Who does the forest belong to? Who has the monopoly over its well-being? It is urgent, now more than ever, to redefine these social relationships of nature and its interdependent species. A substantial body of scientific evidence and literature continues to highlight the negative impact of this top-down approach to conservation strategies.
Published Jun 25, 2025 | 9:00 AM ⚊ Updated Jun 25, 2025 | 9:00 AM
Fifty-two Jenu Kuruba families have returned to their ancestral land in Karnataka’s Nagarahole Tiger Reserve, decades after being evicted under the Wildlife Protection Act of 1972.
Synopsis: Fortress conservation believes biodiversity can flourish only if ecosystems are devoid of humans is not a new concept. But has nature ever persisted without human footprints? Several Protected Areas (PAs) were prior hunting zones. So, whose social construction of nature should we embrace? The one presented to tourists, where nature is often seen as a picturesque backdrop, or the one denied to forest dwellers, where nature is a source of sustenance and spiritual connection?
Demanding their land rights, fifty-two Jenu Kuruba Adivasi families occupied their ancestral land within the Nagarahole Tiger Reserve in SouthWest Karnataka on 5 May.
On 18 June, over 200 security personnel attempted to forcefully evict the families yet again, demolishing several temporary huts in the process.
Adivasis across India have been protesting against such evictions following the 2019 Apex Court order. The history and circumstances that led to this exclusionary decision have recently gained coverage.
When we forcefully remove tribals from their land, we are not just taking away their homes. We are also denying them their social, cultural, and spiritual well-being, which is deeply connected to the land and the ecosystems.
It is not only unjust but, as history has shown, ecologically counterproductive.
At an online press conference held on 2 June, a Jenu Kuruba community elder shared his experiences of interacting with scientists several decades ago.
He discussed how researchers, during a visit to a forest, attempted to test the ecological knowledge of a tribe member, “probably to disprove the enduring opinion, ‘the tribals know better,’ or to validate their own belief that they do so themselves.”
The fact that Adivasis, who have coexisted with non-human species for eons and possess invaluable insights into the nature of the forests (a landscape, most often, mapped and named by their ancestors centuries prior) are required to provide ‘proof of life’ is a testament to one facet of conservation science – one that has historically wreaked havoc with its obsession with a mythical pristine wilderness – the fortress conservation – is a remnant of a destructive colonial forest policy.
The fact that Adivasis – who have coexisted with non-human species for eons and possess invaluable insights into the nature of the forests, landscapes often mapped and named by their ancestors centuries ago – are still required to provide ‘proof of life’ is a telling reflection of a particular strand of conservation science.
This strand, historically fixated on the idea of a mythical pristine wilderness, has wreaked havoc through its adherence to ‘fortress conservation’ – a legacy of destructive colonial policies.
It’s a conservation practice that believes biodiversity can flourish only if ecosystems are devoid of humans.
Fortress conservation has a long history. But has nature ever persisted without human footprints? Several Protected Areas (PAs) were prior hunting zones.
So, whose social construction of nature should we embrace?
The one presented to tourists, where nature is often seen as a picturesque backdrop, or the one denied to forest dwellers, where nature is a source of sustenance and spiritual connection?
Who does the forest belong to? Who has the monopoly over its well-being? It is urgent, now more than ever, to redefine these social relationships of nature and its interdependent species.
A substantial body of scientific evidence and literature continues to highlight the negative impact of this top-down approach to conservation strategies.
We ignore the irreversible impact of capital accumulation and overconsumption that is devastating forests globally, instead terming the consumption patterns of a minority of forest dwellers “commercial exploitation”.
This false narrative has been debated for decades.
“Adivasis, the original inhabitants of our country, have their own laws and they manage their areas better than the mainstream democracy,” DR BR Ambedkar had said when demanding their autonomy and rights over forest resources.
Time for re-evaluation?
While we dismiss traditional oral histories of Indigenous peoples as unscientific or narratives of marginal identity, who takes responsibility for the failing of the fortress conservation model? Who decides tribal communities do not have answers to forest recovery?
While visiting a district in Karnataka facing intense human-elephant interactions, one of the locals, Babu T, said, “The fences or what we assumed as the only home of wild animals like tigers and elephants have moved, and keep moving further away from tiger reserves. Forests are not where many wild animals are; they are on our farmlands.”
The soon-to-be-launched ‘Tigers Outside Tiger Reserves Project’ plans to address growing interactions that occur because, today, around 30 percent of the country’s tigers persist outside of reserves.
As threats from invasive species and climate change loom, impacting even inviolate spaces equally, how will this model of conservation alone help solve evolving challenges with its one-fits-all solution to a multi-faceted problem?
Some conservationists have long advocated for relocating tribals. However, a majority of studies and reports have demonstrated its lack of success.
There is a big push by the Indian Government to monetise tiger reserves. Let us not forget the growing impacts of the forest departments’ afforestation initiatives and the tourism industry.
Are PAs safe from the influence of unchecked development, government, and corporate interests, as well as the agendas of state and forestry officials?
It is not uncommon for proponents of such policies to have, in the past, dismissed Adivasis’ coexistence practices as merely performative – practices that need rescuing – and then, years later, to engage with them as a conservation strategy.
During the 2 June press conference, one of the speakers, a local tribal leader, questioned the ethical reasoning behind celebrating individuals like conservationist Valmik Thapar, whose recommended policies, he insists, have displaced hundreds in the country.
“We do know of a few scientists, NGOs and state institutions that benefit personally in the name of conservation. Is there any truth behind the objectivity of many researchers whose theories continue to be built on indigenous cultural misrepresentations?” he asks.
A few years ago, when I was at an event to watch a few Soliga tribal women perform their traditional songs, one of the women chided, “How do you people live with all this noise? How can you hear what the earth is trying to tell you if your existence alone is this loud?”
That evening, the women sang in solidarity, with love and concern for all species.
Their subtle dance movements brought to life stories of forests, their wild inhabitants, and the relationships between humans and these forests over generations.
They held hands and made music about critical observations in the wild, interspecies dependencies, warnings of extinction, a changing climate, and more.
Every folklore was heterogeneous, challenging the underpinning of scientific monoculture and human exceptionalism.
The experience left me with the question: What will the future climate historians share if the original storytellers are dispossessed and erased?
There is ample evidence of the unique role of Indigenous Knowledge Systems (IKSs) in addressing issues ranging from sustainable resource management to providing solutions to modern-day ecological crises.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, tribes in Arunachal Pradesh revived their traditional quarantine practices, reducing the spread of the virus.
From taking cues on fire and coastal management from Australian Aboriginals, to forest restoration from Amazonian tribes, to exploring better disaster risk reduction practices from tribals in Nepal, to folklores full of environmental cues about the past, present and future of life on earth – in India alone, there is ample evidence of the effectiveness of institutional memory in Indigenous communities and its applications.
Globally, some of the growing resistance movements calling for the protection of ecosystems are today dominated by Indigenous communities, many of which are pushing for a meaningful dialogue between law and the sciences.
It is crucial to recognise that history itself has continually evolved, shedding light on new perspectives, revising past narratives, and challenging established beliefs.
It is no longer surprising that many academicians, practitioners, and policymakers globally are united in questioning the past (colonial) impacts of their disciplines, the theories, and their historical context.
One such drive even demands the scrapping of species names that honoured dictators and enslavers – a practice that rarely gives due credit to true finders, the Indigenous people.
Growing human-wildlife interactions is one of the biggest challenges India is facing today. Now, more than ever, we need a more equitable and effective approach to conservation that would further long-term solutions.
When will we reach out, unlearn, and look to these communities to collectively reimagine and reconstruct a sustainable, interdependent, and interconnected ecologically resilient future – one that seems far-reaching under our current sterile ideology of fortress conservation?
(The writer is an independent environment reporter. Edited by Dese Gowda)
