The shanda is not your next street food

This shanda-hype reflects how we treat the natural world: as a menu to pick from, not a system to live within. PHOTO: INATURALIST

It is time we talked about the Hardwick's Spiny-tailed Lizard — known in Bangla as 'shanda'.  Recently, a viral video made the rounds on social media, featuring a Bangladeshi migrant somewhere in the Middle East sitting down to a steaming plate of rice and shanda curry. The clip, posted casually, drew instant attention.

Some reacted with curiosity, others with mockery. But what followed was more troubling: in Bangladesh, a few people, driven by either trend-chasing or misplaced bravado, tried to import the lizard or replicate the experience using local lizards like the Bengal Monitor. Unsurprisingly, some fell seriously ill. 

This is not just another viral moment. It is a symptom of a deeper problem: Our increasing disconnect from wildlife, and the consequences of treating everything as food.

Scientifically known as Uromastyx hardwickii, now reassigned to the genus Saara, this species is native to arid and semi-arid regions across South Asia and Middle East. From India's Thar Desert, its range stretches westward into the Arabian deserts. Built to survive the harshest of landscapes, shanda is a hardy creature, but even that resilience is not enough to protect it from human greed.

In many parts of the Arab world, spiny-tailed lizards are captured from the wild and sold in large numbers, mainly for their supposed aphrodisiac properties. Scientific evidence for such claims is scant, but that rarely matters in the wildlife trade. Whether eaten out of belief or bravado, the result is the same: declining populations. 

According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), this species is now globally listed as vulnerable. Some studies suggest that fewer than 10,000 adult individuals remain in the wild. That is the legacy of unchecked consumption and harvest.

Unfortunately, Bangladesh is not far behind in following the same path. This incident involving the viral video and our growing fascination with exotic wild meat exposed something deeper and disturbing. If we travel to a place, we must taste its rarest animal. 

This is not about survival or tradition. It is about gluttony, that ancient sin now repackaged as culinary adventure. Whether it is weddings, holidays, or trips to remote areas, we seem driven by a desire to eat the rarest animal possible. 

When we visit the haor wetlands, we only want the biggest fish. Often, we bypass laws to relish on migratory ducks. If we are in the hills, we seek jungle fowl or vitiate and force tourist operators to provide rarer meats, such as the elusive serow. 

In the Sundarbans, it has to be venison. When stray nilgais wander into Bangladesh, they are chased down, slaughtered, and cooked. Even vultures and lesser adjutants, endangered scavengers are not safe if they fall from the sky. There are instances of capturing and cooking them during stopovers after a long-distance flight. 

Gluttony is the compulsive urge to consume, without thought or restraint. It is what makes someone treat a wild animal as a new recipe, not a living species. And once gluttony takes hold, it overrides laws, religion and common sense. No species becomes too rare, too sacred, or too vital for the ecosystem to be spared.

In this light, this shanda-hype is not an isolated event. It is a mirror. It reflects how we treat the natural world: as a menu to pick from, not a system to live within. It is a symbol of how quickly we turn curiosity into destruction. Conservationists and wildlife lovers cannot protect these animals alone. What we need is a cultural shift — from mindless consumption to mindful coexistence.

So next time a video like that surfaces, let us resist the urge to mimic and mock. Let's think instead. The next time you travel, also ask yourself: must every adventure end with a meal? Or can we let some wild things stay wild?