survival may hinge on these slivers of wildness. It is not the snow-white bird from sentimental songs, but a slender, warm-chested summer visitor, patterned in russet and charcoal, soft in sound and rare in sight. Its numbers have plummeted by 98 percent since 1994.

The turtle-dove needs seed-rich ground—exactly the kind a thriving verge can provide. But its dry diet also means it must drink frequently, and with the decline of traditional livestock ponds, clean water is becoming scarce. Add to that the grim fate awaiting many turtle-doves on their migration routes—mercilessly shot and trapped across parts of Europe—and you begin to wonder if this shy, symbolic bird will go the way of its cousin, the passenger pigeon: once the most abundant bird in North America, now extinct. What is a world without its doves?

As someone who has spent a lifetime watching species—from the moths in my university closet to the butterflies in my childhood bug house—I know the quiet devastation of watching something beautiful become rare, then rarer still.

From despair to doing something

Some councils are beginning to see the value of places like verges. Cutting less, letting things grow, letting things live. Hampshire is trialing wildlife-friendly regimes, following in the footsteps of counties like Dorset, which has managed to both boost biodiversity and save money by reducing mowing schedules.

But change is slow. Many verges are still shaved down to the roots before they can bloom. Others are trampled, parked on, sprayed. Too often, we treat the world as if beauty and usefulness must be separate, as if wildness is untidy and order is king. But wildness is the order—we’ve simply forgotten how to read it.

The climate crisis looms large. Species vanish. Young people feel it most sharply: the guilt of inheritance, the anxiety of inaction. But in the face of global despair, there’s something incredibly grounding about tending to a single stretch of land. About making space for cowslips and butterflies. About defending a little pocket of life not because it’s convenient or profitable, but because of its intrinsic value.

When I watch Paul tend his verge, I see my grandfather returning from fishing trips with rescued turtles. I see my mother transforming our pool into a garden. I see the continuation of something essential—the belief that we are not separate from nature but part of it, responsible for it, diminished by its loss.

The verge in Longparish isn’t just about conservation. It’s about inheritance—the kind that passes not through wills but through example, not through money but through mud on your boots and the names of flowers on your tongue. It’s about understanding that paradise isn’t something we visit but something we tend, not something we had but something we choose to keep. You don’t know what you got, till it’s gone. But sometimes, if you’re very careful and very patient, you can keep it from going at all.
Liana Knipe Author

More in Perspectives

not all jaguar movements are created equal

Feature image: Young jaguar from a camera trap in the Mbaracayú Forest Nature Reserve, where a small, isolated population of jaguars persists in eastern Paraguay (Photo credit: Hugo Mbujagi, Ambrosio Javagi, Felipe Jakugi, Diego Giménez, and Jay M. Schoen)

Have you ever wondered why the jaguar crossed the dirt road? Or if the jaguar might use the road to move from place to place? Thanks to our recent analysis of jaguar movement published in Biological Conservation, we now know more about how jaguars move while resting, during local movements, or when exploring new habitats. These insights unveil clues for the species’ long-term viability.

Jaguars, the Americas’ largest feline predator, exist in high numbers in the core of their range– the heart of the Amazon Basin. However, as you move farther from this region, jaguar populations become highly fragmented and threatened by shifting land use practices, such as agricultural expansion, and retaliatory killings by humans seeking to protect their livestock. Small populations have existed in isolation for decades, particularly in the northern and southern edges of the jaguar’s range— roughly northern Mexico and the convergence of Argentina, Paraguay, and Brazil, respectively. But the ongoing expansion of human-dominated landscapes exacerbates the existing fragmentation and also creates newly fragmented populations. 

Any group of organisms in small populations isolated from others are subject to the detrimental effects of inbreeding and an increased likelihood of local extinction. This means that maintaining broad-scale connectivity between populations is crucial for jaguar conservation efforts.

Such efforts depend on models that predict how jaguars may move through complex landscapes, including the strong likelihood they will avoid non-natural areas, often referred to as “matrix areas”. Past research has indicated that due to the jaguar’s elusive nature and vulnerability to human persecution, they are unlikely to use their capacity for vast movement to move from one population to another, unless there is sufficient forest cover. Given the present-day situation of isolated jaguar populations separated largely by matrix areas, it seems unlikely that jaguars have remained connected or that they will be in the future. This prediction is supported by observed genetic isolation in the northern and southern parts of the jaguar’s range.

Industrial soybean processing facility in the Atlantic Forest region of Paraguay, with a remnant forest patch in the distance. Jaguars are unlikely to venture into or move successfully through these areas to connect with other populations. (Photo credit: Jay M. Schoen)

Not all hope is lost, however. Conservation organisations are working with local farmers and ranchers to balance human needs for food and economic opportunity with the jaguar’s, and other species’, need for forested landscapes. These efforts include restoration and reintroduction initiatives in previously agricultural areas. But how do we prioritise these areas and understand their potential for jaguar connectivity?

One crucial aspect is to recognise that not all types of movement are the same—whether for people, honey bees, or jaguars. While past research modelled jaguar movement by collectively pooling data from GPS collars, our recent study explores how jaguars respond to their environment depending on distinct behavioural states. We used a combination of machine learning techniques to split movement data into three behaviours: resting, local movement, and exploratory movement. We then modelled the complex and interactive relationships between environmental variables and behaviour-specific jaguar movement data.

In doing this, we uncovered unique relationships with the environment based on the behavioural state of the animals. Notably, for the purpose of connectivity, jaguars in an exploratory movement state were more likely to move through anthropogenic areas, low tree cover, and areas farther from dense tree cover. In the most fragmented parts of the jaguar’s range, we have knowledge about the specific areas separating populations and acting as a barrier to connectivity. Going forward, as conservationists prioritise the habitat of corridor areas, this insight on exploratory movements may help on-the-ground efforts strike a balance between human and wildlife stakeholders, so that all life has a chance to thrive.

And what about that jaguar on the dirt road? This analysis confirmed what many big cat experts know: cats are lazy. More precisely, carnivores like to use the path of least resistance to travel, especially for longer distances. Jaguars were particularly likely to use dirt roads while in the exploratory movement state. After all, why cross the road when it can help you reach your destination? 

Original Paper

Schoen, J. M., R. DeFries and S. Cushman. 2025. Open-source, environmentally dynamic machine learning models demonstrate behavior-dependent utilisation of mixed-use landscapes by jaguars (Panthera onca). Biological Conservation 302: 110978. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.biocon.2025.110978. 

Further Reading

Haag, T., A. S. Santos, D. A. Sana, R. G. Morato, L. Cullen Jr., P. G. Crawshaw Jr., C. De Angelo et al. 2010. The effect of habitat fragmentation on the genetic structure of a top predator: loss of diversity and high differentiation among remnant populations of Atlantic Forest jaguars (Panthera onca). Molecular Ecology 19(22): 4906–4921. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1365-294X.2010.04856.x.

Jędrzejewski, W., H. S. Robinson, M. Abarca, K.A. Zeller, G. Velasques, E. A. D. Paemelaere, J. F. Goldberg et al. 2018. Estimating large carnivore populations at global scale based on spatial predictions of density and distribution – Application to the jaguar (Panthera onca). PLOS ONE 13(3): e0194719. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0194719. 

Roques, S., R. Sollman, A. Jácomo, N. Tôrres, L. Silveira, C. Chávez, C. Keller et al. 2016. Effects of habitat deterioration on the population genetics and conservation of the jaguar. Conservation Genetics 17: 125–139. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10592-015-0766-5. 
Jay Schoen Author & Photographer

More in Research in Translation

when development meets defiance

Feature image: A strong visual representation of the tensions between development, ecology, and conservation. Here, the city appears to be expanding, with construction and exposed soil as evidence of this growth. However, there is still a natural element visible: the green cover is made up of an invasive species, and beneath it, the white spots are flamingos. Photo credits: Nirjesh Gautam

While cities usually devour nature, some habitats such as the Najafgarh Lake stand defiant. A critical wetland ecosystem shared between Delhi and Haryana, the lake’s quiet rebellion is both moving and impossible to ignore. It supports a rich diversity of wildlife, particularly birds. However, due to ruthless urbanisation, municipal neglect, and public amnesia of natural heritage, the lake’s survival is in question.

Irrespective of the fact that it is unable to maintain itself on paper, Najafgarh Lake simply refuses to be erased from the geography. The lake has been constantly drowned in soil and concrete due to land reclamation efforts, but against all odds, it remains an essential habitat for numerous bird species, including the black-necked stork (classified as Near Threatened on the IUCN Red List) and large flocks of flamingos, herons, cormorants, and egrets.

A pond heron stalks its prey in the slurry at Najafgarh Lake. Photo credits: Pragyan James Ali
A purple swamphen foraging among invasive water hyacinth. Photo credits: Pragyan James Ali
Black-necked storks are classified as Near Threatened on the IUCN Red List. Photo credits: Nirjesh Gautam

Against a backdrop of water contaminated with industrial effluents and municipal waste, birds persist—wading through the shallows, finding food, shelter, and roosting spots among the reeds and invasive plant species.

The confluence of an industrial and municipal drain, both flowing into Najafgarh Lake. Amidst the chaos, two trees stand—a babool (Acacia nilotica) and a non-native vilayati kikar (Prosopis juliflora). Photo credits: Nirjesh Gautam

This resilience, however, is not without its struggles. The wetland faces a complex governance challenge, as both Delhi and Haryana wash their hands off when it comes to conservation. As a result, the lake is treated as an expendable wasteland rather than a vital urban ecosystem.

A drain is being constructed on the Haryana side of Najafgarh lake. Photo credits: Nirjesh Gautam

Najafgarh Lake embodies the paradox of urban biodiversity, that is both fragile and unyielding. It is a place where adaptation meets adversity, where birds continue to nest in landscapes transformed by human agency, and where nature, despite being choked with pollutants, continues to nurture life. The lake is not just a waterbody, it is complex poetry written by nature itself.

A fisher navigating through the wetland—a quiet coexistence of nature and human industry. Photo credits: Pragyan James Ali
Nirjesh Gautam Author & Photographer
Photographer

More in Photo Essays

tripping the snare

Feature image: Rope and wire from several confiscated snares in Cambodia’s Cardamom Mountains (Photo credit: Sarah R. Putnam)

Celebrated hotel designer Bill Bensley loves wild places. I don’t know this from my (non-existent) stays at the Four Seasons Tented Camp in Thailand’s Golden Triangle or the equally luxurious Capella Ubud on the Indonesian island of Bali. I know because Bill and I met ten years ago, on a river in far northern Mongolia, where the accommodations are rather more rustic.

Since then, we have spent one or two weeks together every summer, camping within view of the water but without the distractions of electricity or indoor plumbing. We float 10 to 15 miles each day through red rock canyons or tawny steppes, fishing for the region’s distinctive species of trout and grayling. Although the scenery is ever-changing, the arrangement of our boat is fixed: I am always at the oars, while Bill wields either a fly rod or a sketchpad. 

But this past summer, on one sunny afternoon in the drift boat, Bill’s tone turned sombre. We had been talking about his signature conservation project, Shinta Mani Wild, in Southeast Asia’s Cardamom Mountains. Since its launch in 2019, Wild has appeared on numerous world’s best hotels lists, including Time magazine’s World’s 100 Greatest Places.

Purchased at an auction of logging concessions, the site provides one of the few remaining safe corridors for forest elephants, clouded leopards, and Sunda pangolins, among many other threatened species, that migrate between two Cambodian national parks. Through a partnership with the Wildlife Alliance, teams of rangers on motorbikes patrol the hotel property—about the size of New York’s Central Park—along with a substantial buffer zone.

Over the past five years, these rangers have dismantled hundreds of criminal logging operations and confiscated nearly 14,000 wildlife snares—the favourite tool of poachers. This sounds like success until Bill admits that, despite these efforts, the jungle’s wounds continue to mount: not only from deforestation and poaching, but also outright land grabs facilitated by corrupt officials at all levels of the government.

Working for people and wildlife

Employees at the Shinta Mani Foundation—launched by Bill’s business partner, Sokoun Chanpreda, in 2004—work at the most basic levels to improve human livelihood and preserve wildlife habitats. They build wells, buy school supplies, offer microloans to would-be entrepreneurs, train subsistence farmers for more stable jobs in the tourism industry, and employ former poachers as forest rangers.

The foundation is supported by donations, as well as hotel revenue and direct action from Bill himself. He not only organises art shows and benefit galas but also contributes all income from the sale of his paintings and prints, along with a portion of the proceeds from his partnerships with silk and furniture manufacturers.

In rural Cambodia—as in the remote parts of Mongolia where I work—a little money, wisely spent, can go a long way. At Shinta Mani Wild, the foundation supports an on-site patrol station, including all the rangers’ expenses and equipment. When my wife Sarah and I finally set foot there in October, the rainy season had just ended. While we could have spent all our time happily chasing after birds—the grey-capped pygmy woodpecker, golden-fronted leafbird, and white-crested laughingthrush, among others—we were more than intrigued by the opportunity to accompany an anti-poaching ranger patrol.

Given the feudal history of game laws, the word ‘poach’ likely derives from the Middle English pocchen, which means “bagged”, or the French pocher, “to pocket”—something that any hungry peasant would immediately do with a harvested hare or partridge, given the merciless nature of medieval gamekeepers. 

But the world has changed since the long-ago era when noble families owned every stag and salmon. Now, even commoners like me, the offspring of untitled immigrants, can roam the earth like royalty, seeking sustenance in what remains of the wild. Are we tourists and adventurers, the newly landed gentry, protecting fish and wildlife for our pleasure while local residents go hungry? The answer is, as you might expect, complicated. 

The tragedy of the tortoise

Even in days of yore, some of the worst depredations of poaching were less about subsistence and more about the profit of organised gangs led by well-connected members of society, including minor aristocrats. 

On the rivers of Mongolia where I work, regulations restrict international anglers to catch-and-release fly fishing, by permit only. When we come across unattended nets or fishing lines, we remove and destroy them, but since we lack legal authority, we do not directly confront the poachers. Instead, we call a nearby ranger, give him a location and a description, and continue downriver. In most cases, the lawbreakers arrive from the capital in luxury SUVs. They are not fishing strictly for food or income but for status and diversion.

In Cambodia, however, rural poverty is more prevalent than in sparsely populated Mongolia, and the illegal wildlife trade is more lucrative. A freshly killed pangolin, for example, might fetch more than a thousand dollars in an urban restaurant, supporting a long chain of transactions from trapper to trader to transport. Which makes Bill’s attention to the security and prosperity of humans, as well as wildlife, vitally important.

I recall my conversation with a neighbouring landowner and physician, also named Peter, who described a nearby resort that would serve wild game on request, openly flouting the law. The only good thing, he told me, was that their dishonesty knew no bounds. When unconscientious guests ordered wild boar, the management was more than happy to deceive them with domestic pork.

Peter also told me that at least three different herds of elephants live in the vicinity. When I asked how to spot them, he described being within 50 metres of a herd without catching so much as a glimpse of grey hide. “You can be so close that you smell them,” he said, “but the vegetation is too dense.”

These elephants are creatures of the rainforest. They can pass through what look like impossibly narrow openings, ascend steep slopes, and find food and water in every season, wet or dry. The elephants know how to survive here, how to share resources. They have determined when each herd will visit a certain site, according to when the fruit is ripe and the foliage newly tender. The best way to protect them is to leave them alone.

Although the forest is lush now, every streambed burbling with rainwater, there are dry seasons when the rivers recede, and poachers set fires to drive animals toward their snares. The worst thing isn’t the destruction, the waste, and the killing. It’s the animals that can’t outrun the flames, the ones that are grievously injured but not yet dead. Like tortoises.

“There is something terrible,” Peter said, shaking his head, “about a burned tortoise.”

After he fell silent, I tried to imagine the ground-level heat and smoke. Cambodian tortoises are rare and endangered, which is only a part of the tragedy. Another part is the tortoise’s slow-moving stolidity, its propensity when threatened, to withdraw into its shell, to rely on the safety of a woefully inadequate structure in such a situation.

And yet, there have been some successes. Peter has lived in this part of Cambodia for more than two decades. In the years since Shinta Mani Wild began accepting guests, illegal logging has dramatically reduced. There are no large timber sales anymore, as even politically well-connected companies fear the negative publicity that determined lawsuits can bring, and the daily patrols have discouraged smaller operators. Like elephants, the forest can thrive if left alone.

Snares everywhere

Sarah and I met Robin and Munny—the hotel’s “adventure butler” and resident naturalist, respectively—near the hotel’s main gate and made some quick introductions with the patrol. In addition to the rangers employed by the Wildlife Alliance, the group included two uniformed members, one each from the Cambodian armed forces and the Ministry of Environment. The team leader was a young Russian national named Sam, who has worked with the Wildlife Alliance for more than two years and, since arriving at this post, attuned his hearing to the particular whine of chainsaws.

What do I remember now? A small motorbike built for two, with a second set of pegs where I could rest my feet behind Robin’s and a grab bar that was not quite wide enough for my two hands to coexist side by side. The engine growling up a trail so narrow that I overlapped my hands behind me on the grab bar and ducked my head beneath the overhanging branches. Some stretches of sand where the back tyre spun, mud so deep that it sucked at the wheel hub, and bouldery outcrops where Robin and I urged the bike along with the soles of our shoes. The hillside was so steep in some places that I got off and walked.

In the jungle, every tree and vine yearned upward, their multitude of leaves gathering so much of the available light that the forest floor felt like it was in a different time zone. Overhead, in the high canopy, it was a bright afternoon, but where our feet found the trail, it was the dim twilight that encroaches after sunset, when even the shadows have shadows.

The ranger patrol entering the forest on motorbikes (Photo credit: Sarah R. Putnam)

Soon after we left the bikes behind, Sam pointed toward the ground, where a game path intersected with our trail. Several long, thin branches were loosely woven into a sort of screen to funnel animals toward a noose of wire cable set around a postcard-sized piece of palm frond. The other end of the noose was sturdily knotted to a green sapling, bent almost to the ground. The paper-thin palm frond was the snare’s trigger. If an animal stepped on it, the sapling would spring upward while the noose tightened around a leg or paw.

This time, however, Robin tapped the palm frond with a stick and the snare was dismantled. One ranger removed the wire from the sapling, and another crushed a pair of forked sticks—part of the trigger mechanism—under his boot.

There’s a trick to seeing the snares, a hint of horizontal in a landscape where most things grow vertically—the incongruous arc of a branch bent back toward the earth. Over the course of the next hour, we found more than a dozen snares. Some had been freshly set, the wire still shiny, the cut edges of the palm-frond trigger clean and sharp. At least two had been successful—the wire slack now, the damp soil muddied by struggle, etched with the hoofprints of wild boar. Others, by contrast, had been subsumed by the forest, the wire dulled with rust, the bent sapling overtopped by new growth.

I asked Sam how long it had been since the patrol passed this way. He pondered for a moment. “Maybe ten days?”

We shouldered our way through vines and brambles, stepping over fallen trees and splashing through shallow rills of water edged by silt as fine as chalk dust. Whenever somebody found a snare, there was a happy shout tinged with rueful satisfaction. We were happy to find so many. And yet the fact remained: there were so many.

Baskets of confiscated nets, traps, and snares at Shinta Mani Wild (Photo credit: Sarah R. Putnam)

A forest of generosity

On the morning of our departure from Shinta Mani Wild, we made one final sortie for birds. Driving downhill from the hotel, we passed more than a few homes. Some structures were sturdily fashioned from concrete and rebar; others were knocked together with sheets of corrugated metal and blue plastic tarps. Munny, the naturalist, had started teaching English classes and bird identification to the nearby villagers. Many people, both children and adults, greeted him warmly.

When he first arrived here, local kids would shoot at songbirds with slingshots, sometimes for food, but mostly for lack of something else to do. This meant that—unless you stayed inside your vehicle—the birds would rarely hold still long enough for a good view.

But now we stood on the side of a muddy track, openly admiring the bulbuls, shrikes, and kingfishers feeding on flying ants. With its turquoise back and red-orange breast, one kingfisher seemed a generous entertainer, setting out from its perch to seize prey from the air, then repeatedly returning to the same dead branch. We were so close to this bird that each ant in its formidable beak was visible to the naked eye. 

Although a substantial body of research links psychological benefits to the enjoyment of nature, it felt unnecessary to remind myself of those details just then. What I felt strongly was a combined sense of immersion and gratitude, neither a respite from real life nor a distraction from the human world. Yes, the rainforest can thrive if we leave it alone. But in Cambodia, as in Mongolia, people have lived in harmony with the rivers and the mountains for thousands of years. It’s only relatively recently that we have learned to wreck and ravage, to treat the planet as if it were only a stockpile and not also our home. 

As it turns out, rekindling hope does not require the absence of travellers. What Sarah and I were doing was both real and human. Thanks to Bill and Munny and many, many others—every chainsaw-confiscating ranger, free-spending eco-tourist, and open-hearted foundation donor—we were loving this forest, and it was loving us back.

Further Reading

Humphrey, C. 2020. Alleged government-linked land grabs threaten Cambodia’s Cardamom Mountains. Mongabay. https://news.mongabay.com/2021/07/carving-up-the-cardamoms-conservationists-fear-massive-land-grab-in-cambodia/. Accessed on April 6, 2025. 

Osborne, H., and M. Winstanley. 2006. Rural and urban poaching in Victorian England. Rural History 17: 187–212. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0956793306001877.
Peter Fong Author
Sarah R. Putnam Photographer
Bill Bensley Photographer

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why inland fisheries matter for social justice

Feature image: Local community members walk alongside one of their small no-take areas, also known as river reserves, on the Ngao River, Thailand

Do we all mean the same thing when we talk about conservation? As an idea, conservation might seem straightforward. In practice, however, different peoples in different places understand and practise conservation differently. There are diverse conservation worldviews—with worldviews referring to understandings of the nature of reality. The historically dominant conservation approaches tend to be informed by a Euro-American worldview which prioritises uninhabited wild spaces. Think large areas of peopleless forests on land and fishing-banned coral reefs in the sea. 

The major consequence of this conventional conservation worldview is decades of marginalisation towards the Indigenous Peoples and Local Communities (IPLCs) who have long depended on these ecosystems. Another consequence is that other ecosystems, like inland fisheries in small rivers, are often overlooked as conservation targets by governments and NGOs despite their value for IPLCs. 

While policymakers, practitioners, and academics are increasingly recognising the value of including IPLC voices in conservation to reconcile past harms, they still often fail to see how Euro-American worldviews continue to marginalise other worldviews and exclude various ecosystems. If we were to sincerely integrate diverse worldviews of conservation, it would open pathways for humans and nature to coexist in several types of ecosystems and in abundance. 

Our recent article in Conservation and Society shows how increased attention to river conservation can highlight and uplift the conservation worldviews of IPLCs. Our argument is based on field research with the ethnic minority Karen communities of Thailand’s Ngao River basin, focusing on their approach to resource management and conservation. Through interviews, participant observation, and participatory mapping activities we highlight the deep ecological knowledge, effective conservation practices, and, in turn, the conservation worldview of these marginalised communities. 

In Thailand, government-led conservation draws on the dominant Euro-American conservation worldview to create restrictive protected forest and ocean areas. While the government allows for certain short-term tourist activities in these areas, the ecosystem-based livelihoods of resident IPLCs are banned, or most detrimentally, forced out. For example, the shifting cultivation practice of the Karen communities is framed as “slash and burn” and considered harmful to the forest, despite evidence from both Indigenous and, more recently, scientific knowledge that it enhances biodiversity and ecosystem health. 

The government agencies enact their conservation worldview of nature separate from people by deploying spatial technologies to monitor forest cover, using the data to justify the forced removal of or restrictions on permanent forest-dwellers. Furthermore, these spatial monitoring technologies do not take into account inland fisheries, rendering them effectively invisible within the state’s conservation efforts. As they are not seen, and are not a priority, these inland fisheries and the IPLCs that rely on them face detrimental consequences from dam construction. Our research reveals that government agencies do not demonstrate interest in inland fisheries, in part because of their role for subsistence rather than commercial interests.

A successful catch of native fish, including ‘yah taw’ (Scaphiodonichthys burmanicus), by a local community member using a speargun and traditional basket

Inland fisheries are vital for local food security. Our findings show that Ngao River basin communities make inland fisheries visible and worthy of conservation through their livelihoods and conservation practices. Riverine livelihoods involve regular interactions with fish, which in turn endow community members with intricate ecological knowledge. In the past, this knowledge catalysed community-led conservation actions in response to fish declines that included banning overly exploitative methods, such as blast fishing and electrofishing, and creating small no-take areas. 

Community-based river conservation has successfully increased—or at least maintained—fish populations and ensured food security. Today, river conservation has spread to over 50 communities in the basin since the first community started the practice 30 years ago. Such actions demonstrate how conservation can include people and nature, providing benefits for both. The success of these community-led conservation actions emphasises the value of IPLC conservation worldviews—and the need to uphold the traditional livelihood practices they are based on and are enacted by.

These successes also bring attention to how IPLC worldviews can better enable the conservation of ecosystems, such as inland riverine fisheries, than Euro-American worldviews. River conservation, such as it is practised in the Ngao River basin, can serve as a pathway to advancing social justice for marginalised peoples and promoting approaches to conversation that emphasise nature-human coexistence and abundance. 

Original Paper

Duker, P., P. Vandergeest and S. Klanarongchao. 2023. Ontological politics and conservation in Thailand: Communities making rivers and fish matter. Conservation and Society 21 (4): 211–222. https://doi.org/10.4103/cs.cs_129_22. 

Further Reading

Duker, P. and S. Klanarongchao. 2022. Community-based conservation of the Ngao River in Thailand: a networked story of success. Society and Natural Resources 35(12): 1315–1332. https://doi.org/10.1080/08941920.2022.2109087.

Koning, A.A. and P. B. McIntyre. 2021. Grassroots reserves rescue a river food web from cascading impacts of overharvest. Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment 19 (3): 52–158. https://doi.org/10.1002/fee.2293.

Koning, A.A., K. M. Perales, E. Fluet-Chouinard and P. B. McIntyre. 2020. A network of grassroots reserves protects tropical river fish diversity. Nature 588 (7839): 631–635. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-020-2944-y.
Peter Duker Author & Photographer

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On the healing power of urban birdsong

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Feature image: Red-vented bulbul on a guava tree (Photo credit: Usha Kiran)

In India’s increasingly dense and noisy cities, nature can feel like a distant memory—especially in everyday life. But what happens when something wild and delicate returns to our attention? This essay begins with an ordinary moment at home—birdsong heard over the din—and follows the song into questions of memory, design, healing, and agency. It weaves the personal with the architectural, and the ecological with the emotional, to explore how small, intentional gestures in our built environments might help bring back not just biodiversity, but a deeper sense of presence.

I live in the middle of the city, and as is common in most Indian cities, the day begins with a cacophony of sounds. Cars honk, motorbikes speed by, autos rattle, people chat and walk, and occasionally, a cow moos in the distance. The sounds are unique and varied, but in many cases, they blur into a constant hum—much like the urban symphony depicted in Kalki Koechlin’s spoken word poetry about Mumbai titled Noise.

This constant hum in my neighbourhood is no different. It is a blend of uninspiring noises I’ve grown accustomed to ignoring. However, in recent years, a new addition is drowning out everything else when I hear it: birdsong. I’ve lived here for 28 years, but the birdsong is a new arrival. The melodious chirping breaks the monotony of the day, lifting my spirits every time I hear it. Sometimes, I imagine what they might be saying: a cheerful “Hello!” to a friend? A remark about the weather? Or perhaps an excited exclamation—“Oh, did you notice the pomegranate tree is flowering?” Whatever their conversations, they make me feel lighter, happier.

A common tailorbird calling from the pomegranate tree in our garden

Often, the birds perch right outside my window on the yellow trumpet flower tree, or flit across the street, landing on bright red blossoms of another tree. Their songs fill the air, shifting in intensity as they move. Sometimes, multiple species call out at once, and for a brief moment, I feel as if I’ve been transported to a peaceful nature trail. 

This simple joy of birdsong not only connects me to nature but also serves as a reminder of its profound healing power, something science increasingly supports. Practices like shinrin-yoku (forest bathing) have been used since the 1980s to harness nature’s therapeutic effects. Research shows that interacting with nature can improve a person’s mood, reduce symptoms of depression and anxiety, and even lower blood pressure. Simply observing nature offers significant health benefits.

Designing for nature

As cities expand and urban life becomes increasingly fast-paced, opportunities to connect with nature are dwindling. Back in 2017, while studying architecture in Ahmedabad city, Gujarat, I found myself asking: what if our built environment itself could encourage interactions with nature? I explored this idea through a research project where we were asked to design an architectural programme for leisure (excluding food and beverage), with a specific street assigned as the study site. During a site visit, I became fascinated by the bird-feeding culture I observed. And this led me to develop Urban Leisure with Birds—a proposal to integrate bird-friendly interventions into the city’s built environment.

The goal of my project was to create a secondary architectural programme that encourages interaction with birds within fully functional public amenities, such as bus stops, banks, and post offices. Because of the high footfall and nature of these spaces where people often have to wait, they often experience an idle moment of pause—an opportunity to reconnect with nature in the midst of their daily routines. Interventions in these middle spaces of urban life could have taken various forms, from setting up bird centres for citizen science to nurseries growing native plants designed to attract birds, but I proposed using the Miyawaki Method of afforestation. 

This method works by fostering dense vegetation within a 3×3 metre space, creating a thriving ecosystem within three years. While this rapid greening has gained popularity in cities, it’s also important to acknowledge recent critiques from ecologists and practitioners. They argue that such dense vegetation may not reflect the original ecological structure of certain regions, and could require ongoing human intervention to sustain. Even so, the core value of the method lies in rethinking how much biodiversity we can invite into small, overlooked spaces. For me, it became not just a design solution, but a way to ask: how can we build with birds, bees, and butterflies in mind?

My final project submission was a proposal for a bird centre called Correa Bird Centre, situated at a major bus stop in the Navrangpura neighbourhood. The design responded to the constraints and possibilities of the existing bus stop, which faced the road directly. A dense thicket was developed at the far end of the site, creating a layered spatial experience that ranged from high-traffic areas near the street to more secluded, immersive zones. The spatial gradient emerged organically—the thicket, least frequented, became a quiet refuge, while the edge facing the road saw the most movement. Perches were positioned along this public-private continuum: the tallest near the road, the lowest nestled in a clearing within the thicket. 

Excerpts from the Urban Leisure with Birds proposal showcased at the SMALL IS BEAUTIFUL exhibition, London Design Biennale 2021

Without signage or barriers, the spatial design subtly guided visitors, like a gentle nudge, toward stillness, pause, and, perhaps, more attentive presence. In addition, the thicket was proposed with an emphasis on planting native species suited to the local ecology, a key consideration in cities full of exotic trees that can rapidly spread beyond their bounds. The proposal suggested placing bird-friendly interventions approximately 800 m apart—about a 10-minute walk from one another. This would create a network of natural spaces interwoven into the urban fabric, offering city dwellers moments of serenity while supporting local bird populations. (I was thrilled when my project was featured in an exhibition at the London Design Biennale in 2021.)

Start now

While I found working to integrate nature into urban spaces compelling, I only truly understood its impact a few years after we moved to our current home, when local authorities cut down all the trees lining our street to widen the roads. My father, a nature lover, was undeterred, and began planting saplings along the street himself. These trees have since grown tall, providing shelter to bees, cuckoos, mynas, visiting parakeets, bee-eaters, and more.

The perimeter of our own house is lined with plants. At one point, our garden looked more like a nursery or mini-forest than a human residence, with over 750 potted plants. We planted a variety of native fruit-bearing and flowering species, creating a sanctuary for birds, butterflies, squirrels, as well as toads and tadpoles. Birds built nests, huddled together on branches in the winter, and filled our days with their songs—which I deeply appreciated when we were confined to our homes during the COVID-19 pandemic. 

My parents enjoying the flowering season

Large-scale urban interventions—such as bird-friendly spaces around public infrastructure—are wonderful, but we don’t have to wait for a mass movement to invite nature into our lives. Even small, individual efforts can make a meaningful difference. As we plant, nurture, and create spaces for nature to thrive, we invite something magical back into our lives: the simple joy of birdsong. And perhaps, in their melodies, we’ll find a moment of stillness, a breath of peace, and a reminder that nature belongs in our cities—and in our hearts.

Visitors in the garden (Photos by the author)
Fruits of the garden (Photos by the author)

Further Reading

Kaplan, R. and S. Kaplan. 1989. The experience of nature: A psychological perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Rashid F. and S. Daga. 2023. How Mr Miyawaki broke my heart. The Wire–Science. https://science.thewire.in/environment/how-mr-miyawaki-broke-my-heart/. Accessed on June 12, 2025.

Soga, M., and K. J. Gaston. 2016. Extinction of experience: the loss of human–nature interactions. Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment 14(2): 94–101.

Somil D and R. Fazal. 2023. Will the real Miyawaki please stand up? The Wire–Science. https://science.thewire.in/environment/will-the-real-miyawaki-please-stand-up/. Accessed on June 12, 2025.

Sustainability Idea Labs. 2024. Urban leisure Birds + Leisure.
https://sustainabilityidealabs.org/innovation-stories/forest/urban_leisure.php. Accessed on April 18, 2025.
Esha Jaiswal Author & Photographer

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Fading memories and forgotten tales: Jackals in Assamese narratives

(Illustration by Snigdha Bhagawatula)

I was walking through the streets under the scorching sun. Suddenly, my gaze fell on an aita, an elderly woman, sitting on the threshold of her home. As soon as our eyes met, she smiled and gestured for me to come closer. I introduced myself as a wildlife researcher and told her I had come to speak with her. She welcomed me warmly and began recalling how the place looked some 30-40 years ago.

“Jackals?” she said, her eyes lighting up with memory. “Back then, this whole area was full of trees and wild vegetation. There were only two or three houses around. And on chilly winter evenings, around six o’clock, the jackals would start howling. They even came into our front yard and we could see them clearly in the moonlight.” 

As she spoke, weaving memories into vivid threads of nostalgia, I sat there thinking about how powerful it is to listen to these stories. This was during my fieldwork in Assam, India. I had set out to understand how people perceive species such as jackals—once commonly seen, but rarely heard or spotted now. 

Assam is a land where wildlife is deeply embedded in the culture. Jackals too have long been associated with its storytelling traditions and folklore. Growing up in this state, I often heard stories about jackals, such as how they would sneak into villages to snatch poultry. Consequently, people would chase them off, sometimes throwing sickles or knives. One story that stayed with me was about a jackal who lost its tail during such an encounter, which gave rise to the image of the “tailless jackal” famous in Assamese folktales.

These stories made me wonder—were such narratives grounded in real-life interactions? With the spread of urbanisation and shrinking natural habitats, are younger generations still aware of these tales? 

Oral traditions

Although considered ecologically resilient on account of their wide distribution and flexible diet, golden jackals are vanishing from places across India that they previously occupied. Habitat modification, intensive agriculture, urbanisation, fatal vehicular collisions, hunting, interactions with free-ranging dogs, are some of the threats faced by this so-called resilient species. And populations are now only found in fragmented patches.

As I continued speaking with people across different age groups from urban, peri-urban, and rural areas, I began collecting beautiful oral narratives that featured the xiyal (jackal) in everyday life. These included poems, lullabies, idioms, and stories.

“Xiyali ei, nahibi rati, ture kaney kati logamei bati. Kaankati murote moruwa phool, Kaankati palegoi Rotonpur.” In this lullaby, a mother warns a jackal not to come at night to disturb her child. If it dares to come, she says, she will cut off its ear and use it as a wick for her oil lamp. She goes on to describe the jackal wearing an imaginary flower on its head. The jackal is then said to be walking far enough to reach an imaginary village (famous in Assamese tales) called Rotonpur. Though sung playfully, this lullaby conveys subtle cues of human-jackal interactions and instils a fear of jackals in young children.

Another children’s rhyme goes: “Rod dise, boruxun dise, xora xiyal r biya, ghonsirikai tamul katise, amak-u olop diya.” It translates roughly to: “If it’s raining and sunny at the same time, then it’s the tailless jackal’s wedding. The sparrows are cutting betel nuts. The guests, including humans, request them to share some nuts.” The poem anthropomorphises jackals and links them with cultural practices in Assam such as betel nut chewing, and associating their presence with certain weather events—even if not ecologically grounded.

Proverbs, too, reflect the jackal’s place in Assamese life. One saying goes: “Xui thaka xiyal e haah dhoribo nuare”, a very common sarcastic dialogue used by Assamese parents. It translates to “A sleeping jackal can’t catch poultry”, implying that laziness leads to failure. But this expression also reveals ecological knowledge that jackals prey on poultry or birds. 

“Siyale soru suwte, kukur motyote nai” is used when someone tries to blame another for something they didn’t do. It likely arose from lived experiences. In the past, jackals would sneak into kitchens that were made of bamboo and mud, sometimes picking up or eating from clay utensils. If the animal wasn’t seen, dogs were blamed. But the elders would say, “There were no dogs in the village then, it must’ve been a jackal.”

Older respondents also shared how, in the past, dogs were domesticated specifically to deter jackals. Stories by Lakshminath Bezbaruah in Burhi Aai’r Xadhu (Grandmother’s Folktales), often portrayed jackals as clever tricksters or wise animals. It shows their dynamic relationships with humans and other animals. These stories, while entertaining, also served to normalise human-animal coexistence, inflict moral values, and pass on ecological understanding, especially to children.

As I continued my fieldwork, one observation stood out clearly: perceptions of jackals varied greatly across generations. When I interviewed younger adults, a common pattern emerged. They had heard of xiyal, but many were unable to identify the jackal when shown a photo. Some recalled hearing jackal howls during their childhood. However, they also said such occurrences had become rare in recent years in the cities. Interestingly, most of them were familiar with jackals more through oral stories than real-life encounters. Many expressed concern over habitat loss and felt that jackals were disappearing due to rapid environmental changes. They believed that jackals and other wildlife in shared spaces should be protected. In addition, they also suggested nature education is important for raising awareness.

When I spoke to children, especially in urban areas, the connection had shifted even further. Most had never heard oral narratives about jackals. Their knowledge came primarily from textbooks or YouTube videos. In peri-urban and rural areas, some children had seen jackals but often expressed fear or disinterest. Many felt the species belonged inside forests and should not be near human settlements. The emotional and cultural familiarity, and ecological knowledge about jackals as predators or scavengers that older generations had seemed to be fading.

Precious connections

This whole experience made me realise that the conservation of species is not only about counting them and mapping habitats—it is also about listening. Narratives are valuable repositories and an important part of culture. Shaped by knowledge, experience, and beliefs, they provide a window to understanding the interconnectedness between human and more-than-human worlds. They also enable us to think about and make sense of social structures. 

Further, narratives tell us how people historically observed and interpreted wildlife behaviour, as well as how they perceive and value the natural world. They can foster empathy and tolerance towards wildlife, or sometimes reinforce fear, hatred, or indifference. In communities across Assam, jackals live not just as biological entities, but as characters reflecting what Nabhan (1997) once called “cultures of habitat”.

During my interactions, I began to sense that as cities grow and daily life becomes more fast-paced, people’s connection with nature is gradually diminishing. Narratives were once a bridge between generations and between humans and non-human animals. But as they fade, it signals not only the loss of stories, but a form of knowledge that has long helped humans to coexist with non-human species. For culturally significant but overlooked or common species, oral narratives can help rekindle people’s emotional connection and build awareness. While digital platforms such as YouTube and children’s books attempt to recreate some of these narratives, their reach remains limited. Many traditional stories are not documented at all and get lost with time.

As a researcher, I have found oral narratives to be excellent icebreakers. Especially when approaching communities where people are often busy or hesitant to participate. Asking about folklore or cultural beliefs often stirred a sense of nostalgia and pride, making people more open, engaged, and willing to talk. Thus, in a world racing ahead, listening to forgotten stories can perhaps help us find our way back to our roots. 

Further Reading

Bhatia, S., K. Suryawanshi, S. M. Redpath, S. Namgail and C. Mishra. 2021. Understanding people’s relationship with wildlife in Trans-Himalayan folklore. Frontiers in Environmental Science 9: 595169.

Nabhan, G. P. 1997. Cultures of habitat: On nature, culture, and story. Washington DC: Counterpoint.

Shawon, R. A. R., M. M. Rahman, S. O. Dandi, B. Agbayiza, M. M. Iqbal, M. E. Sakyi and J. Moribe. 2025. Knowledge, perception, and practices of wildlife conservation and biodiversity management in Bangladesh. Animals 15(3): 296.
Priyanka Borah Author

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Lost in Translation: How Language Barriers Are Holding Back Global Science

Feature image credit: Kyle Glenn

Imagine a groundbreaking scientific discovery being made, but hardly anyone beyond a small group ever hears about it. That’s the reality for much of the research published in languages other than English. Although science is supposed to be a global effort, language barriers prevent important studies from reaching a wider audience, thereby limiting their impact.

Our study set out to measure just how much language affects the visibility of scientific research in ecology and conservation. We analysed 329 studies testing the effectiveness of conservation actions published in 16 different non-English languages and compared how often they were cited by English-language papers. We found that non-English articles received very few citations from English-language studies—often none at all. Meanwhile, English-language articles were cited far more frequently, both by other English papers and overall.

Some languages were particularly isolated. Studies published in Hungarian, Polish, and Russian, for example, were rarely cited by English-language research. In fact, Russian articles were the most isolated, with nearly 95 percent of their citations coming from within their own language. This means that important findings—especially in fields like conservation science, where local knowledge is crucial—aren’t being widely shared, making it harder for scientists and policymakers to access valuable information.

Nearly half of the studies we analysed had over 50 percent of their citations from within their own linguistic community. This creates ‘echo chambers’ where scientific knowledge stays locked within language barriers rather than being shared globally. However, some languages—such as Japanese and Chinese—had relatively more English citations, suggesting that certain countries have built stronger international research networks, or that their scientific communities recognise the need to share findings from beyond those published in their own language.

Our study found that non-English articles with an English language abstract received significantly more citations from English-language papers. This means that if researchers can at least understand the main ideas and findings of the paper, they are more likely to use it. However, expecting scientists to write in a second language adds an extra burden, especially for those already navigating academic challenges. A potential solution is the integration of machine translation tools into academic publishing, allowing for broader access without placing the full responsibility on individual researchers.

In conservation science—where decisions affect endangered species and entire ecosystems—missing out on key research due to language barriers is a huge problem. To fix this, we need to rethink how research is shared. Journals should encourage the inclusion of English abstracts in non-English papers, and tools such as AI translation could help bridge the gap. Scientists, in turn, should look beyond English-language studies when gathering evidence.

Knowledge shouldn’t be limited by language. By making science more accessible across linguistic divides, we can create a more inclusive and effective global research community—one where important discoveries aren’t lost in translation.

Further Reading:

Hannah, K., R. A. Fuller, R. K. Smith, W. J. Sutherland and T. Amano. 2025. Language barriers in conservation science citation networks. Conservation Biology: e70051. https://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.70051. 
Kelsey Hannah Author

More in Research in Translation

Beyond Data: What a Desert Taught Me About Listening

Feature image credit: Madanporan Singh

Fieldwork is often intended to be a productive endeavour. Researchers venture out to collect data, record observations, conduct analyses, and draft conclusions. However, some of the most significant lessons fall beyond the realm of quantification. This became evident during my stay in the Thar Desert of Rajasthan, where my research on community-led conservation unexpectedly evolved into a profound personal journey in humility, observation, and active listening. 

On my first morning in a small hamlet near Pokhran, I was set to engage with a local self-help group about traditional water conservation methods. Anticipating a formal discussion, I arrived equipped with my notebook, pen, and a mental checklist of questions. Instead, I was warmly invited to sit beneath a khejri tree and offered a glass of chhach (buttermilk). For the next hour, the conversation veered away from ‘resilience frameworks’ and ‘climate vulnerabilities’. Instead, we spoke of cows, weddings, and the quality of the previous year’s bajra (millet).

This experience made me realise that the questions I had brought with me were misaligned with the way people lived their lives and understood their land. While I was focused on categorising institutions and documenting interventions, they were sharing with me an embedded knowledge system that was fluid, oral, and deeply embodied.

One afternoon, I strolled alongside an elder through a parched riverbed. He pointed out various shrubs, naming them: pilu, ber, phog. He described which plants nourished goats, which alleviated stomach aches, and which could endure three years of drought. There were no Latin names or footnotes, yet the depth of ecological wisdom was striking.

A particularly memorable incident occurred in a village called Bhadariya, where a woman shared her community’s efforts to rejuvenate an old taanka—a traditional rainwater harvesting tank. “This is not just a tank,” she remarked, “it is memory.” It served as a vessel for the stories of their ancestors, the songs of their festivals, and a testament to their survival during summers. It dawned on me that while I had been inquiring about climate adaptation, the villagers were discussing remembrance, honouring past struggles, and weaving those lessons into their daily lives. I had sought case studies; instead, they offered philosophies.

One morning, I joined a group of women as they gathered cow dung to prepare mitti ke chulhe (mud stoves). The heat was oppressive, and I felt somewhat uncomfortable. One woman chuckled and said, “You scientists look for solutions in books. We find them in our daily routines.” They were right. What was often deemed ‘waste’ also served as fuel, insulation, compost, and occasionally even medicine. Every object had multiple purposes, and every practice carried an intergenerational rationale. No aspect of their lifestyle was wasteful—not out of romantic idealism, but out of necessity shaped over centuries.

My field notes began to evolve. I started writing fewer bullet points and more dialogues. I paid careful attention not only to what people said, but also to how they expressed themselves—when they paused, what elicited laughter, and when they whispered. Gradually, I transformed from a mere researcher with a recorder into a participant with a heartbeat.

These experiences did more than inform my thesis; they fundamentally reshaped my worldview. I came to understand that conservation was not solely about safeguarding species or landscapes, rather it was about preserving relationships between people and their land, communities and their memories, and labour and dignity.

Today, as I revisit my notes and recordings, I discover that the most valuable insights are not found in data tables or GPS coordinates. They reside in one resident’s words: “This is memory.” I learned in the Thar that memory is a living entity—etched into landscapes, preserved in customs, and transmitted not through reports, but through daily rhythms.

We often refer to the Anthropocene as an era of disruption. However, in places like Bhadariya, disruption is nothing new. What is novel is our readiness to listen. Ultimately, I didn’t merely conduct fieldwork; the field had a profound impact on me.

Further Reading

Sharma, P. K., S. Srivastava and M. Chandauriya. 2022. Indigenous knowledge and traditional practices for water resource management in Rajasthan, India. In: Traditional ecological knowledge of resource management in Asia (eds. Rai, S. C. and P. K. Mishra). Pp 137–157. Cham: Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-16840-6_9. 

Singhal, H. 2024. Understanding the Role of Community-Based Organisations in Climate Change Adaptation in the Thar Desert, Rajasthan, India. Master’s thesis: Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment. TDU.

Swami, A., Rajni and P. Hemrajani. 2023. People and culture of the Thar Desert. In: Natural resource management in the Thar Desert region of Rajasthan (eds. Varghese, N., S. S. Burark, and K. Varghese). Pp 25–53. Cham: Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-34556-2_2.  

Vijayan, A. S. 2023. Community land management in the Thar Desert. In: Natural resource management in the Thar Desert region of Rajasthan (eds. Varghese, N., S. S. Burark, and K. Varghese). Pp 209–234. Cham: Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-34556-2_9.  
Harsh Singhal Author

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Between Birds and People: Field Notes on Gender and Access

Feature image: Painted storks roosting on a mahua tree inside the Thirupudaimaruthur Birds Conservation Reserve in Tamil Nadu, India

Last year, a team of three women—a sociologist, a field associate, and myself—set out to engage with the residents of Thirupudaimaruthur village, nestled along the banks of the Thamiraparani river in Tamil Nadu’s Tirunelveli district. The village is home to India’s first conservation reserve, the Thirupudaimaruthur Birds Conservation Reserve (TBCR). Thanks to the presence of tall, mature trees and availability of food from the river, the village is a popular nesting and roosting spot for wetland birds, such as painted storks, spot-billed pelicans, and egrets. These birds visit the village for several months each year, establishing a seasonal but deeply rooted ecological relationship with the landscape.

Our study, as part of the Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment-Agasthyamalai Community Conservation Centre (ATREE-ACCC), focused on examining the community’s relationship with these birds, perceiving their understanding of conservation, and assessing the feasibility of community-based ecotourism as a potential livelihood opportunity. This required not only structured interviews but also unstructured conversations, observations, and ongoing trust-building with the villagers. 

Through our community engagement and observations, we found that for the villagers, conservation meant coexisting with birds and other life forms. They tolerated the strong smell of bird guano and had even given up hunting and the use of firecrackers for the well-being of the birds. They considered the birds a source of pride for the village, drawing researchers like us to their community, even though many villagers mistook them as ‘vellinattu paravai’ (foreign migratory birds).

I had assumed that, as women, our identities might make it easier to build trust with the villagers during fieldwork—and in many ways, that assumption turned out to be true. With the support of a few key community members, such as the gatekeeper of the village, the head and secretary of the panchayat (village council), and our field associate—who hailed from the region and had a few local connections—we were able to profile potential participants for interviews and discussions. Such local support proved invaluable and enabled us to ease into conversations.

We formally introduced ourselves to the village through a Self-Help Group meeting, a gathering primarily attended by women. This proved to be a pivotal access point. From the very beginning, the women were warm, curious, and generous with their time. Many were eager to share stories about their village, especially when we approached them during informal group settings. Most women rolled beedis (handmade cigarettes) for a living and typically worked outdoors in small, chatty groups under the shade of trees, in front yards, or on quiet street corners. These natural social settings became perfect sites for open, fluid conversations that offered us rich qualitative insights.

A villager rolling beedis outside her home along with other women from her family

In contrast to the men in the village, the women were far more vocal about the everyday challenges their community faced. They spoke candidly about issues like water shortages during the rainy season, limited access to sanitation, and the lack of decent income-generating opportunities. Many women also expressed a genuine interest in being trained, and in taking ownership of community-based ecotourism initiatives. 

Within a few weeks, we had completed interviews with nearly 50 percent of our target sample—most of them women. However, the next phase of recruiting and retaining male participants proved to be much more difficult.

We initially tried to contact the men in the village using phone numbers collected from the women. We had assumed that scheduling interviews with male family members through the women would be straightforward. However, this proved to be wrong. Most of the men worked in agriculture or traveled to nearby towns for daily-wage jobs. Attempts to reach them at home early in the morning rarely succeeded; many had already left for work, and some were reluctant to participate in an interview at that hour.

The author (first from right) having an informal chat with one of the beedi-rolling social groups

Eventually, we began frequenting the village’s only tea shop, a bustling morning gathering place for many men. They would stop by to sip tea, read the newspaper, and exchange banter before heading off to work. This became an ad hoc recruitment centre for us. We managed to speak to a few men, but the sampling was not representative as not all social groups equally shared that space.

To increase our outreach, we split into two teams. Since we were an odd-numbered group and I could converse in Tamil, I often worked alone. We began calling male participants ahead of time to schedule interviews more deliberately. That’s when we encountered another layer of complexity; many men were only available late in the evenings. And these time slots came with challenges as some men had a routine of drinking alcohol at night. I had to remain alert for signs of intoxication before starting any interviews. I still recall one particular evening when I had to prematurely end a conversation because the participant was visibly inebriated. Despite being accompanied by a colleague, I didn’t feel safe continuing the conversation.

Engaging young men between the ages of 18 and 30 turned out to be the most challenging part. Many from this age group were either disinterested, shy, or felt that they had little to contribute. A commonly heard refrain was, “My parents know more about the village, the birds, and the temple. You should speak with them instead.”

One young man in particular kept postponing his interview, offering a different excuse each time. Eventually, we had to drop him from the study. Curiously though, he ended up helping us recruit a few of his male friends, encouraging them to participate even as he remained firmly on the sidelines. While he declined to be interviewed, he seemed genuinely interested in listening in on his friend’s sessions. 

Surprisingly, some male participants opened up more freely during joint interviews conducted alongside a female family member—usually their wife. The presence of a familiar person appeared to lower their inhibitions, making them more engaged and less guarded. Such incidents highlighted how social comfort and peer validation played subtle roles in male participation.

Even when male participants had confirmed appointments for Sundays, many were not at home when we arrived. Despite repeated follow-ups, the retention rate remained low. What we were able to accomplish with women in a few weeks stretched into months when it came to men. There were a few standout male participants, who spoke deeply about their lives. Some shared vivid childhood memories, such as crossing the river by foot or spending summers outdoors, while a few described working as lifeguards, helping save pilgrims who accidentally fell in the Thamiraparani river. These stories, filled with detail and emotion, added another layer to our understanding of how livelihoods and nature intersect in the village’s cultural fabric. 

This gendered disparity in engagement revealed more than just logistical hurdles—it provided insights into the rhythms of daily life in Thirupudaimaruthur, and the differing degrees of availability, willingness, and trust among the villagers. It reminded us that participatory research is never just about asking the “right” questions. It’s about understanding social cues, finding the right moments, and sometimes, identifying the right person to ask them. By the end of our fieldwork, we had not only gathered data, but also witnessed the subtleties of participation, power, and perception. 
Sanmadi K R Author

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Plains Bison

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You’ve got to graze it to taste it, she said, and I couldn’t
understand, my hooves still on the tender side

of stone. Then after the blue-cold nights
came the blue nights. I nibbled hard,

as hard as she had said. A thousand rumblings
in my stomachs reminded me of rain, and how it greens

turf until it tastes of fresh mornings and her milk
—microbes and bacteria ferment and sing

of change. I grazed on, like she said. Perhaps
we are like rain. Our movement onwards

is warm and smells of yellow flowers rotting.
My hooves become rocks, and now I understand.

Our food feeds from loss like us, the last herd.

Andrea Ferrari Kristeller wrote this poem after taking the Creature Conserve Master Class: Writers Respond to the Science of Animal Migration, as a scholarship recipient. The workshop, delivered by Christopher Kondrich, Susan Tacent, and Dr Lucy Spelman, provided concrete scientific data concerning several migrant species and writing skills-oriented presentations. The mission of Creature Conserve is to grow a creative community that combines art with science to cultivate new pathways for wildlife conservation.
Andrea Ferrari Kristeller Author
Lucy Spelman Photographer

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Bangalore’s lakes: A legacy worth saving

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What’s your quintessential Bangalore experience? For me, it’s coffee, ghee podi dosa, and a long stroll by a lake on a balmy Sunday morning. 

Lakes are ubiquitous in the sprawling Indian city and synonymous with the Bangalore experience. If you’ve lived here even for a short while, there is a very high chance that you have benefitted from these lakes in one way or another—their water is used for irrigation, groundwater recharge and flood control most commonly. Whether you’re a stressed IT professional looking for some respite from staring at a screen, an athlete looking for a jogging track, or just someone who wants to get away from the incessant honking and traffic noise, Bangalore’s lakes are open to all. And they should be, as they hold a deep connection with the history of the city and its people. 

But these lakes are in danger. As of May 2024, 125 out of 800 lakes had dried up (and of the remaining, 25 lakes are threatened). This was also the year the city faced a heatwave and severe water shortage. If you ask an old-timer, they might go off on a tangent about the unplanned development, skyrocketing population and degradation of Bangalore’s lakes. We may be inclined to brush off these complaints as frustrations with the current generation, but there is some truth to these rants.

Historic connections

Lakes are integral to Bangalore’s groundwater reserves, agriculture and overall security—to understand this, we must begin with the geography and elevation of Bangalore. Of all the major metropolitan cities in India, Bangalore is situated at the highest altitude, with an elevation of 920 m (3,020 ft) above sea level. That already makes it tricky to capture rainwater, given the slopes and inclines that make up most of the city’s topography. 

You may think of the Cauvery and many other rivers flowing through Bangalore and wonder—shouldn’t water from these sources be sufficient to meet the population’s needs? It turns out that’s not enough. The topography and elevation of Bangalore call for a different system of water management, namely (you guessed it) lakes. Mostly human-made, these water bodies have been a safety net for the city for centuries, especially during the dry summer months.

In the 16th century, the governor of Bangalore, Kempegowda I, invented a system of linking the city’s lakes to ensure optimal water conservation. They were interlinked through canals, known locally as rajakaluve, ensuring that water in lakes at a higher elevation flowed to lakes at a lower elevation. Water in the lowest lake would then empty into connected valleys. However, people were needed to maintain this system and in came the caste-based designation of neeruganti—roles held by local families from the eponymous Scheduled Caste, who were entrusted with the management of the lake, including the release of water through sluice gates and maintenance of the rajakaluves.

Over decades and centuries of ancestral management, the neerugantis developed a robust system of experiential and indigenous knowledge of Bangalore’s water networks. These families would decide when and to where they would release the water, advise farmers on the appropriate crops to grow depending on the water situation, and even contribute to maintaining the rich ecosystems supported by these lakes. Native species of fish flourished under the management of neerugantis and the surrounding land thrived as well. Silt from the lakes was used as fertiliser for the soil and farmers used the grasslands around lakes for cattle grazing. A self-sustaining system was in place.

However, as time passed and demands on the lakes grew, a negligent approach was adopted by the authorities. In 1962, the Karnataka state government enacted a uniform irrigation policy, taking over lakes as government property. As a result, the neerugantis of the largest lakes got subsumed into government service. But the neerugantis of the smaller lakes were not so lucky, and their knowledge was rendered unimportant. The government also implemented a few unscientific initiatives that encouraged the growth of certain crops regardless of whether they were suitable for the local environmental conditions or not. 

Additionally, remuneration for the neerugantis’ services was not considered by the newly appointed village accountants. Once lake management became centralised under the government, the neerugantis faded into obscurity. The vast body of knowledge, cultivated over centuries of experiences had been discredited for ease of administration, and a whole community of people were suddenly unemployed. Consequently, Bangalore’s lakes started to fall into disarray, owing to the broad-stroke approach and ignorance of the state government. 

Perhaps Bangalore’s lakes wouldn’t be in such jeopardy if it were just this single issue, but there are many other reasons for the dire situation our lakes are in today. Let’s address the elephant in the room—the IT industry. 

Boom and bust

If you ever want to start a fierce debate in Bangalore, bring up the IT industry. Was the boom in the 1990s and early 2000s a good thing or was it the worst possible thing that could have happened to the former Garden City of India? Ask older Bangaloreans and they will most probably oppose the establishment of the IT industry, throwing volleys of curses at the new areas of Bangalore, the shiny (and somewhat lifeless) glass buildings, the dreadful traffic jams and the breakneck expansion of the urban sprawl of Bangalore. 

Ask a younger person and they might have a slightly more balanced approach: the establishment of the IT industry brought a lot of financial prosperity to Bangalore, but the rate at which the city is expanding is unsustainable. The condition of the lakes in Bangalore stand as a testimony. For one, the city has become prone to flooding and as the city grows, the scale of the floods continues to grow as well. 

The State Disaster Response Force (SDRF) staff are the first responders in any disaster that endangers human life. My climate science field group asked a sub-inspector at the SDRF headquarters about the cause for these unprecedented floods. He told us that the rate at which new construction projects and roads are coming up cannot be handled by Bangalore’s lake system. The city’s population boom puts an already at-risk lake system under heavy strain. Moreover, the centuries-old rajakaluve network is cut off or obstructed at some points in favour of construction of buildings and houses (most often for actors, politicians or other high-profile individuals). These new and ubiquitous construction projects in Bangalore often have poor and disconnected drainage systems. 

The SDRF official had a firsthand account of a flood call he had to attend to in June 2024—a brand new, upscale building was under duress from rainfall-related flooding, and his team had to clear the area of water by using a pump that removed 6,000 litres per minute. Despite this, the inspector told us that it was a resource-intensive job, in terms of personnel and time. And according to him, such situations are only going to increase in frequency and severity. 

What’s more is that as we restore a select few lakes, we rebuild them with different structures. In general, lakes have a gradient-like structure, gradually sloping into deep waters, but Bangalore’s lakes are shaped like soup bowls. We simply don’t know enough about them to predict how any changes to the structure might impact their environment in the future. 

Unfortunately, financial investment will continue to be Bangalore’s priority for years to come. The city will continue expanding and take on more and more people. But does this mean that we should simply brace ourselves for a painful combination of heatwaves, water shortages, and floods? Perhaps not. Perhaps there’s a solution to our lake issue by going back to our roots. 

Shining examples

Let’s take a look at Puttenahalli and Kaikondrahalli Lakes in south Bangalore. They are lush and green, hosting a variety of birds, plants and fish. Although surrounded by high-walled, posh apartment complexes, the residents of these apartments collaborate with local indigenous communities to maintain the lake, which is usually open and accessible to everyone. The lake boards actively work to maintain the lake and also hold the municipal government accountable. There are several signposts detailing the biodiversity of the lake, as well as clearly defined jogging tracks and walking paths. These lakes have been replenished and maintained through active community involvement, and the result is clear in the thriving urban biodiversity and a regular water level.

The solution to Bangalore’s lake situation is thus clear: bring back the indigenous knowledge of the neerugantis, involve them in the maintenance and decision-making processes for the lakes. It might help to reduce government involvement in lake maintenance and transfer the responsibility to local custodians. It is also imperative to keep lakes open for people of all socio-economic backgrounds–the knowledge of otherwise marginalised communities is exactly the need of the hour. 

The issues arising from Bangalore’s lakes affect all its citizens, regardless of whether you live in an unplanned settlement or a luxurious mansion—when a lake dries up or if there’s a flood, we’re all going to be in the same boat (quite literally in the latter case). Everyone needs to be involved in restoring our lakes, and we, as citizens, need to realise the power we have in holding those in charge accountable. If we continue to adopt a community approach to lake restoration, there’s hope for our city.

Further Reading:

How drying up of nearly 150 lakes is killing the city of gardens, Bengaluru. 2024. The Economic Times. https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/news/bengaluru-news/how-drying-up-of-nearly-150-lakes-is-killing-the-city-of-gardens-bengaluru/articleshow/109870888.cms?from=mdr

Mukul, S. A ‘thousand lakes’ once fed now-parched Bengaluru. 2024. India Today. https://www.indiatoday.in/history-of-it/story/bengaluru-water-crisis-shortage-city-of-thousand-lakes-tanks-history-kempegowda-silicon-valley-karnataka-2514988-2024-03-15. Accessed on December 9, 2024.

Neeruganti and the role they play in the community. 2024. Native Picture. https://www.nativepicture.com/post/introduction-to-neeruganti-and-the-role-they-play-in-the-community. Accessed on December 9, 2024. 

Reddy, S. T. S. Water Managment , the Neeruganti Way. prod-qt-images.s3.amazonaws.com/indiawaterportal/import/sites/default/files/iwp2/Community_water_management_in_Karnataka_The_Neeruganti_way_2011.pdf. Accessed on December 9, 2024. 
Sloka Bhushan Author

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The Silent Impact: How Roads Are Eroding Europe’s Food Webs

Feature image: Wikimedia Commons formulanone from Huntsville, United States, CC BY-SA 2.0

Roads claim the lives of millions of animals each year. Research has focused on identifying mortality hotspots and minimising the negative effects of roads. However, the damage extends far beyond individual casualties. A species’ regional extinction can trigger cascading effects that ripple through the food web. Therefore, research should not focus exclusively on the individual effects on species, important as they are, but also address the secondary effects rippling through the network of biotic interactions.

Our study, which examined over 550 species across Europe, found that regions with high road density and near major cities, could lose up to 90 percent of their ecological interactions. This means that not only are species disappearing, but the entire structure of ecosystems is shifting in ways we are only beginning to understand.

Using the information on species ranges and verified trophic interactions across Europe, we estimated regional food webs for potential predator-prey interactions across the continent. Then, we defined thresholds for each species of how dense road networks could be before that species’ population would potentially face regional extinction. With these thresholds, we simulated species extinctions across these food webs to evaluate the effects on the network structure.

The results were stark: species at the foundation of the food web were the most directly affected by road mortality. Meanwhile, top predators, such as wolves and golden eagles, faced indirect threats as their prey dwindled in road-heavy areas. In some regions, road density resulted in the near-total collapse of food webs.

Conservation implications

Food webs are the backbone of ecosystem stability. When they are disrupted, essential ecological processes such as seed dispersal, pest control, and nutrient cycling suffer. The ripple effects of road-driven biodiversity loss extend to humans, threatening the very services nature provides.

Conservation strategies must consider the impacts of roads on ecological interactions. Wildlife corridors, road overpasses and underpasses can help mitigate the effects, allowing species to move freely and maintain their roles in the ecosystem. Planning road networks with biodiversity in mind is not just an option—it is a necessity to preserve the intricate balance of nature.

As road networks expand, we must ask: how can we build infrastructure without dismantling the ecosystems that sustain life? Our findings highlight an urgent need for policies that integrate conservation science into transportation planning, ensuring that roads serve people while safeguarding wildlife.

But, and this is key, we should not address solely the direct effects on wildlife, such as mortality, habitat loss, and fragmentation. It is essential to have a broader view of defragmenting roads strategically to allow the maintenance of ecological interactions, such as predator-prey relationships.

Further Reading

Grilo, C., E. Koroleva, R Andrášik, M. Bíl and M. González-Suárez. 2020. Roadkill risk and population vulnerability in European birds and mammals. Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment 18: 323–328. http://doi.org/10.1002/fee.2216.

Maiorano, L., A. Montemaggiori, G.F. Ficetola, L. O’Connor and W. Thuiller. 2020. TETRA-EU 1.0: A species-level trophic metaweb of European tetrapods. Global Ecology and Biogeography 29: 1452–1457. https://doi.org/10.1111/geb.13138. 

Mestre F, V.A.G. Bastazini, and F. Ascensão. 2025. Effects of road density on regional food webs. Conservation Biology. Conservation Biology: e70007. http://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.70007. 
Frederico Mestre Author
Fernando Ascensão Author
Vinicius Bastazini Author

More in Research in Translation

Lionfish on the Loose: The Mediterranean’s New Unwelcome Guests

Although beautiful, with colourful stripes and fan-like fins, lionfish (from the genus Pterois) are among the world’s most successful invasive species. Originally from the warm waters of the Indo-Pacific, two of the 12 species of Pterois—the red lionfish (P. volitans) and the common lionfish (P. miles)—have rapidly colonised much of the western Atlantic, including the Caribbean. Here they are known for outcompeting native species and disrupting local ecosystems, with the lack of natural predators in their new environments allowing their populations to grow uncontrollably.

Rising ocean temperatures in the Mediterranean are mirroring conditions of the Indo-Pacific, allowing lionfish to thrive in places they couldn’t before. It’s believed that they got here via the Suez Canal, an artificial waterway connecting the Mediterranean with the Red Sea. It’s one of the busiest and most important marine trade routes but also serves as the primary pathway for marine bio-invasions into the Mediterranean.

Lionfish were first documented in the eastern Mediterranean around 2012. Within three years, they spread to Tunisia and Greece, and by 2021 they had reached Croatia, over 1,000 km away. Another factor aiding their spread is ‘prey naïveté’—native species, unfamiliar with lionfish as predators, fail to recognise the danger, making them easy targets.

A recent study by Emma Mitchell and Victoria Dominguez Almela, from the University of Southampton, assessed the distribution of the common lionfish (P. miles) in the Mediterranean and how far they might spread in the future. To do this, they used two key methods: (1) Spatial Distribution Models that predict the current range of lionfish using data on known lionfish locations, combined with environmental factors (such as salinity and temperature) to predict where else they might be found (2) Ecological Niche Models that identify environmental conditions that make an area suitable for the species and use climate predictions to forecast where lionfish are likely to thrive in the future.

The study authors used two climate change scenarios, called Representative Concentration Pathways (RCP), to predict the likelihood of lionfish invasion under future climates. RCPs show how climate could change based on different levels of greenhouse gas emissions. For example, if emissions continue to rise at the current unprecedented rate, we could face extreme global warming (RCP 8.5), while cutting emissions could lead to more moderate warming (RCP 4.5). They used machine learning techniques to map out potential areas at risk of lionfish invasion under each scenario.

An emerging threat

The models predicted that lionfish are likely to spread widely across most Mediterranean coasts, except Libya and northern Egypt. By 2040–50, their distribution could expand into the southeastern Mediterranean, with some spread into western areas. In the worst-case climate scenario (RCP 8.5), nearly the entire Mediterranean could become suitable for lionfish by the end of the century. High-risk areas include southern Greece, Turkey, and the Strait of Sicily. Predictions show a shift north and east by 2090-2100, especially in the RCP 8.5 scenario.

Lionfish have already caused considerable damage to ecosystems in the western Atlantic and if left unchecked, will do the same in the Mediterranean. However, the Mediterranean invasion is still in its early stages, meaning there’s time to act before lionfish become established and harder to control.

The good news is that Cyprus is already leading the charge. More than 35,000 lionfish have been removed from their waters through spear fishing. Combining these efforts with natural processes that keep lionfish populations in check, including predators and pathogens, could make an even bigger impact. This might involve protecting natural predators of lionfish that help control their populations. And creating markets for lionfish in the seafood and jewelry industries could ultimately make removal efforts more sustainable.

Entirely preventing this invasion in the Mediterranean may be challenging. However, accurate species distribution and prediction models can help manage their spread and are the first steps to slowing it down. Cyprus’ actions show that these conservation management efforts will pay off.

Call to Action: If you notice a lionfish or another unusual species, it might be invasive—report it to local wildlife authorities or upload a photo to iNaturalist. Citizen scientists play an important role in collecting biodiversity information and could even help detect new invasions in time to take action.

Further Reading

Mitchell, E. and V. Dominguez Almela. 2024. Modelling the rise of invasive lionfish in the Mediterranean. Marine Biology 172: 18. https://doi.org/10.1007/s00227-024-04580-6.
Navya Mittal Author & Illustrator

More in Research in Translation

A School in Nature’s Lap

It was a bright and sunny morning and the air was filled with birdsong. A baby deer (fawn) walked close to its mother, its tiny hooves making the leaves rustle. The fawn’s eyes were fixed on a few children nearby, who were eating mangoes under a large rain tree in their school. These children were accompanied by their environmental science teacher, Miss Rosie, who told them they were being watched by a baby spotted deer (or chital). 

Unable to resist the fawn’s eyes, they threw the leftover mangoes for it to snack on, when something unexpected happened. Two bonnet macaques jumped down quickly and ran away with the mangoes. The disappointed fawn walked away, and so did the children, who went home and shared their experience with their parents. 

Bonnet Macaques jumping down to pick the mangoes (Illustration credit: Harshitha)

The next morning, the children were back in school, waiting patiently under the rain tree. However, they did not carry any food with them as their parents had told them that it is not good to feed wildlife. While the animals may eat the food because they are hungry, the food that humans give them can cause harm. Instead, the children were instructed to observe the animals, learn what they eat and how they find food in the wild. 

While they were still discussing what their parents had taught them, the deer walked by with the fawn hopping beside her. “Look, it’s the baby deer again. Why don’t we give it a name?” asked Derrick. “Why not Bambi?” exclaimed Faheem. “Hush! Why? Are you trying to scare the deer away?” Poorna whispered as she tried to calm the others. “Why don’t we simply call it ‘Pretty’? The tiny white spots are pretty indeed”. There was silence for a moment and then everyone else signalled with just a thumbs-up. And from that moment on, the fawn was called Pretty.

Pretty and her mother (Illustration credit: Harshita)

Pretty and her mother were seen almost every day inside the school premises. There were other deer as well and some of them had long and sharp antlers. The children learned from their parents and teachers that they should not go close to the deer with antlers. So, they stood at a safe distance and just watched Pretty hop and play. 

One morning, as the children stepped out of their classroom there was a lovely peacock. It suddenly shook itself, spread its long feathers like a fan, and started dancing. Right behind him were a few females busily feeding, unmindful of his dance. The children watched the show for a while before the next class with Miss Rosie was due to begin. 

Annie told Miss Rosie what they had witnessed a few minutes ago. It was the right moment to teach the enthusiastic children a few things about nature. “Children, you are really privileged. You are inside a large city and yet close to nature. You are fortunate to see deer, macaques and peafowl inside your school. Our school is in the lap of nature and we should learn to live with all these animals without troubling them. Now children, let us go back to where the last class ended,” Miss Rosie said, as she turned towards the blackboard. 

“Today’s lesson is about animal diversity in India. There are different kinds of animals in our country. Yet, the peacock is our national bird because it is not only gorgeous but also sacred to many. The spotted deer is not only found in India, but also in Sri Lanka and Nepal. The bonnet macaque is, however, found only in southern India which makes it endemic.”

Annie stood up and said, “Miss, please tell us what is endemic.” 

“Children, how many of you know kangaroos? Where are kangaroos found in the wild?” 

“Australia” the class roared. “Good,” replied Miss Rosie. “Kangaroos are found in the wild only in Australia, so they are endemic to Australia. A plant or animal that is naturally found only in a particular geographical area is called endemic to that place.”

The following week, the class greeted Miss Rosie with the loudest “Good morning, miss!” 

“Good morning to all of you, children. Today let us learn another new term: ‘ecosystem’. Does anyone know what it means?” There was silence. “Okay, let me explain. In nature, there is a system in which plants and animals interact with each other whereby one cannot live without the other. Together, they depend on the sun and rain. We are all part of an ecosystem along with the deer, peafowl, macaque and hundreds of other plants and animals that inhabit our school. The ecosystem is like a large machine and we are all its different parts. The sun provides energy to keep the machine running and rain keeps the different parts fit and free from fatigue, through the supply of water,” said Miss Rosie as the children looked at her in awe.

“Children, come outside with me. I will show you how an ecosystem works”. As Miss Rosie walked out and the children followed, they saw Pretty right next to the large rain tree. Her mother was resting in the shade. “Well children, can you see the deer resting under the rain tree? The tree not only gives oxygen but also shade that protects the deer from the heat. The fruits of the rain tree are eaten by the deer and the seeds are dropped farther away, where new rain trees grow. 

“This is called mutual support,” she continued. “In an ecosystem, plants and animals mutually support each other. We are also animals and we cannot live without the support of other plants and animals. We are a part of the ecosystem that our school supports, just as it does the rain tree and deer.”

Miss Rosie left, but the children were still watching Pretty. Pretty knew she was being watched, so she twisted, turned and even jumped over her mother as though excited. “I am so happy to be in this school. Are we not blessed?” exclaimed Jennifer. “Yes, indeed” replied Poorna “Where else can we find someone like Pretty?” 

The bell rang and it was time for the children to leave school. As they picked up their backpacks Sanjeev said, “It’s like a large family. A part of it is in school and the rest, at home. Bye little deer, we don’t feel like leaving you and going home, but we will be back tomorrow. We are one and we belong to the same ecosystem.”
Saira Banu Author
Rosella Daniels Author
Harshitha. S Illustrator

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Nature’s Classroom: Youth Voices in the Colorado Mountains

Spending time in nature has a unique way of revealing the connections between natural ecosystems and the diverse communities we live in. In June of 2023, eight high schoolers of colour identifying as girls and gender non-binary youth gathered in the mountains of Colorado to explore these ties in the great outdoors. From hands-on outdoor activities guided by leaders of colour during a three-day event, the students learned to look closely at ecosystems, racial diversity and themselves. 

As a research assistant for this project, I (Morgan Murphy) had the chance to weave together their insights on what they learned during this event. These eight students, also the co-authors of this piece, discussed how social and environmental systems relate to one another. I share their insights below. 

Building community in nature

In the same way that biodiversity contributes to healthy ecosystems, human diversity contributes to healthy social systems. This event bridged the two by teaching us about diversity, equity, inclusion, and justice (DEIJ), and about how biodiversity and outdoor experiences can be symbolic of human diversity. 

As the bus rumbled out of the city, the landscape began to shift. With each mile the hum of city life gave way to the silence of nature, creating room for us to connect with each other in new ways. The changing views mirrored our conversations, as we started to reflect on the links between our own communities and our shared identities. As we hiked along rocky trails, watched birds flit through the trees, and sifted through river sand in search of tiny insects, those connections deepened. Together, we found our place in nature and in each other, realising that we are as much a part of these ecosystems as they are a part of us.

Shobha shared the photo below, explaining “I was sharing a moment with others who are like me, in a place where I felt so small compared to the mountains, and yet felt like I belonged with the group I was with.” 

The group hiking toward a river while conversing and bonding

Personal growth through adventure

During one of the event’s activities, a ropes course, we faced challenges both individually and as a group. Climbing high above the ground, swinging across wide gaps, and balancing on thin ropes brought a rush of adrenaline unlike anything we had felt before.

The fear of slipping or falling was real, but so was the exhilaration of pushing through it.

Each step we took, though wobbly at first, brought a growing sense of accomplishment and confidence. As we caught our breath at the end of each challenge, it became clear that these moments of fear and triumph mirrored the struggles we often face in life with marginalised identities. The uncertainty and the vulnerability echoed the challenges of navigating a world that isn’t always built for us. But just as we did on the ropes, we found strength in ourselves and in each other, learning that perseverance through fear can lead to new heights, both on the course and in life.

In the group ropes course activities, we experienced firsthand how mutual support and collaboration can elevate our collective strength. As we tackled obstacles high above the ground and navigated tricky balance beams, we realised that our success depended on more than just individual skill; it required our collective effort and encouragement. This dynamic mirrored the way certain animal species, like bees or ants, work together in cohesive groups to thrive, each contributing its unique role to support the community’s well-being.

The stream macroinvertebrate survey activity deepened our awareness of the parallels. As we examined the myriad of tiny bugs that live in the river’s sand, we were struck by how their collective work contributes to the health of the aquatic environment. This small yet crucial part of the ecosystem highlighted a powerful metaphor for social diversity. Just as these bugs, though often unnoticed, play an essential role in maintaining the river’s balance, so too do individuals within a community contribute to its overall health and resilience. Kaleena, for example, explains:

“I didn’t know how one little has such an impact on the entire ecosystem. And it can be applied to almost anything with diversity, equity and inclusion. Just because they’re small, they still matter. They’re pretty much invisible if you’re not looking for them, which doesn’t mean they’re not important. You still need that diversity to have a healthy ecosystem.”

The group searching for macroinvertebrates in river sand samples

Nature as a metaphor

Soup, the group’s lichen lover, shared a special moment from one of our hikes that resonated deeply with the group. They recounted:

“I found that had been on my bucket list for so long. I’ve been wanting to see it, but I never had any opportunities to go places as far as the Mountain Campus to see lichen that I wouldn’t usually. And when I saw it, it made me so happy. I was in this place where I felt really safe and really good, and I found this lichen. And I was like, this is a metaphor for a change in my life.”

A symbiotic lichen that was on soup’s bucket list

Soup’s experience illustrates how this trip allowed each of us to immerse ourselves in new environments and forge connections with one another. This journey didn’t just offer a chance to explore nature but also to reflect on our own lives and aspirations. For some of us, it opened doors to new ways of thinking and possibilities, inspiring us to pursue new interests or see aspects of our lives through a fresh lens.

Spending time in the mountains provided us with a sense of beauty and belonging, revealing how environments can foster self-discovery and mutual understanding. In just three days, we gained insights into the natural world that not only amazed and enlightened us but also empowered us. We see this experience as a microcosm of what inclusive and supportive communities should look like. By nurturing our shared curiosity about nature, we can create spaces where everyone feels valued and inspired, fostering both individual growth and collective care. This sense of inclusion and mutual respect is essential, whether in the context of wildlife conservation or any field we choose to pursue.

Further Reading

Bailey, A. 2022. Black Outside: Transformative outdoor leadership. Journal of Outdoor Recreation, Education, and Leadership 14(2): 85–98. https://mcnultyfound.org/impact/stories/black-outside. Accessed on July 29, 2024.

Gress, S. and T. Hall. 2017. Diversity in the outdoors: National Outdoor Leadership School students’ attitudes about wilderness. Journal of Experiential Education 40(2): 114–134. 

Stern, M. J., R. B. Powell and B. T. Frensley. 2022. Environmental education, age, race, and socioeconomic class: An exploration of differential impacts of field trips on adolescent youth in the United States. Environmental Education Research 28(2): 197–215. 
Morgan Murphy Author
Adelina Murillo Author
Kaleena Molina-Perez Author
Marisabel (Mari) Vargas Author
Netanya Lam Author
Soup Cloud Author
Elizabeth Diaz-Clark Author
Shobha (Sho) Amulya Author

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The residents of Kokkare Bellur

Feature image: A colony of painted storks in Kokkare Bellur village in Karnataka, India (Photo credit: Green Panther Club, Bengaluru)

Off the busy Bengaluru-Mysuru highway in southern India is a nondescript village called Kokkare Bellur. We reached it at the crack of dawn, when the people were busy going about their morning activities. Just like in any other village, we saw dogs, cows, hens, and buffaloes. At first glance, Kokkare Bellur didn’t look any different. 

However, as we walked through the narrow lanes of the village, a spectacle unfolded—and that is when we realised that Kokkare Bellur is no ordinary place. We saw its winged children—young painted storks. Hundreds of nests were bustling with activity. We heard the loud cackling of hungry chicks whose parents were away looking for food. When we looked up, we saw many painted storks flying high in the sky. The whole place was bustling with activity.      

Kokkare means stork in Kannada (Photo credit: Green Panther club, Bengaluru)

In Kannada, kokkare means stork. This village is a traditional nesting site not just for painted storks, but also spot-billed pelicans. Thousands of birds come to this village every year to breed and raise their young.

Why the birds chose this particular village to nest is still a mystery. The story goes that Kokkare Bellur was on the banks of the Shimsha River. In 1916, a plague forced the villagers to abandon their settlement and relocate a few kilometres away. To the surprise of the villagers, the birds followed them—even though there was no major water body.                

Long ago, the people of the village collected the birds’ droppings (guano), which were rich in nitrogen and phosphate, to use as a fertiliser. The birds seemed to feel safe amidst the human settlement, so they continued nesting there—an example of a symbiotic relationship, in which each species helps the other. Although the villagers are no longer dependent on guano for fertiliser, they continue to provide a safe haven for the birds. 

Did you know that Kokkare Bellur is the only community reserve in Karnataka? For decades, the birds were protected by the villagers themselves. Now, the state Forest Department and organisations such as WWF are actively engaged in conservation efforts alongside the villagers.         

Juvenile painted storks have a dull, brownish plumage (Photo credit: Green Panther club, Bengaluru)

A series of thoughtful gestures and actions ensure the well-being and protection of these birds. Nets are fixed under the trees to protect any chicks that fall out of their nests. The trees are numbered and monitored by the Melukote Wildlife Range Forest Officer as well. Accidents can happen, therefore there is a rescue centre where injured birds and chicks are taken care of until they can fly. The Forest Department has also provided special rescue bikes with a basket in the front in which the injured birds can be carried. 

In 2016, the power lines throughout the village were insulated to prevent bird deaths by electrocution. Although some 30–40 birds used to die each year, none have been electrocuted since the power lines were modified. The Wildlife Wing of the Forest Department also offers compensation to people who are not able to harvest fruit from their tamarind trees while the birds are nesting there.

Kokkare Bellur is a great example of villagers coming together to care for a species that is Near Threatened (populations are decreasing) as per the IUCN Red List. Even though the relationship between the birds and villagers started off with the villagers benefiting financially from the birds, the storks stay on as part of the heritage now. 

Hopefully, generations of children and grandchildren, both human and avian, will continue to enjoy this spectacle!

The painted stork get its name from the adult’s distinctive pink tertial feathers (Photo credit: Green Panther club, Bengaluru)
What I learned about painted storks     

During my visit to Kokkare Bellur in 2024, there were about 1,600 painted storks in the village. Each tree had about 30–40 birds with their chicks. 

Painted storks are large, majestic birds that are 3–4 feet tall and have a wingspan of 5–6 feet. Given their size, the birds pick sturdy trees such as tamarind to make their nests. The male and female birds contribute equally to parenting and raising their young. 

The baby storks are whitish grey with black beaks, while the juveniles are a dull brown with beaks starting to show signs of colour. Adults are black and white with colourful feathers at the edge of their wings. They also have colourful yellowish-orange beaks and orangish-pink legs. 
Disha Raam Author

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Your Window

Through my window, I gaze and see,
The world is changing rapidly.
Buildings growing big and tall, 
While nature never seemed so small.

Concrete stretches far and wide,
Steel and stone steal nature’s pride.
Engines roar and tires scream,
Leaving trails of exhaust like a bad dream.

But through your window, wild and free
A world of wonder lives carefree.
Where trees stand tall with roots dug deep,
And rabbits in the gardens sleep.

Branches twist and stretch up high,
Their leaves like dancers in the sky.
Birds sing sweet, and bees take flight,
A symphony of pure delight.

As you grow, you’ll come to know,
How nature thrives when people sow.
Wildflowers bloom along the way,
Perfumed breezes softly sway.

Watch butterflies dance to and fro,
Listen to frogs sing songs in the moonlit glow.
The world is full of wonders new, 
Each one waiting just for you.

Cherish Mother Earth, both old and new,
For she will always care for you.
Look beyond and you will find,
The beauty waiting, unconfined.

As you grow, 
you’ll come to know,
the beauty hidden in the shadow
Of the world outside your window.

Further Reading

Alberti, M. 2015. Eco-evolutionary dynamics in an urbanizing planet. Trends in Ecology & Evolution 30(2): 114–126.Potts, S. G., J. C. Biesmeijer, C. Kremen, P. Neumann, O. Schweiger and W. E. Kunin. 2010. Global pollinator declines: trends, impacts, and drivers. Trends in Ecology & Evolution 25(6): 345–353. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tree.2010.01.007. 

Tzoulas, K., K. Korpela, S. Venn, V. Yli-Pelkonen, A. Kaźmierczak, J. Niemela and P. James. 2007. Promoting ecosystem and human health in urban areas using green infrastructure: A literature review. Landscape and Urban Planning 81(3): 167–178. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.landurbplan.2007.02.001. 
Alissa Kanka Author

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Unlikely Allies: Wild Boars as Ecosystem Engineers for Endangered Butterflies

Feature image: Wild boars near Basistówka Street in Kraków (Photo credit: Jakub Hałun/Wikimedia Commons)

Imagine the wild boar—a powerful, muscular, and hairy creature—helping delicate, endangered butterflies. These ungulates search for food by using their snout to excavate the soil—known as ‘rooting’—to find plant roots, invertebrates, and fungi. In this way, wild boars act as natural ‘gardeners’ and, unintentionally, create microhabitats that are crucial for some plants and animals. 

Butterflies are one group of animals whose habitat could benefit from, or be harmed by, the wild boar. Butterflies require specific host plants, humidity conditions, and sunlight during their life cycle. For example, the Italian festoon (Zerynthia cassandra), whose population is declining, relies on host plants from the Aristolochia genus. It also has a limited flight range, making the species vulnerable to changes in the microhabitat, which could potentially be altered by wild boar activity. 

Researchers Rocco Labadessa and Leonardo Ancillotto assessed the impact of wild boars on these butterflies. Specifically, they examined the impact of wild boar activity on the growth, density, and flowering of host plants, and on the selection of sites for egg-laying by the butterflies. The sampling was carried out on the Murgia plateau in the Apulia region of Italy. From 2018–21, Labadessa and Ancillotto studied forest clearings that were important for the butterfly and its host plant, where boar activity was detected, and without human or livestock disturbance. The impact of wild boar rooting on vegetation and butterflies in these clearings was compared with undisturbed control plots with similar environmental conditions.

Their study revealed that plots disturbed by wild boar had a higher cover of plant species that provide nectar for Italian festoons compared to undisturbed plots. Specifically, the presence and abundance of Aristolochia clusii was positively influenced by wild boar rooting. A. clusii often grows in clusters derived from tuber fragmentation. Wild boar rooting creates favourable conditions by altering soil structure, boosting nutrient availability, reducing the cover of competitive species, and increasing the chances of fragmentation and dispersal of A. clusii tubers. With an increase in host plants, an increase in occurrence of butterfly eggs and larvae was recorded. Hence, wild boar rooting activities have a direct positive effect on the occurrence of butterfly eggs and larvae. 

Additionally, A. clusii. is typically shorter compared to surrounding grass and herbaceous plants. Wild boar rooting leads to a reduction in grasses leaning against these host plants, allowing for greater sunlight exposure. This in turn creates warmer microclimatic conditions around the plants, which supports larval development by enhancing metabolic processes, leading to more rapid growth—further demonstrating that rooting also has a direct positive effect on the development of butterfly larvae.

While the study emphasises the benefits of wild boar rooting for the Italian festoon and its habitat, the increasing wild boar populations across Europe necessitate a careful assessment of the wider ecological implications, including potential conflicts with native ecosystems and agricultural interests. 

Further Reading : 

Labadessa, R. and A. Leonardo. 2023. Beauty and the beast: multiple effects of wild boar rooting on butterfly microhabitat. Biodiversity and Conservation 32: 1189–1204. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10531-023-02545-7.
Jahnavi Chowdary Gutta Author
Andrea D. Phillott Author

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The Boy and the Grey Ghost

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Shiv Kumar who lived in a small town in the Lahaul Valley of Himachal Pradesh, India. Shiv was a kind and curious kid who loved the natural world and all its inhabitants. Everyone in the snowy mountains of his valley knew him. He was calm and friendly, and his excitement for exploring the mountains was infectious. 

Shiv loved to trek, explore new places, learn about the wildlife in and around his village, and share stories about his adventures in the wild. People admired how much he cared for wildlife, especially the secretive snow leopard, which was his favorite animal. They said Shiv had a special gift—he could find clues in the snow that no one else could see. Whether it was animal tracks or a tiny feather, he always figured out the story behind it. 

Shiv had many friends in school who came from nearby villages and valleys. Almost all of them had seen the elusive snow leopard, often called the ‘grey ghost of the Himalayas’. But Shiv had never spotted one in the wild and dreamed of the day he would. His friends often suggested that he visit the nearby valleys where snow leopard sightings were common. But Shiv always insisted, “No, I want to see the snow leopard near my own village.” 

He often thought to himself, The mountains and valleys here are just like those in other places. There’s plenty of food for a snow leopard to survive here. So why haven’t I seen one yet? Deep down, Shiv was sure he hadn’t searched carefully enough. He believed that if he kept looking, he would eventually find one. He wasn’t ready to give up. Shiv knew that nature had its own secrets, and one day, his efforts might just turn out to be fruitful.

It was a cold winter evening. Shiv and his friend were walking through the snow-covered landscape, enjoying the peaceful silence. As they explored their surroundings, Shiv suddenly spotted something unusual—pugmarks in the snow and a trail leading upslope, as if something had been dragged. The next morning, Shiv woke up early, eager to solve the mystery. At 5.30 AM, he returned to the same spot. 

As he walked down the slope, he noticed signs of a struggle—blood on the snow and bits of fur scattered around. He climbed upslope, following the drag marks, and soon found out what had happened. He noticed that an animal resembling a goat had been hunted by a predator. As he moved closer, he realised it was the remains of an Asiatic ibex—one of the largest mountain goat species with huge, curved horns, and a favorite prey of the snow leopard. 

Shiv felt a rush of excitement. Could there be a snow leopard around? he wondered. He knew these big cats often returned to their kill. He wished he could stay there, but he had to return home as it was getting dark and it wasn’t safe to stay there alone. Later that evening, Shiv returned to the spot with his friend Aman, an adult named Guddu, and a camera. They sat quietly, waiting for the snow leopard to appear. 

Time passed slowly, and the sun began to set. Just as they were about to give up, Shiv glanced around one last time.

And there it was—a snow leopard, standing tall and proud, like it was on guard duty.

It looked directly into Shiv’s camera, almost as if it knew it was being watched. Shiv held his breath, amazed by the beauty and power of the big cat. 

“This is a moment I’ll never forget,” Shiv whispered to his friends. The snow leopard disappeared into the shadows, but Shiv’s heart was full. He had seen one of nature’s most elusive creatures, and it felt like a gift from the wild. This was a life changing moment for Shiv. He decided he will spread awareness and educate everyone about the importance of conservation, and guard these animals and plants till his last breath.

Authors’ Note: This story is inspired from life experiences of a Deputy Forest Ranger named Shiv Kumar, who lives in Lahaul Valley, Lahaul-Spiti district of Himachal Pradesh. He has been a part of the Himachal Pradesh Forest Department for more than 20 years. Everyone, from forest guards to the Divisional Forest Officers know him and appreciate his work. Even the locals of the region talk about his love for wildlife. He has worked with various institutions including the Wildlife Institute of India, Zoological Survey of India, Nature Conservation Foundation, and several foreign researchers for conservation of wildlife in his region, especially the snow leopard. He is calm, down-to-earth and always excited for new adventures. Shiv Kumar is an inspiration for many. 
Nidhi Singh Author
Akanksha Singh Author
Kashish Sherdia Illustrator

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Getting into the weeds: how to manage our grasslands under climate change

We often pay little attention to grassland environments—perhaps thinking of them simply as ‘weedy fields’ or agricultural spaces. When we worry about climate change, we tend to think of habitats stereotypically portrayed as ‘wilderness’ in popular media, such as forests and mountains. However, grasslands cover over a third of all land, provide vitally important ecosystem services, and support vibrant biodiversity. 

Grasslands are home to the majority of insect pollinators, and provide habitat for many unique grassland bird and plant species. They also protect soils from erosion, and sequester an underappreciated share of the world’s carbon stock. This is because grassland plants evolved to grow in places where water is scarce, and consequently, these plants invest heavily in extensive and hidden root systems that eventually break down into rich organic matter. As a result, grasslands produce many of the world’s most fertile agricultural soils and provide livestock forage, supporting much of the meat and dairy production globally.            

Climate change threatens grasslands

Despite their value, grasslands have received little attention from researchers trying to understand how to best manage natural resources under climate change. This neglect is troubling because climate change vulnerability and conversion to agriculture makes grasslands among the most endangered ecosystems. With adequate water, grasslands are boom and bust environments capable of immense productivity during a short growing season. However, they are vulnerable to severe drought because they occur in regions where rainfall is too scarce and irregular to support trees. 

Further, grasslands tend to occur at lower elevations and lack the shade of forest canopies to moderate extreme temperatures. High temperatures and more frequent and severe drought, punctuated by extreme precipitation events, may affect the structure and function of grasslands in many ways. For example, drought may kill vegetation and reduce livestock forage capacity as well as floral resources for pollinators. Likewise, higher temperatures can negatively impact grassland wildlife causing the nests of birds to fail, for example. Combined changes in precipitation and temperature may also affect nutrient cycling and carbon sequestration in grassland soils, and exacerbate invasive plant threats.

Mitigation strategies

To address the challenges facing grasslands under climate change, our recent study developed a ‘Climate Adaptation Menu’ for grasslands. An adaptation menu is a scientifically vetted list of strategies with specific practices meant to provide natural resource professionals a diversity of options to mitigate climate change in grassland ecosystems. The menu was developed by systematically reviewing existing scientific recommendations and soliciting input from management professionals. We identified eight broad strategies with many specific actions associated with each. 

Many of these strategies can be enacted across entire regions while others reflect practices that can be implemented at individual grassland sites. For example, strategic conservation investments in topographically complex areas could help bolster grassland resilience to extreme temperatures. Locally, changes in grassland management could also be implemented, such as shifting the timing of essential prescribed burns as springs become hotter and drier. 

Ultimately, climate adaptation is the science of adjusting to a new climate reality. It is important to recognise that our grasslands and the managers tasked with their conservation will need support to maintain the many services that grasslands provide. The Grassland Adaptation Menu is intended to serve as a starting point for climate adaptation and provide much needed guidance for our grasslands in a changing world. 

Illustration by Valerie Doebley

Further Reading

Bernath-Plaisted, J. S., S. D. Handler, M. Ahlering, L. A. Brandt, S. B. Maresh Nelson, N. D. Niemuth, T. Ontl et al. 2025. A climate adaptation menu for North American grasslands. Conservation Science and Practice: e70017. https://doi.org/10.1111/csp2.70017. 
Jacy S Bernath-Plaisted Author & Photographer

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Introduction: Dissonant Futures

The Indian Ocean is hot stuff and one can’t say this enough; though being ‘hot’ is great until it’s not. Despite the fixing of maritime and territorial boundaries across its waters, Indian Ocean countries—lined up from African to Antipodean shores—remain connected, bustling multicultural sites, reminiscent of its ancient markets and trade routes. However, the imaginaries of souk-style easy cultural mobility and intermingling have given way to modern, specialised and elite gatherings, symposia, and seminars, where new inequalities and configurations replace the old. Legitimate mobility is no longer the defining feature of this part of the world; rather, it is distress migration from the deltaic and degraded ecosystems of the Indian Ocean that has gained notoriety in our times.

Information, strategy, and capital are traded and reproduced in exclusive networks of Indian Ocean blue economies. Subjects range from security, terrorism, tourism, ecology, mining, undersea exploration, carbon conservation, illegal, unreported and unregulated fishing, disasters, and echoes of oceanic (dis)connected histories. The literal heating up of the Indian Ocean with rising global temperatures affects all of these sectors and conversations. Two aspects mark this new interest in climate discourse—there are few voices from where climate impacts the most, and there is little plain speak on the inconvenient truths of climate, such as differentiated responsibilities for climate impacts (or simply put: who is going to pay for saving the Indian Ocean).

India is a good case in point. Marine systems receive limited attention and there is a need to mainstream ‘real’ issues into conversations about climate. The changing climate dynamic of the Indian Ocean entails a range of consequences from perturbations to the monsoon to cascading impacts on fisheries, agriculture, and the people dependent on them. Despite these looming threats, most of the recent press on the subject discusses little else other than extraction and harvesting resources under the blue economy umbrella. However, this extraction-focused mode is still in its early stages in some sectors, and there is potential for course correction even if we start now.

While countries should of course benefit from fish and other marine resources, planning needs to have an eye on future scenarios—not only in terms of continued availability of resources, but also in terms of inclusion, equity, and justice. Some geographies need special attention. In the Indian mainland, these can be states dealing with overfishing and distress migrations. On the other hand, with their large Exclusive Economic Zones and their remoteness, Indian island systems such as the Lakshadweep Islands and the Andaman and Nicobar Islands are more comparable to Small Island Developing States, which have their own peculiar set of challenges. These regions need new approaches that simultaneously integrate the blue economy with the challenges to blue justice.

One way to get climate action going is the arena of communication. Experts point to some unhealthy trends in this domain too, across the globe. On the one hand, there is little attention to solutions related to meaningful adaptation or feasible green energy transitions. On the other, an excessive focus on doomsday scenarios inures the general public into numbness, akin to doom scrolling or watching daily war reports on the news. Finally, there is a slow closing within the public sphere of marginal streams of knowledge that could transform on-the-ground and policy practices in controversial areas such as aquaculture, merely on account of communication capture by powerful actors.

Local governments in maritime nations struggle with the capacities to address the nuances of climate impacts in coastal areas. Preliminary enquiries in our areas of work in Odisha and Tamil Nadu, for instance, reveal inconsistent state funding for adaptation, absence of expertise within state Climate Cells, and an equation of climate adaptation with disaster management. Virtually none of the socio-technical infrastructure for climate in local and regional governments is sensitive to fisheries declines or marine ecosystem degradation (such as through marine plastics). The plethora of multinational projects that seek to address climate impacts largely rely on conventional disaster management techniques such as shoreline reinforcements, bunding, etc., that have proven poor track records. Other projects simply include plantations, often without attention to community tenurial arrangements over coastal commons.

Climate change strategies across the Indian Ocean lack a coastal-marine focus, specialist knowledge, and community engagement. Marine and coastal issues are often neglected in the larger narratives surrounding development, conservation, and climate change. Recentering coastal communities and ecosystems will require the building of capacities, but also investment of energy and diverse knowledge in strategic communications.

Several examples exist across civil society spaces, led by non-governmental organisations, universities, student groups, and individual actions. Some of these efforts are described in the articles in this issue. Not all efforts result in positive feedback for the system as a whole. The commercial interest in blue carbon sequestration against all odds, highlighted by Sisir Pradhan, is an example of negative implications of climate action. Surya Prabha and Sunil Santha’s work on seaweed farming draws attention to the difficulties inherent in crafting simplistic win-win solutions, where winners are few and losses multiple.

Climate change interventions also need funding and appropriate philanthropic engagement—and there is very little of that, at least for the oceans. When it comes to environmental issues, we find that marine issues receive only a fraction of the funding that terrestrial systems receive. Climate change with its imperceptible shifts (at least in its early years) as opposed to sudden visible catastrophes has been perceived as more of a benign risk, if at all. The few philanthropic dollars and rupees that actually do overcome climate deniers and their ilk often find their way into mitigation rather than adaptation projects.

Two oceans away in New York, each year Climate Week comes together as another bustling gathering. Drawing the world’s strongest advocates, innovators, and investors in climate action, the irony of its existence and performance did not escape us. In September 2024, we joined the ranks of participants who struggled to navigate Manhattan traffic and narrow streets across the dispersed venues of Climate Week. We entered and exited promising climate conversations, only to have the wind knocked out of us each time we encountered Manhattan’s glass towers of pure capital. Day 1 was a shocker, Day 3 almost comical, and by the end of the week, we longed for a space of less violent cognitive dissonance.

The Indian Ocean has been a space that wove in difference along with tumult. Whether in (climate) action or thought, between its unequal peoples and plans, the future imaginaries of the Indian Ocean must be guided by greater harmony and accord; features that make it an ocean that’s hot, for the right reasons.
Aarthi Sridhar Author
Meera Anna Oommen Author
Prabha Mallya Illustrator
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19.2

2025 Jun
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SAILING THROUGH CHANGE: Climate communication for coastal communities

Coastal communities along the Indian Ocean are among the most vulnerable to climate change. Rising sea levels, intensifying cyclones, saltwater intrusion, and erratic weather are no longer distant threats—they are unfolding now, threatening homes, health, and livelihoods across the region. These changes are already disrupting food systems, freshwater access, and the economic foundations of coastal life.

The Indian Ocean is more than a geographic feature—it is a vital, life-sustaining force for millions across South and Southeast Asia, East Africa, and island nations. It supports marine biodiversity and underpins both small-scale livelihoods and broader regional economies. Yet despite its centrality, climate communication often fails to reach the communities that depend on it most.

Addressing climate change in the Indian Ocean region demands more than scientific data—it requires communication that is clear, locally grounded, and actionable. When communities understand the changes unfolding along their coasts and within their marine ecosystems, they can adapt, participate in climate governance, and build resilience. Bridging the gap between climate science and lived experience is essential—so that those most affected are also the best prepared.

Coastal realities

For climate communication to be effective, it must begin with an understanding of the audience. Coastal communities bring deep-rooted knowledge, observations, and lived experiences that shape their understanding of the environments around them. Their perspectives are influenced by generational wisdom, cultural beliefs, and practical knowledge of coastal ecosystems. However, these insights are often overlooked in climate discussions, as communicators (such as trainers) sometimes assume they are starting with a ‘blank slate’.

Instead of seeing coastal communities as passive recipients of scientific knowledge, climate communication should recognise and build on what they already know. Coastal communities have observed shifts in fish migration, changes in monsoon patterns, and worsening coastal erosion. Linking these first-hand observations to broader climate trends and technical notions can make climate communication more relevant, relatable, and actionable, effectively bridging the gap between scientific discourse, policy actions, and lived experiences.

Translating climate science

One of the major challenges in climate communication is the complexity (and sometimes incommensurability) of scientific language, particularly when discussing climate governance and adaptation strategies. Concepts like ‘carbon sequestration’ or ‘global warming potential’ often have no direct equivalents in the regional languages spoken by maritime communities along the Indian Ocean. Instead of relying on simplifying these concepts alone, climate communication could focus on how these changes are experienced in daily life.

For instance, rather than explaining ocean acidification with technical jargon, communicators can discuss its impact through observable changes in shellfish like oysters and mussels, whose weakened shells or declining numbers may signal environmental stress in coastal ecosystems, which in turn threatens the livelihoods of small-scale fisherfolk. These stories can open up discussions about possible causes and help relate these changes to broader climate processes like the carbon cycle in non-technical, accessible terms.

Another significant challenge in climate communication is the disconnect between abstract climate projections and the immediate priorities of coastal communities, who often focus on daily survival rather than long-term environmental risks. To make global climate debates locally relevant, it is essential to connect them to proximate problems such as changes in weather patterns, declining fish catch, saltwater intrusion into drinking water sources, and the increasing frequency of cyclones—while explicitly linking these to changes in global climate.

For instance, rather than presenting sea-level rise along the Indian Ocean’s shorelines as an abstract or isolated concept, communicators can discuss how this global phenomenon directly affects everyday life. Rising global temperatures, driven by greenhouse gas emissions, are causing polar ice caps to melt and oceans to expand—leading to higher sea levels. This rise increases the inland reach of saltwater, contaminating drinking water sources and gradually reducing the productivity of coastal lands.

Similarly, declining fish catch may not only be due to overfishing but also to shifting ocean temperatures and acidification—both consequences of climate change. By clearly attributing these impacts to climate change while illustrating their immediate effects, discussions can pave the way for exploring adaptation strategies, such as salt-tolerant crops, improved drinking water access, or loss and damage support. This approach ensures that climate action feels more immediate, actionable, and directly tied to the global climate crisis.

Furthermore, a one-size-fits-all approach to climate communication often falls short. Different groups within coastal communities along the Indian Ocean—such as small-scale fishermen, women in seafood processing, or youth engaged in alternative livelihoods—experience climate change in distinct ways. A blanket message about, say, the increasing frequency of cyclones may not resonate as much as a discussion on how extreme heat affects fish storage, or how it strains women’s health as they walk long distances under the sweltering sun to collect drinking water for their households.

Engaging pedagogical strategies

For climate communication to be engaging and impactful, it must move beyond instructor-driven lectures and reports. Interactive and participatory methods are more effective in ensuring meaningful learning. Some key approaches include:

Storytelling and oral narratives

Coastal communities across the Indian Ocean—ranging from Sri Lankan fisherfolk to Malagasy coastal dwellers—have strong oral traditions, making storytelling a powerful tool for climate communication. Folktales, historical anecdotes, and personal experiences can help connect abstract scientific concepts and lived realities.

For instance, instead of explaining shoreline erosion purely as a scientific phenomenon, communicators can draw on local accounts of once-thriving fishing spots that have vanished due to coastal degradation. Along Kenya’s coastline, fisherfolk in Lamu recall how their fishing grounds have shrunk due to mangrove loss and rising sea levels. In the Maldives, older generations remember the ocean as an endless source of beauty and abundance. Today, that very ocean threatens their existence—rising sea levels have caused saltwater to seep into freshwater sources, making groundwater unfit for cooking, watering plants, or growing food.

In India’s Sundarbans—one of the world’s largest mangrove forests—where rising sea levels and increasing salinity threaten livelihoods, older residents recount how freshwater ponds once supported fisheries and agriculture but are now turning brackish, forcing communities to adapt. Meanwhile, in coastal Bangladesh, communities share stories of how tidal floods have become more frequent and intense, inundating homes, contaminating drinking water, and forcing people to elevate their homes or migrate seasonally.

Stories of past cyclones in Odisha—such as Cyclone Phailin in 2013 and Fani in 2019—and how traditional knowledge helped people prepare, can make climate risks feel more immediate while preserving indigenous wisdom. By framing climate change through familiar narratives, communities can connect emotionally to the issue, making it more relevant and actionable.

Audio-visual instructional methods

Audio-visual methods can enhance climate communication by engaging audiences more effectively than traditional blackboard-driven sessions. Tools like infographics, animated videos, and data visualisations simplify complex climate concepts, while interactive approaches— such as virtual simulations, remote-sensing images, and 3D models—make them more tangible.

For instance, along the coast of Mozambique, a participatory activity where community members sketch their village’s shoreline as they remember it from childhood, then compare it with satellite imagery, can spark meaningful conversations about disappearing beaches, shifting tides, and the urgent need for adaptation strategies.

In the Seychelles, drone footage capturing coral reef degradation due to warming seas visually underscores the impact of ocean acidification, deepening public understanding of climate-induced marine changes. Similarly, in Madagascar, where coastal erosion is a mounting concern, time-lapse videos of receding shorelines help communities grasp the gradual yet alarming pace of change, reinforcing the urgency of conservation and adaptation. These immersive approaches not only foster deeper understanding but also inspire proactive planning for coastal resilience.

Hands-on and experiential learning

Active participation could strengthen climate understanding by making scientific concepts more tangible. In many coastal settings, engaging communities in simple and hands-on monitoring activities can serve as powerful tools to connect climate variability with local realities.

For instance, in regions where fish species exhibit seasonal variation or repeated spawning visits, community-kept logs can help track ecological patterns over time. In low-lying agricultural zones affected by saline intrusion, participatory soil testing may raise awareness of changing environmental baselines. Similarly, in areas experiencing erratic rainfall or declining groundwater levels, maintaining community diaries of rainfall and water table fluctuations can support long-term understanding of climate-driven shifts in coastal water security.

These participatory approaches not only build local knowledge but foster meaningful community engagement in climate adaptation efforts. Extending this further, rather than simply explaining the role of mangroves in coastal protection, communities might better grasp their importance through direct observation and collective reflection. In contexts like Bangladesh’s Sundarbans or Odisha’s Bhitarkanika region, guided visits to areas with varying degrees of mangrove degradation could help participants observe differences in shoreline stability, water clarity, and fish presence—offering insights into how mangroves might function as natural buffers against erosion and storm surges.

Likewise, in parts of East Africa such as Zanzibar, involving coastal communities in planting and monitoring mangrove saplings—alongside dialogue on their role in the carbon cycle—could nurture deeper connections between ecosystem restoration and climate resilience.

Community-led dialogues

Climate knowledge should be co-created with local communities to ensure relevance and inclusivity. Organising discussions where fisherfolk and farmers, especially women, share their observations helps ground climate communication and adaptation strategy within lived experiences. These local insights can then be linked to broader climate science, fostering a sense of ownership and encouraging practical solutions.

For example, in Oman, Cyclone Gonu (2007) severely damaged desalination plants, leading to widespread water shortages and exposing coastal communities’ vulnerability to climate-induced water scarcity. In Somalia, rising temperatures are believed to have accelerated fish spoilage, directly affecting small-scale marine fisheries. Along Pakistan’s southern coast, women engaged in drying and processing fish struggle to preserve their catch due to extreme heat, leading to economic losses. Meanwhile, in coastal Tamil Nadu, caregivers are noticing a rise in heat-related health issues, particularly among the elderly and children.

By integrating these lived experiences with scientific knowledge, climate communicators can help communities develop locally relevant strategies—such as improved water conservation, climate-resilient fishing practices, and targeted health interventions.

Beyond external expert-driven strategies

For climate communication to be truly effective, it must be rooted in equity and mutual understanding. Often, a major constraint to effective climate communication is the perception that climate knowledge is ‘external’—originating from scientists, policymakers, or NGOs, rather than being grounded in the lived experiences of the community. This disconnect can lead to scepticism or disengagement from coastal communities. The way forward is through shared learning—where climate knowledge is not simply delivered, but co-created with those most affected who also possess expert knowledge of such changes and their impacts using local ecological knowledge.

To truly advance, climate communication in the Indian Ocean region must go beyond merely ‘raising awareness’ to driving meaningful collaborative action. Participatory approaches—where communities themselves record and communicate environmental shifts, share traditional knowledge-based insights across locations, and engage in collaborative solution-building—help ensure that responses are both locally relevant and scientifically accurate.

By fostering trust and prioritising collective learning, we can bridge the dichotomies of knowledge systems, transforming climate adaptation into an inclusive, sustained effort rather than an imposed directive. Ultimately, when climate action is embedded within community-driven knowledge systems, adaptation becomes not just a response to change, but a pathway to resilience, autonomy, and long-term empowerment.
Anirban Roy Author
Karunya Baskar Illustrator
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2025 Jun
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Why do I attend climate COPs?

But first, what is a COP? The Conference of the Parties (COP) is an annual meeting of all countries that are parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC). And the UNFCCC is an international treaty adopted in 1992 to address climate change. It provides the framework for international cooperation on climate action, and the COP is the “supreme decision-making body of the Convention”.

The COP’s main goals are to assess global progress in reducing greenhouse gas emissions, adapt to the impacts of climate change, and provide finance, technology, and capacity-building support to help countries reduce their emissions and build resilience to climate change. I work on technologies that help with the first two goals, as well as being active in the climate change literacy space.

The annual conferences are an opportunity to review Parties’ progress against the overall goal of the UNFCCC to limit climate change and to negotiate new measures. In my time, I have attended several climate COPs and have often faced this question: is it really worthwhile attending these meetings?

Reality check

Civil society representatives register for COPs as ‘observers’. The original idea behind the concept was that civil society would act as a watchdog in these annual review and planning meetings and bring the voices of vulnerable and disenfranchised communities from across the world to the negotiations table.

There exist civil society networks with the sole purpose of following and trying to positively influence the UNFCCC negotiations. They do this all year round, not just at the time of the annual COP. Grassroot NGOs often do not have the bandwidth to do this, but try to convey their challenges and asks through such networks.

COP17 held in Durban, South Africa, in 2011 was the first one I attended. At the time, I headed a cooperative of NGOs that were spread across Asia and trying to bring carbon finance to grassroot level projects in the region. It was while representing this international organisation that I encountered and connected with COP-attending Indian civil society for the first time. In 2011, the Indian government and civil society were on the same page about the international discourse on climate change. Every evening one of the Indian negotiators updated the Indian observers about the ongoing discussions.

In hindsight, I now think this was perhaps the first COP where civil society members across the board started becoming disillusioned with the UNFCCC process. A couple of years earlier at COP15 in Copenhagen, Denmark, global civil society representatives were present in large numbers, filled with positivity and hope. Barack Obama had recently become the US president and was bringing the country back into climate action. The COP attendees fervently believed that he could and would motivate all developed countries to take bolder actions to solve the climate crisis and fulfill the commitments under the Kyoto Protocol—which was adopted in 1997 (but entered into force only in 2005) and set binding targets for industrialised countries and economies in transition to reduce greenhouse gas emissions.

But the COP15 declaration just contained platitudes with no real action agenda, and civil society members across the world felt betrayed. The next COP in Cancun, Mexico, in 2010 also did not reach any consensus on the pathway post-Kyoto Protocol, although a green climate fund did get established.

At COP17 global civil society had to finally come to terms with the facts that the Kyoto Protocol was a failure, financial commitments were being made but not fulfilled, and no global consensus seemed possible on the way forward. It was also obvious that even though the protocol was ‘legally binding’, there were not going to be any ‘penalising’ consequences for developed countries who failed to meet their commitments.

On the other hand, developing countries were now being pressured to primarily take on the burden of emission reductions. The message was loud and clear—the most powerful governments of the world were simply not interested in genuinely addressing climate change.

Alarm bells ringing

Life went on for me with my teaching and outreach work, but I got pulled into the world of global climate negotiations again, when I had an opportunity to attend COP24 in 2018. It was held in Katowice, Poland, and this time I was representing an Indian civil society organisation that had been an observer since COP1.

I noticed several changes compared to COP17. First, by this time the Paris Agreement—another legally binding treaty, with the goal of limiting global warming to “well below 2°C above pre-industrial levels” and ideally to cap it at 1.5°C—had been signed (2015) and ratified (2016), but had not yet officially come into force. However, history had repeated itself, with the US pulling out from yet another global climate agreement. Second, participants from Indian civil society no longer seemed to enjoy a camaraderie with the Indian government negotiators.

Third, I saw that observers were no longer mostly civil society, but increasingly for-profit organisations—some enterprises in the renewable energy, waste management, and other sectors, but a disturbingly large number of fossil fuel companies. It was also ironic that Katowice was a coal mine city—the COP venue was a stadium built on the site of an old coal mine, and the Polish head of state declared in the inaugural address that they would not give up coal in the near future.

I have attended the last three COPs—Sharm-el-Sheikh, Egypt (2022), Dubai, United Arab Emirates (2023), and Baku, Azerbaijan (2024). All these locations were fossil fuel-driven economies. While negotiators haggle over the emission reduction and financial targets of the Paris Agreement, the presence of a large number of fossil fuel company executives is now normalised. The Indian government delegation no longer acknowledges Indian civil society presence, but embraces representatives of the Indian business ecosystem instead. And for civil society organisations, COP is increasingly just a means to interact with like-minded people across the globe, to form new connections and possibly initiate new efforts to deal with their own climate-changed realities.

Silver lining

The 2025 meeting (COP30) will take place in Belém, Brazil. Greenhouse gas emissions have steadily increased through the past three decades, although the rise would have been more rapid without the UNFCCC process. Vulnerable communities, such as those in the small island nations and coastal regions of the Indian Ocean, are suffering more and more hardships, but whatever little financial and technical support they are getting, would not exist without the UNFCCC. While it is valid to question the relevance of UNFCCC and COPs, we also must ask—what other mechanism is there to achieve any kind of international cooperation to deal with this global crisis?

Each COP I attended exposed me to different perspectives and solutions, and ways to cope with the stress and frustration commonplace in this sector. I forged friendships with folks from different countries, and found the inspiration and strength to keep going. I came back from every COP with new ideas, and new resolve. These encounters positively influenced my own work, and therefore the lives of those touched by my work.

Climate change is a global crisis. As we grapple with climate-induced challenges locally, it helps to place these struggles in an international context, and to see ourselves as a part of a global community trying to survive. The annual COPs help keep this community hopeful. This may not ‘solve’ the climate crisis, but it does help with ‘coping’ with the outcomes of the crisis And that is reason enough for me to keep attending climate COPs.
Priyadarshini Karve Author
Shraddha Mandale Illustrator
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2025 Jun
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Is it possible to balance climate action, equity, and social justice in blue carbon governance?

Blue carbon refers to the carbon dioxide stored within vegetated coastal and marine ecosystems, such as mangroves, saltmarshes, and seagrass meadows. The term first emerged in the United Nations Environment Programme 2009 report titled Blue carbon: The role of healthy oceans in binding carbon.

Studies show that although blue carbon ecosystems only constitute only 2 percent of the ocean area and 5 percent of the global land area, they are significant natural carbon sinks, accounting for nearly 50 percent of all carbon buried in marine sediments. The carbon removal efficiency per unit of the blue carbon ecosystem is supposed to be five times higher and its absorption capacity three times faster than tropical forests.

Blue carbon ecosystems as nature-based solutions have the potential to address both climate mitigation and adaptation challenges at relatively low cost, while delivering a range of co-benefits for people and nature. But while there is a strong acknowledgement of the importance of conservation and governance by scientific communities, policymakers, market players, and proximate community groups, these ecosystems are fast degrading.

It is estimated that more than 50 percent of saltmarshes, 35 percent of mangroves and 29 percent seagrass meadows have been lost since the mid-20th century. The loss is attributed to climate-induced impacts, such as sea level rise and extreme weather events, as well as coastal development action. When these ecosystems are degraded, they not only fail to act as carbon sinks, but also contribute to carbon emissions by releasing stored carbon into the atmosphere. With a global annual loss of blue carbon ecosystems between 0.7 to 7 percent annually, it is projected that these ecosystems are releasing between 0.15 and 1.02 billion tons of carbon into the atmosphere each year, contributing significantly to anthropogenic climate change.

Recently blue carbon has received enormous global attention for climate action. The 16th climate COP (Conference of the Parties) in 2010 specifically accorded high importance to blue carbon ecosystems in this context. Subsequently, international and national policy instruments—including Nationally Determined Contributions, which are national climate action plans under the Paris Agreement, with the aim of limiting global warming to well below 2°C above pre-industrial levels—place stronger emphasis on blue carbon opportunities.

The recent trend is also skewed towards widespread commodification of marine resources, mainly through blue carbon markets. On the one hand, initiatives patronised by environmental conservation organisations and private sector groups, such as Blue Carbon Buyers Alliance, are advancing an exclusionary conservation agenda. On the other hand, large-scale investments through Blue Economy initiatives are altering existing social-ecological relationships within these blue carbon systems.

This article outlines two broad contours of blue carbon governance that include: (1) complexities arising out of the commoditisation1 of blue carbon areas, with an exclusive focus on carbon in global trade (2) changing social-ecological relationships in terms of distributional, procedural, and recognitional justice issues for local communities (see footnotes).

The carbon tunnel vision trap

The financialisation of ecosystem services, especially of aggregate carbon values through the carbon market, is one of the dominant pathways to promoting climate action. The product value chain approach with a buyer-centric market system is plagued with competing interests and power imbalances in favour of buyers and system facilitators, and is characterised by misuse by actors who are not the stewards of the blue carbon resources. Markets are also unclear about the true valuation of co-benefits such as coastal protection, disaster proofing, and local livelihoods associated with blue carbon systems.

“Carbon tunnel vision” also limits the capacity to design and deliver cross-sectional climate action with a holistic view of biodiversity conservation, habitat protection, human rights, and well-being considerations. It deepens the trap of scientific, sectoral decision-making which at times lies at cross-purposes with other dimensions of climate adaptation and mitigation action.

There has also been a growing interest in formulating legal mechanisms that commodify, monetise, maximise, and merchandise the marine environment’s carbon sequestration services, as well as a justified growing concern over these proposals. There are plenty of incidents where this reductionist view of climate action is generating serious social-ecological consequences. And while there is a great thrust on geo-engineering climate solutions in marine spaces, the impacts on coastal systems such as fisheries, seagrass areas, and mangrove forests are yet to be evaluated.

Greenwashing is quite common in the absence of appropriate mechanisms for proper valuation of blue carbon resources, including its co-benefits. In their 2024 study, Achakulwisut et al. state emphatically that it is time to move beyond the “carbon tunnel vision” demonstrated in widespread greenwashing through so-called carbon neutral oil and gas projects. Their scholarship highlighted the serious negative impacts of these projects on biodiversity, fisheries and blue carbon habitats, alongside the violation of human rights in Latin America, Africa, and North America.

Similarly, there is ample evidence of forest fishers in the Sundarbans facing “double marginalisation” from fortress conservation in marine protected areas, accentuated by extractive blue carbon projects. This results in increasing restrictions on local communities entering the forests for fishing and the collection of golpata (leaves of the Nipa palm, Nypa fruticans) and honey.

Equity and social justice

Blue carbon ecosystems are spread across areas where coastal communities, small-scale fishers and Indigenous Peoples live. These diverse peoples directly rely on these resources for livelihoods, food and nutritional security, and well-being. These systems are where different land and aquatic resource tenures/rights intersect and underpin the sustenance of global aquatic food systems. Despite a proclaimed ‘focus on social equity’ as part of broader Blue Economy discourse, much of the attention on blue carbon and the ocean (or blue) economy currently focuses on aspects of economic viability, ecological sustainability, and technological innovation. There is little attention given to issues of procedural, distributional and recognitional justice2 . At worst, it represents an expansion of green colonialism.

A global scan of technical guidance documents on blue carbon markets, their governance, and investment, undertaken by a group of scholars led by Sarah Lawless, reveals a superficial consideration of tenure aspects of small-scale fishers. Of the documents they reviewed, some recognise access and management rights of the local communities to certain extent. However, very few recognise withdrawal rights (the right to withdraw or harvest resources within the area to which tenure extends) and exclusion rights (where rights-holders lawfully exclude or ban others from using certain resources and accessing areas). In fact, none of this guidance even acknowledges transformation rights (the ability to change the land—area and resources—so that it has a different use).

Further market mechanisms such as the long carbon credit retirement timeframe3 , limitations of transaction length (which determines the delivery obligations placed on local communities), and ambiguity and lack of transparency in penalty clauses for protection lapse, further weaken tenure rights and tilt the power in favour of carbon market actors.

According to Global Atlas of Environmental Justice (EJAtlas), environmental defenders, especially from Indigenous and other marginalised groups, face high rates of criminalisation and physical violence across different geographies of the world. Incidents of criminalisation of non-timber forest product collection in Sundarbans, timber collection for firewood, and fishing by small-scale fishers in marine protected areas which are potential blue carbon markets, cause rising tension between traditional users of resources and blue carbon proponents.

The literature also suggests that the complexities of blue carbon ecosystems are not simple to address. Social science scholars argue that recognition of tenure in the early stage of a blue carbon project is important. However, the formalisation of tenure—unless founded on principles of deliberation, community partnership, co-production, recognition of customary and full rights to resources, and addressing historical inequalities—may not result in fair and distributional justice in favour of coastal communities and local fishers.

While procedural, distributional and recognitional justice concerns are quite evident, there are some positive examples that are more optimistic about improved community agency in the governance of blue carbon systems. For instance the Vonga Blue Forest Project in Kenya demonstrates a collaborative approach with legislation recognising community co-management and a greater appreciation of community livelihood co-benefits and biodiversity conservation. Similarly, the community-based management of seagrass and mangrove ecosystems in the Philippines, promotes blue carbon ecosystem management through traditional governance practices and the active involvement of local communities and fisherfolk associations.

Paradigm shift

The growing interest in the transformation of blue carbon ecosystems into marketable carbon assets represents a profound shift in how these resources are valued and governed. These governance transitions are not merely technical adjustments but entail significant redistribution of wealth and decision-making power. Rather, they raise fundamental questions about who controls, benefits from, and has access to coastal resources that have traditionally supported local livelihoods through fishing, tourism, and cultural practices.

Current blue carbon market frameworks exhibit significant inadequacies with their failure to appreciate complex tenure systems intersecting with formal and informal governance arrangements, and a lack of equitable benefit sharing and the persistence of the carbon tunnel vision. The market structure often fails to account for traditional resource tenure systems and the customary rights of fishers and coastal communities. This carries the risk of disrupting existing social-ecological relationships, which often manifest as reduced food security, loss of income, cultural erosion, and even displacement from ancestral territories and increased threat to conservation.

The ethical challenges of blue carbon markets are exacerbated by power asymmetries between the global actors who design these systems and the local communities expected to implement them. There is an absolute reliance on scientific knowledge about carbon sequestration, and technical requirements for monitoring, reporting, and verification often exceeding local capacity without substantial external support. These structural inequities suggest that without significant reconfiguration, blue carbon markets risk reinforcing rather than addressing existing patterns of environmental injustice.

Like other nature-based climate solutions, blue carbon requires the transformation of social and cultural relationships—between private and public actors, local and global finance, and scientific and other knowledge systems. There is a need to move beyond superficial community engagement to concrete actionable approaches. Common phrases include “establishing partnerships”, “improving community knowledge”, and “undertaking stakeholder engagement”—terms that lack specificity regarding implementation mechanisms, power-sharing arrangements, or measurable outcomes.

The shift in market behaviour and blue carbon governance requires institutional innovation and policy reform. The academic and policy communities must also address the disconnect between blue carbon initiatives and the substantial body of knowledge on community-based natural resource management developed over decades. Effective engagement strategies should draw on proven approaches from related fields, such as community forestry, co-managed fisheries, and Indigenous conservation territories, rather than treating blue carbon as an entirely novel domain requiring new engagement paradigms.

  1. Commoditisation is a term that refers not just to the commodification of an entity (adding a price to a product), but involves processes of its standardisation coupled with a focus on interchangeability across different producers and buyers ↩︎
  2. Procedural justice refers to the level of participation and inclusiveness of decision-making, and the quality of governance processes. Distributional justice can be defined as fairness in the distribution of benefits and harms of decisions and actions to different groups. Merely procedural and distributional justice will not serve their purpose unless combined with recognitional justice. Recognitional justice provides for the acknowledgement of and respect for pre-existing governance arrangements as well as the distinct rights, worldviews, knowledge, needs, livelihoods, histories, and cultures of different groups in decision-making. ↩︎
  3. A carbon credit retirement timeframe refers to the period of permanent removal from the carbon registry and restriction of further circulations. ↩︎

Further Reading

Achakulwisut, P., P. C. Almeida and E. Arond. 2022. It’s time to move beyond “carbon tunnel vision”. SEI Perspectives. https://www.sei.org/perspectives/move- beyond-carbon-tunnel-vision. Accessed on April 25, 2025.

Atchison J, Foster R, Bell-James J. 2024. Blue carbon as just transition? A structured literature review. Global Sustainability 7: e27. https://doi.org/10.1017/sus.2024.24.

Vierros, M. 2017. Communities and blue carbon: the role of traditional management systems in providing benefits for carbon storage, biodiversity conservation and livelihoods. Climatic Change 140(1): 89–100. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10584-013-0920-3.
Sisir Kanta Pradhan Author
Athulya Pillai Illustrator
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2025 Jun
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Shifting shorelines and changing tides: A mangrove story

“Ekul bhange okul gore,
Eta nodir khela”
(One side erodes, one side grows,
that is the river’s play)

These lines about the Bengal Delta, penned by the renowned Bangla poet Kazi Nazrul Islam, play in my mind as I walk on a mud-paved path along the salty and turbid Matla River, overlooking mangroves on one side and a flooded village on the other.

The fluvial-tidal Bengal Delta is where the 10,000-km2 expanse of the Sundarbans mangrove forest comprising about 250 islands is located, straddling India and Bangladesh. The delta was formed by the erosion and accretion of a rich load of sediments brought by the Ganga, Brahmaputra, and Meghna Rivers originating in the Himalayas.

The delta shaped by these sediments is home to the largest contiguous mangrove forest, full of rich biodiversity and endemic species like the Ganges river dolphin (Platanista gangetica gangetica), the northern river terrapin (Batagur baska), and the only mangrove forest to host a tiger (Panthera tigris tigris). The sediments settling in the Bengal Delta and those flowing out to the Bay of Bengal and into the Indian Ocean tell us about the Sundarbans’ past, present, and future.

Creating a new equilibrium

Socio-ecological changes in the recent past tell us how the geography of the delta evolved. The first mass inhabitation of the Sundarbans began in the late 1800s, leading to the deforestation of mangroves and the introduction of agriculture to the muddy wetlands.

However, at the periphery of the islands, 1–2 km of mangrove forest area was always kept intact by settlers. This helped prevent the impacts of flooding, tidal surges and extreme winds from affecting the delta’s inhabitants while providing a sustained supply of resources.

While habitations grew on some islands, most were left undisturbed for mangroves and associated flora and fauna to thrive. A new equilibrium was reached where artisanal fishing and farming developed in tune with nature’s patterns.

Disturbed equilibrium

The equilibrium of periodic erosion and accretion that Kazi Nazrul Islam recited in his poem, and that early settlers learned to live with, is now disturbed by a combination of new anthropogenic activities. Despite strict forest protection since the 1950s and being tagged as a World Heritage Site, the Sundarbans are witnessing widespread environmental degradation from maritime transportation (for industrial raw material, fishing, and tourism), upstream dams, and a range of industrial factories in its midst.

Maritime transportation causes changes in river hydrology and creates wave wake, which increases erosion and pressures on biodiversity due to noise and water pollution. This has led to mangroves—coastal protectors, key actors in climate change mitigation, and environmental regulators—losing their ability to withstand change and its impacts.

Mangroves are known to be adaptable and resilient. These abilities helped them grow in a harsh tidal environment and adapt to salt water and frequent inundation. Mangroves in the Sundarbans found a rhythm to dance to—the balanced beats of erosion and accretion; until it was disrupted by human interventions that interfered with the sedimentation processes. Once disturbed, mangroves started losing ground. The mangrove area decreased with increasing erosion and lack of sediment settlement where new mangroves could grow.

My doctoral research showed that since 1985, the Sundarbans have lost about 137 km2 of forests due to shoreline erosion alone. Additionally, increased erosion led to changes in species composition, altered biophysical characteristics, and increased vulnerability to extreme weather impacts. Today, shoreline erosion is also the second largest cause of mangrove loss globally, following deforestation for commodities. A combination of loss of mangrove cover, ecosystem degradation, and ongoing anthropogenic impacts on sedimentation has led to a reduced protective function of mangroves in the Sundarbans.

The islands’ geography responded to this disturbed equilibrium. The 1–2 km buffer of mangroves around the islands no longer existed. Coastlines exposed to the river, like the mud-paved path I walked on, became commonplace. Houses, ponds, and farmland no longer had the protection of mangroves; they were now directly exposed to the muddy river.

“We were better off. It was only after the land loss that things turned out this way. With passing generations, we are losing prosperity. We do not have much left. We are scared that one day when we have nowhere to go, we will erode just like our motherland,” said one coastal dweller and fisher in Fokirkona, Bangladesh, back in 2021.

The mud-paved path was created, repaired, and sustained using mangrove mud by the villagers for many decades. Recently, cement, stones, and bricks replaced mangrove mud, in the name of coastal protection. But these new materials contrast with the geography of the delta. In the muddy, wet and mangrove-rich Sundarbans, they could not withstand the impact of the sea and winds or match the rhythm of the tides, and eventually collapsed.

However, as they collapsed, they caused flooding of the islands and took away farmland, ponds, front yards, and parts of or whole houses with them. The cement embankments are the new age coastal adaptations, first designed in the Netherlands, for the Netherlands’ geography. Whether or not these embankments protected the Dutch coastlines, they are now being popularly marketed and funded by international NGOs to be deployed in coastal West Bengal and Bangladesh as “climate change adaptation measures”.

Climate change adaptation is supposed to be a response that ameliorates or safeguards one from experiencing the harmful impacts of climate change. To call the cement embankments this is flawed from many angles.

First, blaming an intangible notion like climate change for the recent disequilibrium hides the impact caused by locally-induced human pressures, and creates a sense of dystopia. Second, selling ‘solutions’ that not only fail to protect shorelines, but actually increase vulnerability while decreasing the resilience of both people and nature, should be termed a ‘maladaptation’.

Living in disequilibrium

I was also curious to know why the concrete embankment, which fails to protect the shorelines and causes flooding, land loss, and transportation disruption, continues to be rebuilt. The repeated rebuilding has become the favoured measure of “coastal adaptation” for several actors. While the funding to support livelihoods and disaster risk reduction in a poverty-stricken and disaster-prone area is sorely lacking, funding for such maladaptive structures keeps flowing.

Take the case of Hemnagar, bordering India and Bangladesh along the Raimangal River, where multiple cycles of embankment construction, collapse, and reconstruction has rendered the majority of its population landless. The locals recognise the shortcomings of the embankments. However, their reliance on these maladaptive structures for sustenance is increasing.

For instance, Sheena didi, a resident of Hemnagar, has lost her house, farmland, and ponds to multiple cycles of embankments. Mangrove restoration is not a solution, as the changed ecogeomorphology of the coastline will not support mangrove plantations. Now that the current embankment is in shambles, she faces frequent flooding even in the dry season. With the next bout of embankment reconstruction, she awaits a further loss of even her small, thatched-roof shack, right next to the embankment. The locals understand the fleeting presence of these so-called ‘hard’ structures. Still, in lieu of a preparedness plan or support for one, the landless villagers have no choice but to rely on the unfulfilled promise of embankments.

One solution does not fit all

Mangrove shorelines are dynamic, and environmental stressors impact different parts of the shoreline differently based on their histories. Considering the different characteristics of the shoreline that I studied, I concluded that the adaptation to mangrove shoreline erosion needs to align with the shoreline’s geography or physical characteristics. Not addressing the root causes of mangrove shoreline erosion, the biophysical processes along the shoreline, or the socio-political aspects of shoreline protection, will result in failed adaptations and trigger a negative feedback loop that exacerbates poor resilience of the shoreline and shoreline-dwelling communities.

In the case of the Sundarbans, I realised that the coastal adaptation initially designed for the Netherlands failed to provide support and triggered a rebounding feedback loop, triggering further damage and altering the local ecogeography. Although the near future of the coastlines in the Sundarbans is uncertain, with sound mangrove restoration, management and protection, the shorelines in the Sundarbans can still be made resilient. Upon sharing my research and scoping for solutions with the local villagers in India and Bangladesh, they responded in unison: “Our Shorelines, Our Solution.”

Coastal adaptations must be customised to specificities of shorelines, including local socio-economic factors. The inhabited villages where mangroves are present should be protected, the villages where mud embankments are present should be fortified with mangrove restoration. For shorelines where embankments have been introduced, extensive support for increasing disaster preparedness and the overall resilience of the local communities should be a priority. Finally, on the uninhabited islands, mangroves should be left undisturbed and protected.

Mangroves have an inherent ability to protect coastlines, adapt to changes and mitigate climate change. With intentional, ethical, and inclusive management, the equilibrium in the Sundarbans can be restored. Such that, one day, the locals would recite Kazi’s poem, not as satire but in admiration of their local geography.

Further Reading

Bhargava, R., D. Sarkar and D. A. Friess. 2021. A cloud computing-based approach to mapping mangrove erosion and progradation: Case studies from the Sundarbans and French Guiana. Estuarine, Coastal and Shelf Science 248: 106798. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ecss.2020.106798.

Bhargava, R. and D. A. Friess. 2022. Previous shoreline dynamics determine future susceptibility to cyclone impact in the Sundarban mangrove forest. Frontiers in Marine Science 9: 814577. https://doi. org/10.3389/fmars.2022.814577.

Dewan, C. 2021. Misreading the Bengal Delta: Climate change, development, and livelihoods in coastal Bangladesh. Seattle: University of Washington Press.
Radhika Bhargava Gajre Author
Pooja Sreenivasan Illustrator
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2025 Jun
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Between the sea and the weed

Commercial seaweed farming is the new oceanic frontier in the blue economy era. Marine plants like seaweed have great potential in combating global warming and climate change by sequestering carbon and restoring ecosystems. Seaweed absorbs carbon dioxide through photosynthesis, and its cultivation can sequester up to 1,500 tons of carbon dioxide per km2 annually.

Seaweed also contributes to long-term blue carbon storage when decomposed or buried in sediments. While an increase in atmospheric carbon dioxide could lead to ocean acidification, seaweeds can mitigate its impact by using carbon dioxide for growth, helping to stabilize pH levels. Furthermore, seaweed farms create habitats for marine life, enhance biodiversity, and help mitigate coastal erosion, thereby strengthening resilience against climate change.

Underwater farms

Estimates from the Food and Agriculture Organisation of the United Nations show that approximately 35.8 million tonnes of world algae production (including seaweeds and microalgae) was contributed by 54 countries/territories, with 97 percent of the output coming from cultivation. While China, Indonesia, Korea, Japan, and the Philippines have emerged as lead players in commercial seaweed cultivation in Asia, African countries along the western Indian Ocean, such as Tanzania, Kenya, Madagascar, Mozambique, and Mauritius, are also known for seaweed production.

In India, Gujarat and Tamil Nadu coasts are known for their seaweed diversity and abundance. Abundant seaweed beds are also found along the coasts of Mumbai, Ratnagiri, Goa, Karwar, Varkala, Vizhinjam, Pulicat, and Chilika. Studies show that there is high scope for scaling up commercial seaweed farming on the coasts of Karnataka, Maharashtra, Goa, Kerala, Lakshadweep, Andhra Pradesh, Odisha, and West Bengal.

The Tamil Nadu coast—particularly the Gulf of Mannar and Palk Bay—is a rich biodiversity hotspot for seaweed. In the context of declining fish production and uncertainties in fisheries-based livelihoods, commercial seaweed farming is an alternative livelihood source for many small-scale fishing families along Tuticorin and other parts of the Coromandel Coast, and more specifically along the Gulf of Mannar Biosphere Reserve on the southern coast of India.

Documents published by the Central Salt and Marine Chemicals Research Institute (CSMCRI) and oral histories with local communities show that PepsiCo entered into a formal agreement with CSMCRI for developing seaweed farming technology in 2000. The pilot project commenced in February 2001, when the state government granted PepsiCo access to 1 km of waterfront for seaweed cultivation in Munaikkadu, in the Ramnad district of Tamil Nadu.

By 2003, the project expanded its scope through the test trial of 100 floating bamboo rafts for cultivating elkhorn sea moss (Kappaphycus alvarezii)1. At the same time, the project began to endorse contract farming involving local community members and self-help groups. After the tsunami in 2004, seaweed farming was envisaged as a key strategy to rehabilitate tsunami-affected fishers in the southern districts of Tamil Nadu.

Today, firms like AquAgri, Sea6 Energy, and Pssgt Nextgen Export Company are the key competitors in the seaweed value chain. Some of these firms also engaged in socially innovative processes such as registering fishers, providing them seedlings on credit, and deducting costs from earnings. In collaboration with institutions such as CSMCRI, these firms offer training and capacity-building programmes to seaweed farmers to boost production and deal with emergent crisis situations such as extreme weather events or pest attacks. Through the analysis of narratives and life stories of selected fishers-turned-seaweed farmers located in the outskirts of Tuticorin city, we can understand the impacts of the new materials and ideas around seaweed in shaping their everyday lives. We interviewed 15 fishers-turned-seaweed farmers and observed their daily livelihood practices closely.

Fishers to farmers

Born into families of fishers, the people we spoke to relate to the ocean based on the knowledge shared by their elders and others who are intimately familiar with the ocean. The nature-culture entanglements reflected in terms of their knowledge, relationships, and livelihood practices with the ocean inspire these people to hope for, take risks, and engage persistently with an entrepreneurial spirit. For Murugan, a middle-aged fisher-turned-farmer, the ocean is an encyclopedia that we need to closely observe and peruse to enable sustainable living. “If the wind blows in the right direction, the rains arrive on time, and if the waves remain calm, then we can succeed in seaweed farming.”

For Ajitha, a 32-year-old woman, seaweed farming as a livelihood opportunity emerged when her father shifted from fishing to seaweed farming. In her view, it is the tides that ensure the sustenance of all beings—for aquatic organisms in the sea and people on land. She observes that it is a pure business enterprise for private firms. Nevertheless, for her, it is a means of survival and another way of forging connections with the ocean and her late father. She continues, “The sea has provided for my family, and I have devoted my life for them (sea, seaweed, and family).” For some people, “the sea is their lifeline, companion, and teacher”; for others, the sea is more than a livelihood asset, “a spiritual connection linked to our existence”.

The last two decades have been difficult for these fishers, as there has been a considerable decline in fish catch due to factors such as overexploitation, ocean warming, and extreme weather events. Recalling days of both plentiful catch and empty nets, they say, “Fishing these days has become like gambling. As fish stocks declined, some of us ventured into selling fish in the retail market, but we failed, and losses mounted. A few others shifted to clam collection. During that time, CSMCRI introduced us to seaweed farming, which in a sense became our last hope.”

Gradually, they set up their seaweed farm using inputs such as seeds, ropes, and plastic bottles. Also, they were excited to learn new things about the seaweed. As fisher-turned-farmer Thangapandi remarks, “I have been fortunate to observe how different species grow in various locations. It is fascinating to learn how nature operates.” Nonetheless, they had to endure the harsh sun, confront the unpredictable sea, and adapt to newer farming techniques.

In their own words, “Seaweed farming requires patience and precision. We tie fresh seeds to ropes with plastic bottles and lay them in the water. After 25-30 days, we harvest. It sounds simple, but nature decides everything,” referring to the rough seas, unpredictable rains, and fluctuating temperatures. Due to strong winds and fungal infestations in the raft (a shell type fungi, which fishers locally call as kotrasi), they had to shift from bamboo rafts to the monoline method. They also tried the tube method without much success. Thangapandi says, “It is not just about planting and harvesting. You must continuously monitor tides, check for pests, and always be alert for sudden weather changes.”

For women like Selvi, work starts before sunrise, managing their household and workers. Selvi is a homemaker and businesswoman, managing finances and ensuring fair prices for the fish catch her husband brings to the harbour. Though her husband is an experienced fisher, he struggles with numbers. “My husband goes fishing but does not know math or accounting,” she says. “So, I handle the auction at the harbour.” She ties seaweed, prepares meals, and oversees farming during the seaweed planting season. “If there is no work on our plot, I go elsewhere,” she said. According to her, seaweed farming has provided some financial security. “The money we get is higher than from fishing,” she noted.

Combined earnings range between INR 20,000–25,000 (USD 236–295) a month. Entrepreneurs like Murugan have invested in a machine to process seaweed into liquid fertiliser, expanding their market reach to Gujarat. “With the machine, I now earn about INR 80,000 (USD 945) a month. I never imagined this when I struggled with fishing,” he proudly added. However, Murugan is among the few successful seaweed farmers in the community, while many others are still struggling to establish a secure livelihood base.

Not all rosy

Ocean warming and climate change fuel uncertainties such as the quick spoilage of seaweed. Fishers also note, “The heat in this area has always been high, but it has increased recently. Some fish species are also no longer found here.” Unlike earlier days, weather prediction remains difficult despite technological advances. Further, the fishers observe that the trends to intensify seaweed production throughout the year depletes the reefs by depriving them of their nutrient supply.

Some fishers remark that seaweed farming can only be a supplementary income and cannot replace fisheries as a primary source of livelihood. Earlier, while they were into full-time fishing, community solidarity enabled fishers on this coast to navigate crises together. However, with the diversification into seaweed farming, a sense of individualism predominantly manifests through competition and jealousy among people. Despite mutual dependence, rivalries sometimes lead to acts of sabotage, such as cutting ropes of competitors’ seaweed lines to disrupt harvests.

There are also several barriers, such as market access, pricing, and poor subsidies. Our research participants share that everyday interactions with government and private stakeholders are often complex for a community with a sense of autonomy and occupational freedom. Though private companies provide essential buy-back systems and farm inputs, these are often met with strict sanctions and expectations. Private firms control pricing and market access, constraining their opportunities to sell seaweed independently.

“It is frustrating because we do all the work but have the least control over pricing. They give us just enough to survive but not enough to thrive,” a seaweed farmer said. Buyers prefer to deal with private firms for bulk or wholesale purchases. When asked about loans and subsidies from the government, he responded bitterly, “Even fishermen struggle to get financial help. Who will think about seaweed farmers?”

To summarise, though seaweed farming has emerged as an alternative livelihood source for fishers, climate uncertainties, market barriers, and shifting community relations add new dimensions to their everyday livelihood struggles. Amidst all these challenges, they are still hopeful that the ocean will support them and take care of their needs, as she used to do before the seaweed’s arrival.

Further Reading

CSIR-CSMCRI. 2019. Scope of seaweed farming in India. Bhavnagar: CSIR-Central Salt and Marine Chemicals Research Institute. http://dx.doi.org/10.13140/RG.2.2.10001.07520.

Doumeizel, V. 2023. The seaweed revolution: How seaweed has shaped our past and can save our future. London: Hero.

Froehlich, H. E., J. C. Afflerbach, M. Frazier and B. S. Halpern. 2019. Blue growth potential to mitigate climate change through seaweed offsetting. Current Biology 29(18): 3087–3093.e3. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cub.2019.07.041.

  1. Kappaphycus alvarezii is a tropical red alga native to the Indo-Pacific region. Much has been written about the invasive characteristics of this species, which is known for its rapid growth, high adaptability, and ability to outcompete native organisms. While K. alvarezii is the commercial variety of seaweed cultivated in the farms, native varieties of Gracilaria edulis and Sargassum species are also collected from the ocean. ↩︎
Surya Prabha K. Author
Sunil D. Santha Author
Hitesh Sonar Illustrator
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2025 Jun
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On the vanishing shore

Featured photograph by Ch. Pratima

The end of the road to old Podampeta leads to an abandoned house that opens directly onto the ocean—as you cling to the empty door frame. Old Podampeta was once a small fishing village on the eastern coast of India. And this is just one house among three lanes of derelict houses along an eroded stretch of coastline, which have collapsed from strong tidal action and coastal erosion over the past two decades. After 2007, most families in Podampeta were relocated to settlements further inland, one of which is known as New Podampeta.

This dilapidated house on which I’m perched, located in the Ganjam district of Odisha, has the best view. At different times of the day, you can see the setting sun, dungis (traditional fishing boats) dotting the water or fisherfolk going to cast their nets.

During our fieldwork in Ganjam, my colleagues Bhawna, Pratima, Nagamma, Lalita, Gauri, and I often discuss the dynamic shores we walk. Our conversations intertwine personal histories, the changes that seem to be the only constant, and the mental health impacts of a changing climate. These discussions weave threads of hope, loss, grief, and small everyday acts of resistance that we witness in the Noliya caste—a large community that fishes across the open shores of southern Odisha and Andhra Pradesh.

As I look beyond the broken window in this house, I reflect on how mental health and climate change are interconnected in ways that may not be immediately obvious. Both share the same invisible threats—the kind that creeps in without warning and disrupts lives. They also exacerbate social, political, and economic marginalisation, resulting in poverty, unemployment, migration, and hoarding of power by the powerful.

One of the most significant challenges prevailing in both these discourses is their Eurocentric, expert-led ideology that often neglects the nuanced, complex lived realities of the people who are most affected. This approach tends to focus on scientific theories and solutions, sidelining traditional ecological knowledge and everyday experiences. However, our fieldwork revealed how the people of these stories and shores, who live with the daily threat of climate impacts, have their ways of coping and responding.

In our conversations, we asked ourselves how to shift away from this dominant, pathologising, doomsday narrative and focus on the lived experiences of people facing uncertain futures. One expression we heard repeatedly in Ganjam was “Samudram mamalni thinesthundi” (the sea will eat us). Even in the face of this impending crisis, we continue to witness small, quiet acts of persistence, community cohesion, resilience, hope, and adaptation. These actions, although not grand or heroic, can be powerful responses towards the preservation of the ‘self’ in the face of distress, and we bring to you some of the narratives that have made it possible for hope and grief to coexist.

I wish to see the sea every day

Photographs by Ch. Pratima

“We used to see the sea when we woke up, when we used to live in old Podampeta. Ever since the place was consumed by the sea, we have had to move. We do not see the sea in the morning, and I think of those days when we woke up to her.

“Even the fishermen, irrespective of whether they go fishing or not, want to go and see the ocean. There might be days when the catch is bad or good, but they go. Things have changed; there is no place to play. I keep worrying about not being able to see the sea. There is a belief that as long as we see the sea, nothing will happen to us.”

– Hadi, a resident of Ganjam

To contain her fury

Photograph by K. Nagamma

“Once, the Neelamma temple stood at a safe distance from the shore, a sacred space where the fishers gathered and prayed before they ventured into the sea. Their prayers are carried by the wind, their faith as deep as the ocean itself. We believe Neelamma contains anger, and her presence is a shield held against the fury of the sea.

“But the sea, restless and relentless in her mood, slowly swallowed the temple many years ago. The land beneath our prayers disappeared, as it did with the erosion. Our people refused to let their goddess be lost to the waves. We rebuilt her shrine—this time, standing at the edge of the waters, face-to-face with the ocean’s mood. Now Neelamma does not retreat. She stands guard, watching, listening with the fishers—calming the sea whenever it rises in anger.”

– Ramudu, an elderly fisherman

Searching the fading shores

Photographs by K. Nagamma

“There was a time when nalilu (mole crabs Emerita asiatica) were everywhere, scattered across the shore, slipping between waves. Children chased them with delight, their hands scooping them up. Fisherfolk used them for bait, and families cooked them into meals—they were abundant.

“But now, the nalilu are gone. The shoreline has shifted, the sea has changed, and with it, they are difficult to find. Very few of them dart between the waves. The loss is not just of nalilu, but of familiarity, of a way of life slipping away like the tide. Still, we search. Even if it takes longer, even if we find fewer.”

– Lokanatha, a young fisher, and Ganesh, a young coastal dweller

In the dunes

Photographs by Ch. Pratima (left) and K. Nagamma (right)

“The dunes were more than a playground in our childhood. They protected us from big cyclones and the eroding shores. We are alive today because some of them stood in the way of these changes. They held back the sea, slowed the erosion, and protected the land we call home. But now, look around—there is nothing left. The children still come to play, but the ground beneath them has changed. We ask for walls to be built and casuarina trees to be replanted to weather the storms.”

– Nachimi, a coastal dweller

Scorched in the heat

Photograph by Ch. Pratima

“During the summer months, it is not easy to be on the beach. Drying fish is not for a single person. We usually take turns with the buying, processing, and vending. We also take turns to rest. When one of us is sick, the profits are still shared with them. We don’t usually leave any women from the group—we share everything: profits, burdens, and work.”

– Mangamma, an old dry-fish processor

Holding on

The first time I (Pavitra) visited Arjipalli—another village in the Ganjam district—a young woman had died by suicide, and sorrow hung thick in the air. Many hushed stories were shared as the cause, but the intertwined truth was never to be found. The village felt heavy, the kind of quiet that follows grief settling into every corner.

Photograph by Ch. Pratima

We walked to the edge of the road, where the dunes rose gently against the shoreline dotted with Purbapurasalu gudi (temples for the fisher-folks’ ancestors and family deities). I was told that before setting out to sea, the fishers come there, praying for safe passage and for their knowledge to stay sharp when the waters test them.

And in that oppressive air, we found a thread of belief—something to steady us for the daunting voyage ahead. At that moment, standing together in the face of invisible but deeply felt distress was enough. Enough to remind us we weren’t alone, enough to make space for grief, and enough to begin thinking of ways forward.
Pavitra Vasudevan Author
K. Nagamma Photographer
Ch. Pratima Photographer
K. Bhawna Translator
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2025 Jun
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The geopolitics of climate change in the Indian Ocean Region

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The Indian Ocean Region (IOR), spanning from the east coast of Africa to the west coast of Australia, contains around 36 countries and a population of approximately 2.5 billion. The IOR has been a critical crossroads of international trade for centuries and remains so. The security and stability of its shipping lanes and trade routes—passing through the Straits of Hormuz, Bab el-Mandeb, and Malacca, among others—are not only regional issues but issues of global importance.

However, aside from its economic and geopolitical significance, the IOR is confronted with an intensifying environmental and climate crisis, with geopolitical and geoeconomic implications. The Indian Ocean is warming faster than any other ocean globally, leading to sea level rise and extreme weather-related disasters. Increasing pollution levels, ecological catastrophes, and the mounting effects of climate change are increasingly entwining the fates of Indian Ocean states. These common challenges risk destabilising the region’s ecological balance and future prosperity, necessitating immediate concerted action and creative solutions.

Climate impacts

The Indian Ocean is estimated to be warming between 1.7 and 3.8°C, faster than what is anticipated. If greenhouse gases (such as carbon dioxide and methane) are not rapidly decreased, the ocean may continue to warm at an unprecedented and accelerated rate for the rest of the century. Changes in the Asian monsoon circulation and rainfall and marine ecosystems are among the main risks and vulnerabilities brought on by climate change.

Other risks and vulnerabilities include increased intensity of tropical cyclones, inundation of low-lying coastal areas, shoreline erosion, and saltwater intrusion, and degradation of coral reefs and fisheries due to acidification. These effects pose serious threats to livelihoods, as well as to economic, food, and health security.

Rising sea levels threaten the very existence and statehood of low-lying islands such as the Maldives and Mauritius, while coastal erosion and saltwater intrusion endanger agriculture and freshwater resources in most countries in the region. Climate vulnerabilities are driving displacement and migration, as communities lose livelihoods and homes, particularly in coastal areas. In Bangladesh, for instance, displaced communities are increasingly moving to cities, straining urban resources and infrastructure.

Already existing geopolitical tensions—such as fishing disputes owing to fisherfolk transgressing extraterritorial waters, and illegal, unregulated, and unreported fishing—could be further exacerbated by climate change-induced depletion and/or migration of fish stocks. On the geoeconomic front, climate change-induced disasters could damage critical infrastructure such as ports, energy installations, and telecommunications along the coasts, thereby affecting trade, supply chains, and economies.

Not all IOR countries are prepared enough to implement carbon markets that are increasingly becoming a global norm in trade and commerce, as evidenced by the European Union’s Carbon Border Adjustment Mechanism. This presents a fresh set of structural, material, and institutional challenges for these countries.

Climate-induced land loss from rising sea levels and coastal erosion could strain overall maritime governance, by affecting existing maritime boundaries and Exclusive Economic Zones—an area of the ocean, generally extending 200 nautical miles beyond a nation’s territorial sea, within which a coastal nation has jurisdiction over natural resources.

The risks posed to coastal critical infrastructure call for increased investments in resilience and adaptation that will require global and regional cooperation. However, this may also result in increased geopolitical and geoeconomic competition between major powers that could use climate change as an instrument to create influence in the region’s climate-vulnerable countries.

For example, under the China-Indian Ocean Region Forum on Development Cooperation, China proposes to launch the China-Indian Ocean Region Disaster Prevention and Mitigation Alliance and a climate information and early warning system project, among others. It is also gradually considering ramping up investments in renewable energy projects in countries such as the Maldives and Bangladesh. India is also looking to enhance its clean energy partnerships with its IOR neighbours, including Sri Lanka and Mauritius.

India’s role in regional cooperation

As a key player in the region, India can lead efforts in climate diplomacy, fostering cooperation to protect shared resources and ensure a stable, sustainable future. The country’s Security and Growth for All in the Region (SAGAR) vision prioritises climate resilience, ocean governance, and disaster preparedness. It aims to build littoral countries’ capabilities aligning with SAGAR’s principle of promoting sustainable development and deeper regional integration through joint efforts. However, there are gaps in infrastructure modernisation (like ports), regional connectivity, and execution (due to lack of financial and infrastructural resources).

Similarly, India is one of the leading nations in the Bay of Bengal Initiative for Multi-Sectoral Technical and Economic Cooperation (BIMSTEC), which has identified climate change and environment as a key sector of cooperation. India is the lead country for the security sector that also features energy and disaster management as sub-sectors. These are closely intertwined with climate change risks and action, which provides ample scope for designing and implementing collaborative solutions that are not necessarily restricted to military-to-military cooperation alone, with India having already spearheaded many initiatives such as the Indian Navy-led Humanitarian Assistance and Disaster Relief (HADR) operations and exercises.

Apart from leading BIMSTEC Disaster Management Exercises in 2017 and 2020 and a tri-services HADR exercise in 2021, the Indian National Centre for Ocean Information Services provides cyclone forecasts and tsunami alerts to other countries in the Bay of Bengal region, enhancing regional capacity to respond to disasters.

The Indian Ocean Rim Association (IORA) is another platform which promotes regional cooperation on security, trade, disaster resilience, and sustainable development. With 23 member states and 11 Dialogue Partners, the platform consists of many countries that are highly vulnerable to climate change. India’s initiatives within IORA include championing the blue economy, renewable energy, capacity building, marine biodiversity conservation, and climate resilience. India is expected to take over as its next chair in 2025, as the IORA commemorates its 28th anniversary. The country will focus on addressing key concerns related to resource constraints, ocean governance, and disaster risk reduction.

Despite the existence of these regional organisations committed to climate action, there are several gaps in implementation. Many of them have a fragmented and siloed approach towards climate action. For instance, in BIMSTEC, disaster management falls under the security sector with India as the lead, whereas other issues concerning climate impacts and action fall under the Environment and Climate Change Sector, of which Bhutan is the lead. For effective climate action and disaster risk reduction, these two sectors require effective coordination.

Even when institutional mechanisms are in place, bilateral differences, political and/or economic turmoil/instability, project delays and cost overruns, mutual disparities in sharing the burdens of climate action, and the lack of reliable and sustainable financial channels impede effective climate cooperation. It is important for any regional organisation to have a joint assessment of vulnerabilities and requirements in order to attract the right type of funding for the most urgent climate concerns.

One of the ways in which India is looking to fill the financial and technological gap is to engage in diverse models such as triangular cooperation that can enhance climate action by enabling cost-effective and context-specific technology and knowledge transfer to developing countries while leveraging industrialised countries’ institutional, technical, and financial capabilities. This is particularly being promoted through multilateral platforms such as the International Solar Alliance and Coalition for Disaster Resilient Infrastructure for advancing the solar sector and enhancing disaster resilience, respectively. These platforms can be leveraged to boost regional cooperation in the Indian Ocean Region as well, considering there is a huge gap in realising their goals due to regional fragmentation.

The IOR is a theatre of geopolitical, geoeconomic, and geostrategic competition, marked by large military presence and regional fragility. Amidst these tensions, climate cooperation under frameworks such as SAGAR, BIMSTEC, and IORA is the way forward. India’s efforts to project itself as the voice of the Global South would be significantly boosted by more regional climate initiatives in its maritime neighbourhood.
Dhanasree Jayaram Author
Haritha S. Narayanan Author
Ipsa Jain Illustrator
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2025 Jun
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