12 January 2026
What happens to democracy when the very laws and policies intended to safeguard and serve its citizens fail to do so? What happens when citizens face discrimination, exclusion, land dispossession, the loss of their livelihoods, and even death and injury, while their government looks the other way? In such moments, democracy turns into a cruel parody of itself: its inclusive laws and policies ring hollow, their echoes fading into disillusionment as the trust that once held citizens to their government begins to crumble. In light of this, I want to tell the story of agrarian communities who, under the guise of democracy, experience a form of authoritarianism within Nepal’s protected-area (PA) governance. I call this condition democratic authoritarian environmentalism (DAE) and examine how it plays out in the governance system, specifically on compensation processes related to human-wildlife conflicts in the Koshi Tappu Wildlife Reserve (KTWR).
‘Varieties of Environmentalism’
Since the time Ramachandra Guha and Martínez-Alier offered a sophisticated historical critique of environmentalism, we have made significant strides by constructively questioning and expanding our understanding of the ‘varieties of environmentalism’. Guha traces the emergence of ‘environmental consciousness’ in England, shaped against the backdrop of European industrialisation, when aristocrats first called for the protection of nature. Yet we know that concern for the environment was never solely the domain of the aristocrats who ‘awakened’ to this consciousness. The English Romanticists—often called the ‘nature poets’—illuminated the aesthetic dimensions of nature, opening a conversation shaped by an urban-centric, aristocratic gaze: a view of nature from afar.
This conversation, though rooted in privilege, made an enduring contribution by framing the protection and preservation of nature as a moral obligation. Seen through this lens, Eurocentric environmental consciousness emerges as a form of aristocratic environmentalism, directly linked to the notion of fortressed conservation—a securitised protection of nature that allows little or no human presence, yet is now practised globally. The colonial mindset embedded in this approach—urban-centric, power-laden, and moralistic—has continued to shape environmental thought and policy, leaving little space for agrarian and indigenous forms of environmental consciousness. Nepal, too, participates in this lineage of environmentalism.
Fast forward to the 1970s. In contrast to fortress conservation, neoliberal environmentalism emerged, intertwining economy, market, and development while promising to reduce poverty and hunger through growth-driven solutions. Also known as ecotourism, it sought to merge preservation with resource extraction, wrapped in the rhetoric of sustainability. This model assumes humans are homo economicus—rational actors who protect nature only when it offers material gain. Yet by reducing people to economic agents, it undermines the cultural, ethical, and relational dimensions of human–nature connections. Despite its theoretical sophistication, neoliberal environmentalism—cloaked in the democratic language of participation and inclusion—has produced both visible and invisible forms of structural violence.
Among the many varieties of environmentalism, there has recently been a resurgence of interest in the idea of Indigenous environmentalism. This form of environmentalism has re-emerged at a critical juncture in human history—the age of the Anthropocene. Indigenous environmentalism is not merely a theoretical model; it is a wisdom that neither prescribes rules and regulations nor provides roadmaps for preservation. Instead, it calls upon us to reorient our thinking, vocation, and sense of place in relation to the environment. It invites us to ask deeper questions about our roles and responsibilities: What does it mean to live with the environment rather than in it? How do we honour our relationships not only with the tangible and visible beings around us but also with the intangible and invisible presences that co-inhabit this world? In this sense, Indigenous environmentalism moves beyond ‘deep ecology’.
While deep ecology promotes ethical teachings, such as minimalism and depopulation, Indigenous environmentalism offers wisdom without instruction. For those accustomed to identifying problems and crafting technical solutions, this approach may feel disorienting, even tempting to extract ‘technical’ knowledge. Yet doing so would be a profound misunderstanding of its essence. Indigenous environmentalism has always been there, quietly enduring beneath the weight of colonial and oppressive powers, but today it rises again, visible, resonant, and unyielding in its call to remember our shared belonging.
At this point in the history of environmentalism, new and provocative varieties have emerged. Concepts such as ‘ecocide’ and ‘eco-fascism’ are drawing serious scholarly attention, challenging us to confront the darker possibilities of human–nature relations. For now, however, let us turn our focus on neoliberal environmental governance and its paradoxes.
Neoliberal Environmentalism and Its Paradoxes in Nepal
The neoliberal environmental governance combines market mechanisms with public–private partnerships to simultaneously conserve and commercialise nature. Framed as the green economy, it promotes ideals of decentralisation and participation. Since the 1980s, this model has gained global traction, championed by states, development agencies, and NGOs. Nepal’s protected area (PA) governance largely practices this approach as well.
However, critics highlight that neoliberal environmentalism, including in PA governance in Nepal, represents a case of ‘failing forward‘: a sense of realisation in which the path we have taken has failed us and we must correct the course. The public-private partnerships central to neoliberal environmentalism tend to disproportionately benefit wealthier stakeholders, rather than the agrarian communities that are most directly affected. Similarly, the democratic ideals of inclusivity and participatory environmental governance have largely proven ineffective, if not entirely failed. The continuing rise in environmental degradation and climate crises has further exposed these shortcomings.
As a result, scholars argue that authoritarian approaches to environmental governance—observed in countries such as China, Iran, Singapore, Burma, and Vietnam—may offer an alternative framework. This perspective provides a compelling lens for examining authoritarian tendencies in environmental governance, with some warning that, as environmental and climate crises intensify, such models may become increasingly widespread.
But divorcing democracy from environmental governance and embracing authoritarianism cannot be a viable alternative. To treat authoritarian rule as the solution is to narrow our vision of what is possible. Such a stance reflects a dogmatic, orthodox view of democracy, where government is the supreme authority. In a true democracy, the government answers to the people, not the other way around. Simply put, Nepal must not, and cannot, pursue authoritarian environmentalism. Instead, what is required is to take a deeper look at why and how democratic environmental governance gives rise to authoritarianism or democratic authoritarian environmentalism: a condition where laws and policies are democratic and inclusive, but their implementation exclusionary and top-down. Nepal’s history of conservation, specifically PAs, provides an important clue.
Nepal’s PAs cover more than 23 per cent of the country’s land. There are 20 (or 21, depending on the source) such PAs; 18 of them established under the absolute monarchy. The PAs were set up without meaningful consultation with the local communities and securitised under the protection of the Nepal army. This authoritarian approach to conservation left deep and lasting legacies: cultural violence, land dispossession, and the marginalisation of communities whose ancestral lands were appropriated.
While virtually all PAs now grapple with social, political, and economic challenges, those adjacent to heavily populated settlements, such as the Koshi Tappu Wildlife Reserve (KTWR), face especially severe pressures, impacting both people and ecosystems. But these tensions are not simply new problems. Their roots stretch back to the formation of modern Nepal and the institutional structures that were built to serve—or often to exclude—its citizens.
Historically, Nepal as a state functioned through patrimonial and clientelist structures. From the Shah dynasty to the Rana oligarchy, the ruling elites, drawn primarily from upper castes and classes, ensured that the bureaucracy and institutions served the government rather than the citizens. Historians have noted that the rulers focused on consolidating power by exploiting land rather than fostering an indigenous-based development approach.
Relatedly, state institutions built on patrimonialism carry enduring institutional memories that reinforce hierarchies of caste, class, and gender. These embedded memories, in turn, shape how institutions operate, particularly in service delivery. In many respects, bureaucratic culture itself embodies and transmits social hierarchies, values, norms, and worldviews: institutions guide how individuals perceive the social order, and these perceptions influence their preferences and behaviours. As one fisherman recounted to me how he feels intensely anxious whenever he goes to the Warden’s office to renew his fishing permit. His nervousness, he said, stems from a profound sense of insecurity and discomfort rooted in the power asymmetries that he experiences as he interacts with government officials. This anecdote raises a broader question: Has Nepal’s state bureaucracy and its culture fundamentally transformed from patrimonial to truly democratic?
The argument, therefore, is not about whether participatory and inclusive environmental governance works or not, but rather about how we can reimagine democratic environmental governance so that it can yield the desired outcomes. This means exploring new forms of institutional design, inclusive decision-making, and accountability mechanisms that respect both democratic values and the urgency of environmental challenges. Simply switching to an authoritarian model overlooks the complex trade-offs: it may sacrifice public participation, transparency, and justice even if it promises greater speed or decisiveness.
Democratic Authoritarian Environmentalism and a Story of the KTWR
As noted above, DAE describes a situation in which, although laws and policies appear democratic, their implementation turns sharply authoritarian. In other words, the formal democratic processes—including local community participation—exist on paper, yet in practice they are undermined by powerful local elites. Worse still, the state leverages these democratic laws and policies to legitimise its top-down actions, transforming governance into a centralised, authoritarian exercise. This tension is clearly visible in human–wildlife conflicts and the compensation processes in the KTWR.
The KTWR, Nepal’s only wetland, lies in the lush eastern Tarai. Established in 1976 to safeguard the wild water buffalo, or arna, it remains home to one of Nepal’s richest bird species. But this beauty masks deep unrest: historic land disputes and displacement, combined with recurring clashes between people and wildlife, is wound into the reserve’s fabric. The cost is steep: human fatalities, crop destruction, property loss, and strain on livelihoods are frequent. In Koshi Tappu, conservation and conflict co-exist, serving as a powerful reminder that protecting paradise exacts a heavy price (see figures below).
Figure 1: Damage by wildlife in 2021/22
Figure 2: Damage by wildlife in 2022/23
In Figure 1, of the 58 total deaths across 20 PAs, eight were in the KTWR (third highest), and of the 116 serious injuries, 16 occurred in the KTWR (third highest). In Figure 2, of the 39 deaths, six were in the KTWR (third highest), and of the 124 serious injuries, 17 were in the KTWR (second highest).
To address human-wildlife related conflicts, the government has detailed laws and policies. When all the required documents are furnished, a family that has lost crops can file for compensation up to NPR 10,000. For the injured, the compensation for treatment is up to NPR 200,000 and for the family of a deceased, it is NPR 1,000,000. The laws and policies also clearly stipulate that poachers, and even those who illegally enter the park, will be prosecuted and punished.
To receive compensation, there are specific processes to ensure transparency and accountability. For example, for each compensation process, an individual has to submit the following: a copy of their citizenship, a recommendation letter from both the relevant buffer zone committee and the local government, a copy of the land ownership certificate, and a verification document of the incident, such as photos taken by an army official during their visit to the scene. From a democratic governance point of view, the requirement to furnish these documents make sense. However, as those who live next to the KTWR, especially women, do not have such key documents, the process becomes exclusionary.
Here is an example of a reformulated conversation. Fulmati Uruwa (age around 40) had come to meet M.D. Sharma, chairperson of a buffer zone committee, asking for a recommendation letter, a required document to begin seeking compensation for her livelihood loss.
Fulmati: Last night, two elephants came and destroyed all my corn sacks. They also damaged my house. They almost killed me. I used fire and made a lot of noise by striking metal plates. (As she recalled the event, her body was visibly shaking.) They destroyed my corn, and I don’t have food to eat. I need a recommendation letter [to go to the Warden’s office]. (Fulmati had spent more than an hour to come to see the chairperson.)
MD [in a somewhat dominating and interrogating tone]: Where have you come from?
Fulmati: From Srilanka Taapu [a small island in the middle of the Koshi river].
MD: Do you have citizenship?
Fulmati: I don’t. My husband lives with another woman. When I go and ask him to help me [to get citizenship], he yells at me to go away.
MD: Go to your father and ask him to help you.
Fulmati: My father tells me I must get [citizenship] through my husband.
MD: Do you have a land ownership certificate?
Fulmati: I don’t. (Most people who live in Srilanka Tappu are landless at least from a legal perspective.)
MD: Do you have pictures [capturing the incident]? (Once an incident happens, Nepal army personnel go to the site, take pictures and share them with the family.)
Fulmati: They [army personnel] told me they will give them to me.
MD: Come back to me after whatever evidence you can collect.
Fulmati leaves without saying anything.
‘Problems are complex here,’ M.D. notes. As we talk, he concludes that most likely Fulmati won’t come back since she is unlikely to gather all the required documents. This means, she won’t seek compensation for her livelihood loss. Fulmati is not an isolated case. During my field work, I met several individuals who did not file to seek compensation for their losses.
As Nepal and its partner organisations celebrate their biodiversity conservation achievements, key questions emerge: If inclusive laws and policies fail to benefit individuals like Fulmati, who are they truly serving? Authoritarian environmental governance is not the solution, nor can we accept the rise of democratic authoritarian environmentalism. Our challenge is to create governance frameworks that balance democratic principles—ensuring voice, accountability, and rights—with the effectiveness needed to address environmental crises, reflecting the local realities. This requires resisting the temptation to take shortcuts that overlook context, power dynamics, and historical legacies.
