A termite mound at Diabari and a question about ourselves

On an early winter morning, while birding at Diabari on the outskirts of Dhaka, I witnessed something extraordinary – not a rare migratory bird, not a dramatic predatory chase – but the quiet heroism of termites.

More than a thousand tiny beings, each barely 5–10 millimetres long, were engaged in the construction of a mound. The structure already stood approximately 75 centimetres in length and breadth, and nearly 45 centimetres high. It rose like a miniature fortress from the dry winter earth.

The surrounding soil, typical of the reddish terrain of the Dhaka Sal forest and the Barind Tract, lay cracked and bone-dry at winter's end. Yet the mound under construction appeared dark, slate-coloured, and moist – its builders hauling cement-like muddy soil from deep beneath a path nearby. They worked incessantly, tirelessly, and in perfect coordination. There was no architect visible, no supervisor, no applause – only instinct, cooperation, and determination.

Dark mound on the side was under construction. On its left is the old mound that is much lighter in colour.

I stood in quiet awe. Here was engineering without ego. Labour without complaint. Discipline without enforcement. After four hours in the field, documenting both resident and migratory birds, I took a long detour that brought me back past the termite colony. What I saw froze me.

The upper section lay shattered. The smooth curves were broken open. What had been a living monument of collective effort was now a scar of damp soil exposed to air. There was no threat to humans. The mound stood in a hollow, uncultivated patch of land. At least six other old mounds stood nearby, silent and intact, as if witnesses.

The termites were gone. No movement. No rebuilding. The colony had retreated into shock – or perhaps into despair, if such a word may be used for creatures so small.

Vandalised new termite mound

I felt an unexpected grief. It was not merely about insects. It was about interruption – about the human impulse to destroy what we did not create and do not understand.

Are Homo sapiens the most destructive species on Earth? Ecologically speaking, our scale of alteration – deforestation, pollution, climate change, mass extinction – certainly places us in that uncomfortable position. No other species has reshaped the biosphere with such speed and magnitude.

Yet destruction is not our only capacity.

The same species that can kick apart a termite mound can also establish wildlife sanctuaries, restore degraded forests, and document the fragile beauty of a winter morning at Diabari. The same hands that vandalise can also protect. Perhaps the tragedy lies not in our power, but in our awareness without responsibility.

Termites build because they must. They alter soil chemistry, aerate earth, recycle nutrients, and create microhabitats for countless other organisms. Their mounds regulate temperature with remarkable architectural precision. They are ecosystem engineers in the truest sense – and yet they build without pride.

Humans, endowed with consciousness and moral imagination, often fail where instinct succeeds.

As I walked away that morning, the broken mound remained in my mind – not merely as an act of vandalism, but as a question. 

When will we learn that nature does not exist for our casual interference? When will we understand that even the smallest colony has a story, a structure, a silent civilisation? When will we become fully human – not in intelligence alone, but in empathy?

Perhaps the Almighty has already given us the capacity. What remains is the choice. And maybe it begins with something as simple as not lifting a foot against a fragile home built by beings who ask nothing of us in return.

Dr Reza Khan is a wildlife, zoo and safari park management and conservation specialist.

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.