Between Conservation and Coexistence: The Hidden Cost of Nepal’s Tiger Recovery

Bengal tiger

Nepal has drawn international praise for nearly tripling its tiger population—from 121 in 2010 to 355 in 2022. But behind this conservation milestone lies a quieter, more troubling reality. For many of the country’s poorest communities living along the fringes of national parks, the return of tigers has brought not just pride, but fear, injury, and lasting hardship. Survivors of tiger attacks are often left with permanent disabilities and crushing medical expenses—costs that government relief programs rarely cover in full. Pushpa Tamang is one of them. In June 2019, she set out for Bhawani Community Forest, just a short walk from her home, to cut grass for her cattle. It was a routine task—until, without warning, a tiger lunged from the undergrowth and attacked her from behind. Its claws tore deep into the left side of her scalp, and she collapsed almost instantly. The animal retreated only after her companions raised frantic cries. Pushpa was rushed to Kohlapur Teaching Hospital, where doctors stitched 60 wounds across her head. The first three days of treatment alone cost Rs. 50,000—an overwhelming sum for a family already living on the edge. But the immediate injuries were only the beginning. Today, Pushpa lives with chronic headaches, partial paralysis on her left side, and frequent spells of unconsciousness. She cannot be left alone; even simple tasks can leave her confused and disoriented. Her husband, Mitra Lal, once an experienced furniture maker, had no choice but to abandon his work to care for her full-time. The financial strain is relentless. Her treatment costs about Rs. 3,500 each month, with another Rs. 1,500 spent on travel to the hospital. Because she is extremely sensitive to temperature, the family must keep ice at home year-round—an added expense they can scarcely afford. To keep up, they have borrowed heavily from multiple sources, and their debt has now climbed beyond Rs. 700,000. What remains to them is fragile: a modest home built on unregistered land and a small plot of just four katthas. For Pushpa and her family, the price of conservation is not measured in statistics, but in pain, sacrifice, and a future burdened by debt.

Bardiya National Park

Pushpa’s story is far from isolated—it is one of many that ripple across the Terai. In Bardiya District, Juna Chaudhary of Barbardiya Municipality-10 was attacked by a tiger five years ago while harvesting rice in her field. She survived, but only after spending fifteen days in the hospital and accumulating medical bills exceeding Rs. 350,000. Despite the treatment, her hand remains partially paralyzed. Her husband, a police officer, now bears the weight of supporting a family of four on a modest income. After navigating a long and exhausting bureaucratic process, Juna received Rs. 135,000 in compensation from Bardiya National Park—less than half of what it cost to save her life. On paper, Nepal’s amended Guidelines for Distribution of Relief against Wildlife Damage 2023 appear more substantial. Families of those killed by wild animals are entitled to Rs. 1 million, while individuals with permanent disabilities can claim up to Rs. 500,000, and those seriously injured may receive Rs. 200,000. In practice, however, these amounts rarely match the true cost of survival. Private hospital fees, ongoing treatment, and long-term rehabilitation quickly outstrip the relief provided. Worse still, accessing this compensation is often a burden in itself. The claims process is slow, complex, and can take months to complete—time that victims and their families simply do not have when faced with mounting bills and uncertain futures.

Tiger in Bardiya National Park

It is deeply unsettling that years of dedicated efforts to protect Nepal’s tigers have brought unintended consequences for the very people living alongside them. As tiger numbers have rebounded, so too has the frequency of human–tiger conflict. In Bardiya National Park alone, 35 people were attacked between 2016 and 2024. The trend is alarming: in the first four years, 16 people were attacked and six lost their lives, while in the fiscal year 2022–23 alone, 10 attacks resulted in six deaths. For local communities, the danger is inescapable. Their daily survival depends on the forest—for grazing, fodder, and fuel—placing them directly in harm’s way. Conservationist Ashish Chaudhary emphasizes that the solution lies not just in protecting tigers, but in reshaping their habitat. Expanding grasslands and creating water sources deeper within forests could help keep predators away from human settlements. A single tiger requires roughly four square kilometers of territory, including several hectares of grassland and access to water—resources that cost an estimated Rs. 1.8 to 2 million to develop and maintain. At the same time, proposals to reduce communities’ dependence on forests have existed for years but remain largely unimplemented. Many residents feel that authorities have grown complacent, relying on compensation schemes for deaths and injuries as a substitute for meaningful prevention. Yet for those living on the front lines, relief payments are no replacement for safety—and no substitute for a future where coexistence does not come at such a high human cost.

Wildlife conservation cannot be measured solely by the recovery of tiger populations after years of poaching and other human-driven threats. Its true success lies in fostering a sustainable balance between wildlife and the communities that live closest to it. This means not only protecting animals, but also safeguarding people—ensuring that victims of human–wildlife conflict receive adequate medical care, financial support, and long-term assistance. In Nepal, while some local municipalities have stepped in to provide relief to affected families, these efforts remain uneven and insufficient. Areas like Rapti Sonari Rural Municipality, where attacks are frequent, often lack the resources to respond effectively. This gap underscores the urgent need for stronger, more coordinated intervention from the government and its agencies to support communities living under constant threat. At the same time, prevention must take priority. Raising awareness among residents, improving settlement planning, and reducing the likelihood of wildlife straying into human spaces are essential steps. Habitat management—such as expanding grasslands and building artificial water sources deeper within forests—can help redirect animals away from villages. Equally important are long-discussed but under-implemented initiatives to reduce dependence on forest resources in high-risk areas.

Relying solely on compensation for injuries and deaths is not a sustainable solution. Protecting lives requires practical, community-centered measures: regulated forest access, improved cooking stoves, solar lighting, and locally driven conservation efforts that empower residents while reducing risk. These strategies not only enhance safety but also ease pressure on forest ecosystems. There are models to learn from. Bangladesh, for instance, has introduced a five-year training program around the Sundarbans aimed at protecting both communities and wildlife. By adopting similar proactive and inclusive approaches, Nepal can move beyond reactive measures and work toward a future where conservation and coexistence go hand in hand.