“Four legislators from Goa have opposed the proposed reserve, warning that thousands of families could lose their homes and livelihoods. Many of these are tribal and forest-dependent communities that have lived in harmony with nature for generations. Their fears are not unfounded. Across India, past experiences of conservation-induced displacement have often left people worse off, uprooted from land, culture, and sustenance. Protecting wildlife should not mean sacrificing human dignity.
The tiger, as India’s national animal, carries deep symbolic value. It stands for strength and wilderness, but it also reflects the health of our ecosystems. When tigers disappear, so do forests, rivers, and the climate balance. A protected tiger habitat, therefore, benefits far more than just the species itself. But this logic fails when conservation becomes a bureaucratic exercise rather than an ecological one.”
In Goa, the proposal to declare parts of the Western Ghats as a tiger reserve has ignited a deep and uncomfortable question: how much space should we give to wildlife, and how much should remain for the people who live there? The idea of a tiger reserve sounds noble on paper. Tigers are endangered, the Western Ghats are an ecological treasure, and conservation is critical for climate and biodiversity. Yet, when conservation plans collide with human settlements, the story becomes less about saving animals and more about the people being asked to move for them.
Four legislators from Goa have opposed the proposed reserve, warning that thousands of families could lose their homes and livelihoods. Many of these are tribal and forest-dependent communities that have lived in harmony with nature for generations. Their fears are not unfounded. Across India, past experiences of conservation-induced displacement have often left people worse off, uprooted from land, culture, and sustenance. Protecting wildlife should not mean sacrificing human dignity.
The tiger, as India’s national animal, carries deep symbolic value. It stands for strength and wilderness, but it also reflects the health of our ecosystems. When tigers disappear, so do forests, rivers, and the climate balance. A protected tiger habitat, therefore, benefits far more than just the species itself. But this logic fails when conservation becomes a bureaucratic exercise rather than an ecological one.
The Goa proposal, critics argue, does not even meet the minimum requirements under national norms. There must be sustained evidence of a resident tiger population before an area can be declared a reserve. In Goa, tiger sightings are scattered and seasonal, suggesting that the animals pass through rather than live there.
Declaring a tiger reserve in such circumstances risks creating a conservation model without a conservation purpose. It could also open the door to human suffering disguised as environmental responsibility. In many such projects, the line between protection and exclusion blurs dangerously. Once an area is marked as a reserve, villagers lose legal access to forests, grazing land, and even water bodies that sustain them. Their traditional way of life becomes “illegal” overnight. When people are treated as intruders on their own land, it breeds anger and alienation, which ultimately harms conservation itself.
This does not mean tigers and humans cannot coexist. Across India, several successful models show that both can thrive with thoughtful planning. Community reserves, eco-sensitive buffer zones, and co-managed forests are examples where human presence supports wildlife rather than threatens it. When locals have a stake in protecting biodiversity—through tourism revenue, forest rights, or local management committees—they become partners, not obstacles. The key is participation, not imposition.
For Goa, a few steps can make this balance achievable. First, any reserve plan must start with clear, scientific data on tiger presence and habitat viability. Without this, the proposal loses credibility. Second, the government must hold genuine consultations with affected villages, not token meetings. Their consent, particularly that of tribal communities, should be central to any decision. Third, where relocation is unavoidable, it should come with fair compensation, land-for-land alternatives, and guaranteed livelihoods. India’s record on resettlement is patchy at best, and Goa cannot afford to repeat that failure. Lastly, environmental protection must go beyond boundaries on a map. Restoring degraded forests, regulating mining, and curbing pollution may do more for wildlife than redrawing human settlements.
Conservation should unite, not divide. The tiger needs its space, but so do the people who have lived beside it for generations. The goal must be coexistence—protecting ecosystems without erasing communities. The Western Ghats, one of the world’s richest ecological zones, deserve protection. But that protection must come with empathy, data, and justice. Otherwise, what we call a tiger reserve may end up being a reserve without tigers, and a policy without a conscience.
