In Sonitpur district, the human-elephant conflict was more than just a crisis; it was a deeply personal and heartbreaking tale. Growing up in this verdant land, elephants were revered as sacred beings. We called them Dangoriya Baba or Ganesh Baba, recognizing their majestic presence and spiritual significance. My early memories are filled with reverence for these giants, seeing them as protectors rather than adversaries.
One vivid memory stands out from my time as a student in class VIII. My grandfather took me to a ritual in the fields where our entire community gathered to pray to Dangoriya Baba. We offered bananas and other fruits, pleading for the elephants to spare our precious paddy fields. The village, united with folded hands and hopeful eyes, sought protection through these ancient rituals. Despite the earnest prayers, a sense of unease settled in me. I knew that the real issue lay beyond our offerings; it lay in the relentless deforestation happening around us.
In those days, I prepared a small note to share with my community during the ritual. With a mixture of courage and nervousness, I attempted to explain that the elephants were not the enemy. They were being driven out of their homes because we were destroying their forests. “To address this issue, we need to stop deforestation,” I declared. My words were met with silence, and confusion was evident in the eyes of the villagers. They were simple folk, clinging to traditions that had sustained them for generations. While they didn’t fully grasp the changes occurring, I could see they were beginning to understand the repercussions of the human-elephant conflict.
By 1995-96, the situation had deteriorated dramatically. Our village and neighboring ones faced a devastating blow as elephants raided our fields, leaving us with nothing but barren tracts of trampled earth. The fields, once golden with crops, were reduced to nothing. I saw the desperation in the eyes of farmers, friends, and neighbors as they tried every possible method to protect what little they had left. They lit fires, beat drums, clanged utensils, and set off firecrackers. Some even armed themselves with bows, arrows, and handmade guns. Yet, the elephants seemed to anticipate our every move, rendering our efforts futile.
The destruction was palpable. Houses near my village were flattened, and the sorrow was compounded when we heard of lives lost in nearby tea gardens. The grief intensified in 2001 when, during July and November, villagers poisoned 17 elephants in our district. The following year, five more met the same tragic fate. The sight of those majestic creatures lying lifeless, victims of pesticide poisoning, filled me with profound anger and sadness.
The construction of the railway line between Balipara and Bhalukpong in 1990 further exacerbated the human-elephant conflict. It sliced through deep forests, opening up the land for exploitation and encouraging encroachment. The political movements demanding a separate state for the Boro tribe also brought more settlers into the northern parts of Sonitpur, pushing further into the forests and displacing the elephants. Learn more about the impact of railway construction on wildlife habitats.
Reflecting on those early years, I feel the weight of all we’ve lost—both in our forests and in our relationship with these magnificent creatures. The human-elephant conflict in Sonitpur was never just about crops or property; it was about a profound and painful rift between humans and nature, a rift that we all played a part in creating.
For more insights on human-elephant conflict and conservation efforts, visit The Wildlife Trust of India’s website.