From shadows to spotlight: How photography put Hazarikhil Wildlife Sanctuary on the map

Wildlife photography often finds itself at the centre of complicated conversations. On one hand, it is celebrated for its ability to bring nature closer to people — stirring awe, curiosity and even activism. On the other, it is scrutinised for its potential downsides such as animal disturbance, and irresponsible behaviour in fragile ecosystems. 

These debates are important. However, conservation is rarely black and white and always context-specific. In some cases, what is framed as a threat may well have been a lifeline.

One recent article critiqued the impact of wildlife photographers, with Hazarikhil Wildlife Sanctuary at the heart of the story. The piece presented photographers as a source of stress for the sanctuary's iconic bird, the elusive Gray Peacock-Pheasant, among other wildlife, drawing particular attention to the growing number of people visiting with cameras in hand. 

But for those who have been following the sanctuary's story more closely, this example feels misplaced. This portrayal, while compelling on the surface, misses a deeper truth: for Hazarikhil, photography was never the problem. It was part of the solution.

As with most protected areas in the Chattogram Division, Hazarikhil — now a much-discussed name in the conservation community — used to be an unfamiliar place for years. The sanctuary, an IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature) Category II protected area, spans about 25 sq km and is contiguous with Baroiyadhala National Park to the east. 

A powerful photograph of rare wildlife can ignite public interest, attract funding, or even influence policy. Photo: Muntasir Akash

These protected areas are part of the low-lying but extremely rugged Sitakunda Hills, collectively encompassing about 80 sq km of forested habitats. These hills, on the west, still have connections with the Hill Tracts. These habitats are home to threatened species such as the Red Serow, Marbled Cat, Assamese Macaque, and Asiatic Wild Dog. Concrete evidence of several species only emerged after 2020 — and the credit goes to wildlife photographers.

In Hazarikhil Wildlife Sanctuary, hunting and illegal logging declined within a certain radius due to regular visits of wildlife photographers. Photo: Muntasir Akash

On my first visit to the area in 2021, I immediately sensed the forest's potential. Locals shared stories of elusive wildlife, which I, in turn, shared with my peers — sometimes sparking heated debates. Without evidence, few were willing to acknowledge the sanctuary's importance. To them, the Sitakunda Hills seemed like a lost cause. Then, wildlife photographers stepped in. And Hazarikhil has seen a revival since — not despite them, but because of them.

The cycle broken by the photographers is not a rare event in Bangladesh's conservation sector. Tucked away from the public eye — and with limited research, few visitors and sporadic official attention — potential forests like Hazarikhil are extremely vulnerable to human pressures: illegal hunting, selective logging, monoculture, and land encroachment. 

While these forests are legally protected, its isolation and anonymity often meant a lack of monitoring and limited conservation attention. In the absence of visibility, accountability falters — and with it, localised extinction follows.

For Hazarikhil, that started to change when, drawn by rumors of rare birds, wildlife photographers ventured in with lenses and tripods. Their photos — stunning portraits of peacock-pheasants, eagle-owls, trogons, and scimitar babblers — began circulating widely on social media. 

Hazarikhil Wildlife Sanctuary supports a healthy Gray Peacok-Pheasant population, which was brought to attention by wildlife photographers. Photo: Tanvir Jubair

Then, the photographers encountered marbled cats, red serows and small-clawed otters — all three rare and elusive on a global scale. For the first time, Hazarikhil became a name recognised by nature enthusiasts, birders and conservationists across the country.

The impact of this new attention was tangible. Harmful activities like hunting and illegal logging, which had thrived in the sanctuary's previous obscurity, began to decline within a certain radius. The growing interest attracted both researchers and amateur naturalists. 

With photographers regularly visiting and sharing their work, a form of informal monitoring took shape. Forest guards began to show more support and engagement. At the same time, the newfound interest created livelihood opportunities for local people. Instead of cutting trees or collecting forest resources, many locals started working as guides, porters, or lodge operators. Ecotourism — modest but meaningful — began to take root.

One notable example is the now-cancelled tourism centre that was once proposed at the entrance of Hazarikhil Sanctuary — right through the habitat of marbled cats. The decision, taken by the Fatikchari administration, was made without awareness of the area's wildlife significance. 

It was wildlife photographers who brought the issue to public attention. The news eventually reached the Ministry of Environment, Forest and Climate Change, which swiftly cancelled the project. Had this happened before 2020, would the outcome have been the same?

In many ways, it was photography that gave Hazarikhil the visibility it desperately needed. The sanctuary transitioned from a forgotten patch of forest to a place that mattered — to people, to policymakers and to the national conservation discourse. The Forest Department could no longer ignore Hazarikhil and the Sitakunda Hills in their conservation planning. They are no longer a lost cause.

None of this is to say that wildlife photography is always benign. There have been notable incidents elsewhere. In Satchari National Park, for example, the sighting of a bear triggered a chaotic rush of photographers, disturbing the animal and highlighting the need for better protocols. 

And yes, not every shutterbug is mindful of their footprint. And in some places, the sudden influx of visitors has put pressure on delicate habitats and species, as with the case of several rare bird sightings. 

Again, at the same time, every year, we get new records of birds mostly because of wildlife photographers. Thus, generalising irresponsible behaviour to all photographers — or all sites — oversimplifies a much more nuanced reality.

But conservation, like medicine, demands diagnosis before prescription. What works in one site may backfire in another. The key is to recognise and respect case-specific contexts. For example: how many peacock-pheasants live in Hazarikhil? How many are actually in contact with photographers? How many are being hunted illegally?

In Hazarikhil, photography helped more than it hurt. At a time when many protected areas struggle for public support, the role of photographers in documenting and promoting biodiversity deserves recognition. Wildlife images often reach places field reports and research papers cannot. 

A powerful photograph of a rare bird can ignite public interest, attract funding, or even influence policy. In regions like Bangladesh, where conservation resources are thin and protected areas are under pressure, these moments of attention can tip the scales. The challenge is not to stop them from clicking — but to ensure that every click counts for conservation, not against it.

Unfortunately, the tendency to generalise — from a few reckless cases to an entire community — can lead us down the wrong path. Instead of dismissing wildlife photographers, we should be working to equip them. Training on animal behaviour, ethical field practices, and forest regulations could go a long way. Photographers are not just visitors; many are passionate naturalists — willing allies, if given the chance. Have we done anything in this regard before pointing a finger at them?

This is not a defense of irresponsible behaviour, nor is it a call for unregulated access. It is a call for nuance. We need better systems — visitor limits in sensitive zones, clear photography guidelines, proper signage, and collaboration between photographers, researchers, and forest staff. We also need to recognise the good where it exists. 

The same camera lens that can disturb an animal can also document a new species record or expose an illegal logging site. So let us continue the conversation about wildlife photography — but ground it in site-specific reality and avoid one-size-fits-all judgments.

Hazarikhil is a case study in how wildlife photography can spark conservation gains. The story of this once-obscure sanctuary becoming a center of attraction is one worth telling — and retelling. It reminds us that conservation is not just about fences and fines. It is about building constituencies of care and a sense of ownership, and sometimes, that begins with a photograph.

The goal is not to ban the clicks — it is to make every click count. For nature. For people. And for places like Hazarikhil.