Opinion Why tiger conservation in India needs democratic participation, not displacement

From its inception in 1973 to 2025, Project Tiger has enjoyed unwavering political backing. What began with nine reserves has now expanded to 58 tiger reserves across 18 states, covering roughly 2.57 per cent of India’s total land area. The country today holds over 70 per cent of the world’s remaining tigers, with 3,682 tigers counted in the 2022 census. These figures are routinely celebrated as evidence of India’s global leadership in conservation and as proof that strict protection works. Yet behind this success lies a troubling truth: The immense socioeconomic cost paid by forest-dwelling communities who have been relocated, dispossessed, or criminalised in the name of conservation.

At the heart of Project Tiger lies the doctrine of the “inviolate space”, land free of human presence where tigers can breed undisturbed. Official guidelines like the National Tiger Conservation Authority’s (NTCA) 2008 guidelines codify this, stating that “a minimum inviolate area of 800–1,200 sq km is needed to support 20 breeding tigresses for a viable population,” along with a buffer zone of 1,000–3,000 sq km for dispersing or ageing tigers. But this vision of emptiness has come at a cost. A 2024 University of Arizona study estimated that 2,54,794 people were displaced from tiger reserves between 1973 and 2021. Despite decades of critique from affected communities, NGOs, and researchers, relocation remains central to India’s conservation model. As recently as 2024, the NTCA instructed all tiger-range states to accelerate relocations from core areas of 54 reserves. The circular listed 591 villages, home to 64,801 families, to be relocated as soon as possible.

What makes this injustice more striking is that it persists despite robust constitutional safeguards and statutory legislations meant to protect and promote the interests of the forest-dwelling communities, especially the tribals. Before 2006, relocations occurred on an ad-hoc basis — through government orders, Five-Year Plans, or state policies. For instance, the village of Botezari in Tadoba–Andhari Tiger Reserve (TATR) was relocated under the Maharashtra Project Affected Persons Rehabilitation Act (MPAPR), 1999, amended in 2001, as the process began before national reforms took effect. Since then, a robust legal framework has evolved: The Forest Rights Act (FRA), 2006, the NTCA guidelines, 2008, and the Land Acquisition, Rehabilitation and Resettlement (LARR) Act, 2013. Together, these mandate that relocation be a last resort, allowed only when scientifically proven to be necessary, and that it follow free, prior, and informed consent (FPIC). Families are entitled either to monetary compensation — ₹10 lakh, later increased to ₹15 lakh — or to full resettlement, including land and basic amenities. Yet these provisions largely remain on paper. During our empirical research work on the relocation process in the Achanakmar Tiger Reserve in Chhattisgarh, villagers recalled signing papers they did not understand, while in Satkosia Tiger Reserve, Odisha, even after 7 years, “rehabilitation villages” lacked basic amenities.

Why does this continue despite law and evidence? Because conservation in India has long been top-down and colonial in character, reproducing what Gramsci called hegemonic common sense: Ideas so normalised they appear natural. The notion that forest-dwellers are “encroachers” stems from British forest policy, which criminalised subsistence practices and claimed forests for the state. This ideology, popularly termed fortress conservation, has persisted in independent India, even though people have lived in and shaped these ecosystems for centuries. Project Tiger was born out of this worldview. Heavily influenced by international wildlife conservation organisations, the urban upper class, and a few selective conservation biologists, it mirrored Western notions of “pristine wilderness.” These groups continue to position humans as threats to wildlife, legitimising mass relocation. This logic has gone so far that tiger reserves have even been declared in areas without tigers, such as Dampa (Mizoram) and Satkosia (Odisha), relocating people to make space for an absence.

When challenged, the so-called “tiger lobby”, a network of powerful conservationists and bureaucrats, has resisted reform. After the 2005 extinction of tigers in Sariska Tiger Reserve, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh commissioned the Tiger Task Force. Its landmark report, “Joining the Dots,” urged a more scientific and people-centred approach. But as its chair, Sunita Narain, later wrote, its recommendations were rejected by mainstream conservationists. The same lobby is claiming that the Forest Rights Act threatens wildlife. This worldview, rooted in deep ecology purism, casts forests as the exclusive domain of tigers. Public empathy is mobilised for the animal, not for the people. The 2018 outcry over the killing of the tigress Avni (T1) in Maharashtra revealed this double standard: Outrage for the tiger’s death eclipsed the suffering of villagers living in conflict.

This exclusionary model is not only unjust but ecologically shortsighted. By evicting those who have coexisted with wildlife for generations, it erodes the very social systems that sustain conservation. Excluded communities grow alienated, seeing tigers as the forest department’s property rather than part of their own landscape. In contrast, inclusive, participatory models, where local people are treated as partners, tend to yield better outcomes for both humans and wildlife. In Nagaland, communities once known for hunting Amur falcons now celebrate their arrival, protecting tens of thousands of migratory birds through persuasion and pride, not punishment. In Karnataka’s Biligiri Rangaswamy Hills, the Soliga Adivasis continue to live alongside tigers, drawing on traditional knowledge to manage forests sustainably. Such cases show that conservation succeeds when rooted in relationship, when forests are seen not as fortresses, but as shared homes.

Yet coexistence, too, requires nuance. It must not be romanticised. In some cases, forest-dwelling communities genuinely wish to relocate, seeking better access to education, healthcare, or employment. Our research in Tadoba–Andhari Tiger Reserve found that while many resisted relocations, others viewed relocation as an opportunity. The challenge lies in democratising the process of declaration of the Tiger Reserve and, more importantly, the relocation process, where communities, not bureaucracies, make the final choice. Conservation science itself should be open, transparent, and participatory.

If hegemony depends on the consent of the governed, then India’s conservation future depends on restoring that consent — not through coercion or spectacle, but through equity, participation, and trust. Only by democratising conservation can India protect both its tigers and the people who have lived with them since time immemorial.

Srivastava is a Policy Advocacy Officer, and Sahu is a Professor at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai