The 'human-wildlife conflict' in Bangladesh is part of its conservation failure

Bangladesh has become disturbingly accustomed to stories of cruelty. A stray dog was beaten to death in a neighborhood. A fishing cat lynched after wandering into a village. Poisoned street animals left to die in silence.

But over the past week, two incidents involving elephants have forced us to confront a darker and far more dangerous reality: we are normalising violence against wildlife while systematically destroying the ecosystems they depend on.

In Sherpur, a herd of wild elephants reportedly descended from shrinking forest areas situated in the Garo Hills, into nearby paddy fields in search of food. Instead of addressing the root causes of the intrusion, electric fences were installed around agricultural land. One elephant at the front of the herd was electrocuted and severely injured. Videos circulating online showed people cheering. 

In another incident in Cox's Bazar, a mother elephant that had reportedly been shot in the eye weeks earlier died from her injuries. Beside her stood her calf, unable to understand why its mother would no longer move, while the rest of the herd gathered nearby in visible distress.

These are not isolated incidents. They are symptoms of a much deeper environmental and moral crisis.

Bangladesh's forests are shrinking at an alarming rate. Ecologically critical areas in Cox's Bazar, Chattogram, Sherpur, and the northern border regions have experienced rapid deforestation, hill cutting, road expansion, settlement growth, brick kilns, tourism infrastructure, and agricultural encroachment. In Cox's Bazar particularly, the refugee crisis has intensified pressure on already fragile forest ecosystems. Elephant corridors, ancient migratory routes used for generations, have been blocked by settlements, fencing, roads, and camps. As a result, elephants are increasingly forced into human settlements in search of food and safe passage.

What we call "human-wildlife conflict" is, in many ways, a misleading phrase. Conflict implies equal responsibility between two sides. But these animals are not invading our territory out of aggression; they are being pushed out of theirs.

According to conservation data reported in Bangladeshi media, dozens of elephants have died in recent years due to electrocution, shootings, poisoning, train collisions, and habitat destruction. Human casualties have also occurred, often involving farmers and villagers living near forest edges. 

This tragedy is real on both sides. Yet the response from authorities remains largely reactive rather than preventive. Compensation mechanisms are weak, community engagement is inconsistent, wildlife corridors remain poorly protected, and environmental governance continues to be fragmented and underprioritised.

But another uncomfortable truth must also be acknowledged: many people in Bangladesh still perceive wildlife not as part of a shared ecosystem, but as enemies or competitors. The relationship is framed as "humans versus animals," where the survival of one supposedly requires the elimination of the other. This reflects a profound lack of environmental awareness and ecological literacy. Many people do not understand why elephants migrate, why forests matter, or why species conservation is essential for ecological balance and long-term human survival.

The irony is striking. Bangladesh today speaks extensively about climate change. We organise conferences, campaigns, policy dialogues, and advocacy events around climate vulnerability and adaptation. Yet biodiversity loss and coexistence with wildlife remain marginalised within public discourse. Climate action without ecological consciousness is incomplete. Forests are not merely carbon sinks; they are living ecosystems. Elephants are not obstacles to development; they are keystone species that play critical roles in maintaining forest regeneration and ecological balance. When people celebrate the suffering or death of such animals, it exposes not only cruelty, but also a dangerous disconnect between climate rhetoric and environmental reality.

This is why awareness-building must become a national priority. Environmental education cannot remain limited to textbook chapters or occasional awareness campaigns. Communities living near forests need sustained engagement, coexistence training, and support systems. Public messaging must actively challenge the culture of cruelty that has become normalised across society. Children need to grow up understanding that animals are not disposable beings, but integral parts of ecological systems upon which human life itself depends.

Most importantly, we need to rebuild a culture of empathy. A society that celebrates the suffering of animals cannot claim to value environmental justice. The way a nation treats its most vulnerable beings—human or non-human—reflects its moral and institutional health.

Bangladesh does not lack laws on paper. The Wildlife (Conservation and Security) Act, 2012 specifically criminalises the killing of elephants. Under the law, killing an elephant is a non-bailable offence punishable by imprisonment and financial penalties. The Animal Welfare Act, 2019 was also introduced to strengthen protection against cruelty toward animals. The problem, therefore, is not simply the absence of legal frameworks. The problem is the absence of enforcement, deterrence, and institutional seriousness.

If elephants are still being electrocuted, shot, poisoned, and driven from their own habitats, then difficult questions must be asked. Why are existing wildlife laws not creating fear of punishment? Why are local administrations, police, and elected representatives not treating these incidents as serious criminal offences? Why are illegal electric traps tolerated until after an elephant is injured or killed? And why does compensation for crop damage become a matter of chaotic confrontation only after violence has already escalated?

This governance failure is also reflected in the institutional limitations of the Forest Department. Despite the efforts of individual officials and conservationists, the department often lacks adequate manpower, logistical capacity, enforcement authority, and political backing to respond effectively to escalating human-wildlife conflicts. In many cases, forest officials arrive after an incident has already occurred, facing angry communities, political pressure, and weak coordination mechanisms.

The Ministry of Environment, Forest and Climate Change must therefore move beyond symbolic conservation messaging. It must ensure the effective enforcement of wildlife protection laws, strengthen monitoring and rapid response mechanisms, and coordinate with local administrations, law enforcement agencies, agricultural authorities, and refugee-response actors to restore and protect elephant corridors. Human-wildlife conflict is not merely a forestry issue; it is fundamentally tied to land use, settlement planning, environmental governance, and development policy.

Bangladesh urgently needs a coordinated national strategy on human-wildlife coexistence. Wildlife corridors must be legally protected and restored. Non-lethal deterrence systems and community-based early warning mechanisms should be expanded in elephant-prone regions. Compensation systems for affected farmers must become transparent, accessible, and timely so that economic frustration does not turn into retaliatory violence. Environmental impact assessments in ecologically sensitive zones must also be enforced far more rigorously than they currently are.

Most importantly, we need to rebuild a culture of empathy.

A society that celebrates the suffering of animals cannot claim to value environmental justice. The way a nation treats its most vulnerable beings—human or non-human—reflects its moral and institutional health. The elephants wandering into villages are not simply lost animals. They are survivors of disappearing forests, casualties of policy neglect, and witnesses to our environmental failures.

The image of a baby elephant standing beside its dead mother in Cox's Bazar should disturb us deeply—not simply because it is tragic, but because it reveals the kind of society we risk becoming if cruelty continues to be tolerated, normalised, and ignored.

Sketch: TBS

Lamia Mohsin is a development professional and researcher working on climate change, governance and public policy. Besides being an adjunct lecturer at the Department of Environment and Development Studies of UIU, she has also worked extensively with international organisations including UNDP Bangladesh.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.