INDIA
Odisha: Greenwashing or Conservation? Excess Eco-tourism a Threat to Biodiversity
Odisha is home to about 19 wildlife sanctuaries and two national parks, covering significant protected areas for biodiversity conservation. These sanctuaries, along with the national parks, are managed to protect diverse ecosystems, including mangroves, coastal habitats for Olive Ridley turtles, and forests harbouring elephants and tigers
Odisha features over 40-45 community-managed eco-tourism destinations, including numerous nature camps located within wildlife sanctuaries, tiger reserves, and national parks. These spots are designed for sustainable travel, offering accommodation managed by local communities in areas, such as Similipal, Bhitarkanika, Satkosia, and Debrigarh.
When ecotourism spots outnumber strictly protected wildlife sanctuaries, the resulting over-tourism causes habitat degradation, disrupts wildlife behaviour, and threatens biodiversity. This imbalance leads to wildlife displacement, reduced breeding rates, increased pollution, and the replacement of natural ecosystems with infrastructure
Noticeable behavioural disruptions: Increased tourist activity leads to animals abandoning preferred habitats, changing their activity patterns (e.g., less daytime activity), and reduced mating success.
Habitat fragmentation: “Development of roads, hotels, and tourist spots reduces protected corridors, leading to soil erosion, fire hazards, and accumulation of waste”. Biswajit Mohanty, an environmental activist, says.
Animals become more susceptible to predators due to stress or forced migration, and there is a heightened risk of transmitting diseases from humans to wildlife.
Is that ‘Greenwashing’?
“Often, excessive eco-tourism leads to "greenwashing," where local environments are exploited for financial gains that leak out to large corporations rather than benefiting local conservation”, Mohanty told this reporter.
The priority shifts from biodiversity conservation and wildlife protection toward maximising tourist revenue, reducing the land available for natural wildlife habits
Deras, located within the Chandaka-Dampara Wildlife Sanctuary near Bhubaneswar, Odisha’s capital city, is a premier eco-tourism destination known for its reservoir, dense bamboo forests, and elephant population. The key attractions include AC nature camp stays, boating, jungle safaris, trekking, and birdwatching, offering a tranquil nature escape near the city
The Bhitarkanika National Park features several key eco-tourism spots and nature camps managed by the Odisha Forest Department. The core areas include Dangamal, Gupti, Habalikhati, a Mangrove Retreat (located near Khola), which serve as primary hubs for booking, nature camps, and boating access to the mangrove creeks and birding watching.
Dangamal is a primary eco-tourism spot and nature camp located inside the mangrove forest of Bhitarkanika National Park, acting as a key centre for wildlife conservation and tourism. Situated along the riverbank in the Kendrapara district, it is known for its salt-water crocodile breeding and interpretation centre, managed by the Odisha Forest Department.
On the vastness of Dangamal, the entire expanse has a rich deposit of biomass made richer with a salty surface that is a delicacy for the deer and wild boars who throng the areas after sun-set to feast on the biomass.
But, of late, small constructions have been made, one does not know by whose wisdom, for accommodation for visitors, which virtually encroach this natural mass. On top of that, increasing footfalls of visitors has damaged tranquility at night, which is inimical to the nocturnal species.
The writer is a freelance journalist based in Odisha, with over 40 years’ experience in the profession.
Odisha: How the Death of a Forest Led to Drying Streams in the State
forest sorrounding area
Koraput, Odisha: “We have never seen God, but if we are alive today, it is because of this water and this forest,” said Yeshudan Disari (34) from Barakutuni village in Semiliguda block in Odisha’s Koraput district.
Barakutuni is home to 91 households, most belonging to Scheduled Tribe communities. For generations, life here revolved around monsoon-dependent farming and the forests that sustained it. Then, slowly, that relationship began to break.
Despite receiving 1,500mm -1,800 mm of annual rainfall, according to India Meteorological Department, most of it fell in a compressed monsoon window — and that window was becoming increasingly unpredictable. Across Koraput, nearly 1.8 lakh -1.9 lakh hectares of upland agriculture remains entirely rain-fed, leaving farming vulnerable to even brief dry spells.
Decades in making
Around 2009-’10, forest degradation intensified as more families turned to podu (shifting cultivation), clearing hill-slope forest patches for agriculture. The reasons were structural: declining soil fertility, erratic rainfall, and almost no access to irrigation.
“Earlier, we used to grow enough in our lands below. But the soil became weak and rains were not regular,” said Dabuli Santa, 75. “We had no option but to go uphill and clear forest patches for podu.”
The expansion of podu was both a response to ecological decline and a driver of it. Repeated clearing and burning reduced vegetation cover, exposing soil to erosion and cutting its capacity to retain moisture. Springs that once sustained the village began to dry up. Data from Global Forest Watch shows Koraput district lost an estimated 20,000-30,000 hectares of tree cover between 2001 and 2023.
“Earlier, we collected a variety of forest foods, kokodi saag, puliyari saag, girli flowers,” recalled Sambara Jani, 70. “As forests were cleared and land was burned for podu, these disappeared. They were not just forest produce, they were part of our daily meals.”
The village once depended entirely on a single perennial stream, Pahala Jhola, nearly 1.4 kilometres away, for drinking water and daily use. As farming failed, distress migration increased, men leaving for Andhra Pradesh and Chhattisgarh in search of work. The village was slowly emptying out.
The crisis peaked around 2010-’11 when Gorada Mala, the key spring used for drinking water, dried up completely during summer. In the Semiliguda block, where only about 0.33% of agricultural land is irrigated, this was an existential moment.
“We had nothing then. There was no water in the village. We depended on Pahala Jhola, a stream nearly one and a half kilometres away, for all our daily needs.” said Disari.
The crisis in Barakutuni was not unique — it reflected a broader pattern across Koraput. The problem was never a shortage of rain, but its increasing unreliability. Earlier studies show the region received relatively stable rainfall of about 1,274 mm annually with nearly 70 rainy days. Today, farmers report a different reality: delayed monsoon onset, prolonged dry spells, and sudden intense downpours that damage standing crops rather than recharging the soil.
According to the Odisha State Disaster Management Authority, districts like Koraput are experiencing both extreme rainfall events and prolonged dry periods — a double blow to rain-fed farming. Rising temperatures have compounded the problem by accelerating soil moisture loss, worsening water stress during critical crop stages.
The economic toll is severe. Across Koraput, erratic rainfall has led to estimated losses of over Rs 30 crore in cashew cultivation alone, according to GB Nayak of ICAR-Central Rainfed Upland Rice Research Station. Unseasonal rainfall events have repeatedly damaged standing crops in several blocks including Semiliguda. In such a fragile landscape, communities depend heavily on hill streams — making their protection not just an ecological choice, but a matter of survival.
Rebuilding water
Faced with collapse, the people of Barakutuni came together. In January 2012, at a panchayat-level meeting with elected members and facilitated by the Foundation for Ecological Security (FES), the community collectively recognised — for the first time — the link between forest loss, water scarcity, and collapsing livelihoods. Their response began with water.
With their own labour and support from FES, the village built a diversion-based irrigation (DBI) system: channelling water from hill streams to farms using gravity. A 1,400-metre pipeline was laid from Pahala Jhola to farmlands; a small cement storage structure with a control valve was constructed to regulate use. Water is released only when needed, and the community agreed that half the flow would be reserved to sustain the forest ecosystem.
“We made rules so that everyone gets water,” said Barsha Sirika, a farmer from Barakutuni. “No one can irrigate more than two acres. Water is shared from upstream to downstream, and once one field is done, we help the next.”
All work was done through voluntary labour. The system, pipes, channels, storage structures, continues to be maintained collectively.
“We worked together to bring the water to our fields,” said Nilasa Santa, 63. “Now we don’t waste it…only when needed do we open the valve. We have rules so that both farming and the forest can survive.”
Water management
As the irrigation system stabilised, villagers understood that it alone would not sustain them unless the surrounding ecosystem was restored. Through repeated Gram Sabha meetings facilitated by FES, they arrived at a critical decision: to completely stop podu cultivation on upper hill slopes.
The land was left undisturbed to regenerate. To support families who had depended on podu, those with cultivable land in the plains voluntarily shared portions of their fields, an arrangement based on mutual agreement rather than formal contracts, held in place until alternative livelihoods and irrigation were established.
“We could not stop podu unless everyone had something to depend on,” says Manuku Sisa, 80. “So those who had land gave a part of it for others to cultivate. It was our way of supporting each other.”
Youth groups began restoring degraded hillsides through annual seed broadcasting drives during the monsoon, dispersing native species across barren slopes. Within a few years, the impact became visible: streams that had dried up began to flow again, and new springs emerged closer to the settlement.
Two additional streams — Jamir Jhola and Gorada Maha — were revived through community-led conservation. Villagers mobilised their own resources and labour to construct additional DBI structures on each. Recognising the scale of what the community had achieved, Koraput district Collector Abdaal M. Akhtar, during a recent visit, sanctioned Rs 10 lakh for a further DBI system on the revived Gorada Maha stream.
Rising incomes
Today, revived streams, Gorada Maha, Dayori Kalu, and Jamir Jhola, support irrigation across nearly 70 acres. Where once a single paddy crop in the kharif season was possible, farmers now cultivate beans, ginger, tomato, chilli, and sweet potato across three seasons: kharif, rabi, and summer.
“I cultivate around three acres now. With water available beyond the monsoon, we can grow crops in two to three seasons. Earlier, we depended only on rain and had to migrate for work — but now we can manage from our own fields,” said Tika Gunkha, a farmer.
“Earlier, we could grow only one crop,” said Basanti Jani. “Now we cultivate two to three crops — even if rainfall is irregular.” In Semiliguda, where irrigation coverage is just 0.33%, that qualifier carries real weight.
The income data from the village’s producer group, Annapurna Producers Group, tells a clear story. In 2022-’23, most households earned between Rs 32,000 and Rs 40,000 annually. By 2023-’24, incomes rose to Rs 1.18- Rs 1.42 lakh. By 2024-’25, they reached Rs 1.59- Rs 1.91 lakh, with some farmers earning over Rs 2 lakh. Average annual incomes have increased four to six times within three years.
Distress migration has declined sharply. Families that once relied on seasonal work in neighbouring states are now able to sustain themselves within the village.
“Earlier we depended on one crop and rain. Now we grow crops throughout the year,” said Jambo Dishari, a farmer from the village.
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villagers do their meeting on different issues before gram sabha
Diversification of livelihoods
Ecological recovery has created new livelihood opportunities. Women in the village now collect hill broom from regenerated forests, process it, and sell it in nearby markets including Kunduli. Supported by government livelihood programmes, this has become a steady secondary income source.
“The forest has come back, and so has our income,” said Jamuna Jani, a member of a women’s self-help group.
Dependence on forests has also become more sustainable, reduced pressure on natural resources is allowing regeneration to continue, creating a self-reinforcing cycle.
The roots of this transformation go back to 2008, when villagers first organised to protect their forests amid rising degradation, forest fires, and human-wildlife conflict. They introduced rules on grazing, fire prevention, and forest use, and adopted a ‘thengapalli’ system, rotating household-by-household forest guard duty.
In 2016, the village secured Community Forest Rights (CFR) under the Forest Rights Act, bringing nearly 1,000 acres under collective protection. The Gram Sabha gained legal authority to manage forests, regulate use, and enforce conservation rules. Today, decisions on forest use, water management, and livelihoods are taken collectively.
Alongside conservation, the village has adopted a Village Ecological Register (VER) to track environmental changes. Villagers document rainfall patterns, water sources, biodiversity, and seasonal cycles, building a local record of climate variability that now informs decisions under community forest rights.
“We are now tracking changes in rainfall and forests ourselves,” says Jayanti Sirika, a young para-ecologist trained through the programme. “Last year we recorded delayed monsoon rains, so farmers postponed sowing to avoid crop loss. It helps us understand what is happening and plan better.”
A model worth watching
Barakutuni’s experience demonstrates that resilience in rainfed regions does not always require large infrastructure. By restoring forests, managing water collectively, and strengthening local governance, the village has built a system capable of withstanding climate variability — and of sustaining the people who depend on it.
In Koraput, where nearly 1.89 lakh hectares of farmland remains rain-fed and irrigation covers a fraction of a percent of agricultural land in blocks like Semiliguda, this model carries implications well beyond one village.
“What Barakutuni shows is that restoring forests and water systems together can significantly improve climate resilience in rainfed regions,” said a practitioner associated with FES. “The intervention shows diversion-based irrigation can increase farm incomes by 20-50% and enable multiple cropping cycles. Equally important, reducing dependence on podu has allowed forests to regenerate — creating a cycle of ecological recovery that reinforces itself.”
“We understood that if the forest lives, we live.” said Jayanti Disair.
Prativa Ghosh is a freelance journalist and a member of 101Reporters, a pan-India network of grassroots reporters.
Kafka Would Understand: Even Dead Must Prove They’re Dead
Image Courtesy: yugsuchaknews Instagram
There are stories that disturb you for a moment, and then there are stories that stay quietly, stubbornly refusing to leave your mind even when the day has moved on. This is one of the latter. In Keonjhar district, in Dianali village of Odisha, Jitu Munda exhumes the body of his sister not out of ritual, not out of grief alone, but to prove to a bank that she is dead. To prove death. To authenticate absence. To satisfy a system that demands documentation even when reality lies buried in front of it.
What makes this even more unsettling is how ordinary the story is before it turns extraordinary. Jitu Munda’s 56-year-old sister, Kalara, had been living a life familiar to millions marked by loss, labour, and quiet resilience. After the deaths of her husband and son, she returned to her maternal home, working as a daily wage labourer to sustain herself. A few months before she died, she sold her livestock and deposited Rs.19,300 in a bank. After her death, Jitu Munda did what any brother would do. He went to the bank, again and again, trying to access the money she had left behind. But each visit ended the same way with refusal, with procedure, with the demand for proof. Proof of death, as if death itself were not proof enough.
“When the bank manager refused to listen and kept asking for proof, I got frustrated,” Jitu said. “I brought the skeleton to show that she had died.” There is something profoundly disturbing about this sentence. Not because of what it describes, but because of what it reveals. Frustration here is not sudden, it is cumulative. It is built through repeated encounters with a system that does not bend, does not listen, does not see. By the time he carried her remains to the bank, the act was no longer unthinkable. It had, in a tragic way, become logical. At the heart of this incident is a quiet violence. Not the visible kind, not the kind that makes headlines through spectacle, but the slow, procedural violence of indifference. A system that insists on paperwork over testimony, certification over truth, and compliance over compassion. The brother did not exhume his sister because he doubted her death. He did it because the system did.
What does it mean when grief itself must be documented? When mourning requires proof? When the word of a family, the presence of a body, the memory of a life lived all of it is insufficient unless stamped, signed, and uploaded into a digital record? This is where the story becomes more than just an isolated incident. It becomes a mirror. It reflects a structure where delay is normalized, where inefficiency is endured, and where people, especially those on the margins must navigate a maze of requirements that often feel both excessive and arbitrary. The idea of the ‘Kafkaesque’ is often used loosely, but here it feels precise. Not because the system is intentionally cruel, but because it is indifferent to the point of cruelty. The rules exist, the procedures exist, the portals exist but they operate in a way that disconnects entirely from lived realities.
There is also something deeply revealing about the role of the bank in this story. A bank is supposed to be a place of trust, of security, of safeguarding what people hold dear. But here, it becomes a gatekeeper of legitimacy. The brother’s claim, perhaps a modest sum, perhaps a significant one, becomes contingent on proving something that should not require proof in such a brutal way. The institution demands certainty, but offers no flexibility in how that certainty can be established. And then there is the digital layer.
Increasingly, governance and services are being mediated through digital systems. In theory, this promises efficiency, transparency, and accessibility. In practice, it often produces a new kind of exclusion. The digital divide is not just about access to devices or the internet. It is about familiarity, literacy, confidence, and the ability to navigate systems that are designed without considering those who will use them.
For many, uploading a document is a trivial act. For others, it is an obstacle. It may require travel, assistance, money, and time. It may involve multiple visits to offices, repeated rejections, and a growing sense of helplessness. In such a context, the demand for “proper documentation” is not neutral, it is burdensome. It shifts the responsibility entirely onto the individual, without acknowledging the uneven terrain they are forced to walk. The brother’s act, then, is not just about desperation. It is about compulsion. It is about reaching a point where the only way to be heard is to perform proof in the most literal, undeniable way possible.
This is where the story becomes uncomfortable for all of us. It is easy to frame it as an extreme case, an exception, an anomaly. But doing so risks missing the pattern it reveals. How many smaller, less visible acts of compliance are taking place every day? How many people are bending, adjusting, waiting, and enduring quietly without their stories ever being told? The tragedy here is not only that a body was exhumed. It is that it had to be. That a brother, in the process of seeking what was rightfully his, was forced into an act that disrupted the dignity of death itself.
There is also something about the emotional toll that often goes unspoken. Grief is not linear, and it is rarely neat. To reopen a grave is to reopen a wound. To turn a moment of loss into an administrative task is to blur the boundary between the personal and the procedural in a way that is deeply unsettling. And yet, the system remains intact. It processes documents, not emotions. It recognizes forms, not experiences. It operates on a logic that is consistent, but not necessarily just.
So, what does one do with a story like this? It is not enough to feel disturbed. Discomfort, if it remains passive, changes nothing. The question is whether such incidents can push us to rethink how systems are designed and implemented. Whether there is space for flexibility, for discretion, for empathy within structures that are often built on uniformity.
There is a tendency to celebrate digitisation, to frame it as progress, as inevitability. And in many ways, it is. But progress that leaves people behind, that creates new forms of exclusion, that demands adaptation without providing support such progress is uneven. It benefits some while burdening others.
The story from Odisha is not just a reminder about a brother and his sister. It is about the distance between policy and practice, between intention and impact. It is about what happens when systems forget the people they are meant to serve. And perhaps that is why it lingers. Because it is not just shocking it is revealing. It exposes a fault line that runs through many aspects of governance and everyday life. In the end, the image that remains is stark. A man standing at the intersection of grief and bureaucracy, holding evidence that should never have been required. It is an image that asks a simple but urgent question: when systems become so rigid that they demand the impossible, who pays the price?
The writer is Assistant Professor, Department of Sociology, Maitreyi College, University of Delhi. The views are personal.
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