By Chathma Alahapperuma and Udara Soysa –
For as long as memory reaches, the Asian elephant has been part of Sri Lanka’s story. It has carried kings in processions, laboured alongside farmers, appeared in myth, ritual, and art, and wandered the forests as a symbol of power and endurance. However, a tragedy is taking place throughout our rural heartlands behind this cultural reverence. More than 400 elephants and more than 120 people are killed every year in Sri Lanka, which has one of the highest rates of human-elephant conflict in the world. With an estimated 6,000 elephants in the wild, the highest density of Asian elephants per land area, this conflict has emerged as one of the island’s most urgent conservation issues. Only a portion of the story is revealed by these figures. Every incident conceals a more profound.
The roots of this conflict are entangled in the rapid transformation of Sri Lanka’s landscapes. Once, elephants roamed widely across plains and forests, following ancient migratory routes that were finely attuned to seasonal rains, food cycles, and river flows. Over the past century, however, their range has shrunk by more than half, fractured by irrigation schemes, expanding settlements, commercial agriculture, and infrastructure projects. Elephants are *keystone species* whose foraging and movement shape ecosystems by dispersing seeds, clearing undergrowth, and even maintaining grasslands. When their movement corridors are cut off, not only do elephants suffer, but entire ecological processes begin to unravel. Elephants, which can travel up to 20 kilometres in a single night, now find themselves hemmed in by electric fences, highways, and paddy fields. Climate variability adds another layer of stress: droughts push herds into villages in search of water, while erratic rainfall patterns draw them to tender crops. What is framed as “conflict” is in fact a collision of survival strategies. Humans protect their livelihoods, elephants follow their instincts, and both pay the price when these needs meet in the same space.
The beginnings of this conflict are linked to the rapid changes in Sri Lanka’s landscape. In the past, elephants roamed freely across plains and forests, following ancient migratory routes that were precisely timed to seasonal rains, food cycles, and river flows. However, over the past century, their range has shrunk by more than half as a result of irrigation projects, commercial agriculture, expanding settlements, and infrastructure projects. Elephants are *keystone species* that have an impact on ecosystems through their movement and foraging, dispersing seeds, clearing undergrowth, and even maintaining grasslands. When their corridors of movement are blocked, elephants suffer, but entire ecological processes also begin to collapse. Elephants, which can travel up to 20 kilometres in a single night, are currently restricted by electric fences, highways, and paddy fields.
However, science has not always been applied consistently in practice. The standard response to conflict between humans and elephants is electric fencing, which was once heralded as a cure-all. The island is now crisscrossed by thousands of kilometres of fences. Elephants, however, are difficult to discourage. Research indicates that fences are only 30–40% effective over the long term because of poor maintenance and elephant adaptation. The issue is transferred from one community to another by some animals, who learn to push trees onto fences, others, who walk through gaps, and still others, who just find other ways. Translocation, or the removal of elephants from areas of conflict and their subsequent release into national parks, has also proven to be problematic. Data indicate that while some translocated elephants break out and return to areas dominated by humans, almost one-third of them perish within the first year due to stress or starvation.
This is where law and policy come into play. Sri Lanka’s legal framework contains instruments designed to protect wildlife and regulate environmental use. The Fauna and Flora Protection Ordinance is the principal statute safeguarding elephants, while the National Environmental Act provides mechanisms for environmental impact assessments (EIAs) of major development projects. Judicial innovation has occasionally strengthened these protections, with courts invoking the public trust doctrine to hold that natural resources belong not just to the state but to all citizens, including future generations. Internationally, Sri Lanka is party to conventions such as CITES, which regulates trade in endangered species, and the Convention on Biological Diversity, which obliges the country to conserve biodiversity and promote sustainable use. On paper, these laws and commitments seem formidable. But a scientific gap remains: most EIAs in Sri Lanka fail to integrate advanced ecological modelling, such as wildlife movement analysis or landscape connectivity studies, into project approval processes. Without such data, critical habitats are easily overlooked.
But the gap between law and reality is painfully visible in the fields of Anuradhapura, Polonnaruwa, and Hambantota. Policies are fragmented between ministries with overlapping mandates. Enforcement is patchy, often undercut by lack of funds or political interference. EIAs, though mandatory, can be rushed or sidelined when projects are deemed “national priorities.” Community voices, especially those of smallholder farmers who bear the brunt of conflict, are seldom meaningfully included in planning. The result is a legal framework that looks protective but functions weakly, unable to keep pace with the scale of ecological disruption or the urgency of human suffering.
What then is the path forward? An integrated approach, one that binds science, law, and community, offers the best hope. Science can map elephant corridors, identify critical habitats, and provide predictive tools for conflict hotspots. For instance, the Wasgamuwa–Habarana corridor has been repeatedly identified as vital for elephant movement, yet it remains vulnerable to encroachment. Law can enshrine such corridors as protected areas, mandate restoration of degraded landscapes, and hold agencies accountable when development tramples ecological safeguards. Communities, for their part, must be empowered not merely as beneficiaries of top-down policies but as co-managers of solutions. Evidence from parts of India and Nepal shows that when villagers are involved in designing and maintaining interventions—whether seasonal crop-guarding, communal watchtowers, or participatory fence maintenance—the outcomes are more sustainable. Participatory GIS mapping, where farmers themselves help identify crop-raiding hotspots, has proven especially effective in tailoring local responses. Co-management builds trust, ensures local knowledge is respected, and reduces the alienation that often undermines conservation efforts.
Another cornerstone of any long-term solution is ecological restoration. Elephants need linked habitats with access to food and water, not pristine wilderness. Human settlement pressure may be lessened by repairing degraded forests, preserving riverine ecosystems, and creating green corridors to connect disparate habitat patches. In addition to planting trees, this calls for ecologically sound planning, which includes preserving grasslands used for seasonal grazing and reintroducing fodder species like *Kolon* (Adina cordifolia) and *Kukulan* (Careya arborea). Elephants play an ecohydrological role by creating waterholes that benefit a variety of species, so protecting water sources is equally important. When combined, technology-driven solutions like early-warning systems—which alert farmers to approaching herds using predictive models and mobile alerts—can save lives and crops.
The challenge is not merely technical; it is political and moral. Development narratives often pit conservation against economic progress, portraying elephants as obstacles to agriculture or infrastructure. But this framing is misleading. Elephants are *ecosystem engineers* whose role in dispersing seeds, clearing undergrowth, and maintaining waterholes benefits biodiversity and, indirectly, human communities. Economists have even attempted to value these services: from seed dispersal that regenerates forests to tourism revenue that contributes significantly to the national economy. Protecting elephants is therefore not charity; it is an investment in ecological services that sustain agriculture, tourism, and climate resilience. The cost of inaction—continued deaths, economic loss, and eventual decline of elephant populations—would be far higher than the investment required to integrate conservation into development.
The moral dimension is equally pressing. The sight of a dying elephant in a field, its body riddled with gunshot wounds, is a profound indictment of our failure as custodians of this island. The anguish of a family who has lost its breadwinner to a nighttime raid is no less devastating. To choose between elephants and humans is a false dichotomy; the real choice is between policies that perpetuate suffering on both sides and policies that strive for coexistence. A humane society cannot afford to accept either the slow extinction of its wildlife or the grinding despair of its rural poor.
Sri Lanka still has a chance to lead by example. With its relatively high elephant density and rich history of coexistence, the island is uniquely placed to pioneer a rights-based, science-driven approach to conservation. By aligning ecological research with legal reform and genuine community engagement, Sri Lanka could demonstrate to the world that development need not mean dispossession, and conservation need not mean exclusion. Such a model would resonate far beyond our borders, offering lessons to other nations grappling with similar conflicts between people and wildlife.
The choice, ultimately, is ours. We can continue on the present path of piecemeal solutions, watching year after year as lives are lost and tempers harden, or we can embrace the harder but nobler task of integration. It will require political courage to enforce land-use planning, financial commitment to invest in restoration and technology, and humility to trust the wisdom of rural communities. But the reward would be immense: a Sri Lanka where elephants roam not as exiles in shrinking forests but as living symbols of a nation that chose coexistence over conflict. In saving them, we would also save something of ourselves—our ecological integrity, our cultural identity, and our moral standing as guardians of this island.
If Sri Lanka acts decisively now, future generations may look back and see this as the turning point, the moment when we stopped treating elephants as intruders or burdens, and began to see them again as what they have always been—fellow travellers in the long story of this land. The giants still walk among us. Whether they will continue to do so is a question only we can answer.
*Chatham Alahapperuma is an undergraduate student with a focus on environmental science
*Udara Soysa is an attorney at law and a lecturer in law. He hold masters in public administration and also law. He has a doctoral degree in business administration.
