Sanioy Kumar Barua
In the fading light of evening, Sita Nokrek sits outside her bamboo house at the edge of the Madhupur Sal forest, staring toward a stretch of land where machines have begun cutting into the earth.
For generations, her family has lived here — cultivating small plots of land beneath towering sal trees and gathering fruits, roots and medicinal plants from the forest.
Now she fears it may all vanish.
“If the forest disappears, we will disappear too,” she says quietly. “Where will we go if they take this land from us? This is the only home we have ever known.”
Across Bangladesh’s Madhupur forest in Tangail district, about 150 kilometres north of the capital Dhaka, anxiety is spreading among Indigenous families who say a series of government-backed development projects could ultimately force them off their ancestral land.
More than 25,000 Indigenous people — primarily from the Garo, Koch and Barman communities — live in villages scattered throughout the forest.
For centuries they have relied on the land not only for farming but also for cultural and spiritual practices deeply tied to the forest ecosystem.
Residents say the forest, once dense and abundant with wildlife, has already shrunk dramatically over the decades.
Now many fear that new eco-tourism and conservation initiatives could accelerate that loss — and with it, their own survival.
To the Garo community, the Madhupur forest is far more than a landscape.
In their language, it is often described as “Abima” — Mother Earth.
“This forest feeds us, protects us and holds our history,” said Rina Sangma, a farmer from a nearby village.
“Our parents and grandparents survived because of this forest. If it is destroyed, our lives will also be destroyed.”
Elders remember when the forest teemed with wildlife — deer moving through the undergrowth, wild boars rooting in the soil, and countless birds filling the canopy.
Families gathered wild potatoes, medicinal herbs and fruits from the forest, while cultivating pineapple, banana and seasonal crops on small plots of land.
But residents say the ecosystem has been steadily eroded by development projects and land policies imposed over decades.
“We have protected this forest for generations,” said Bimol Chiran, a farmer in the area. “Yet decisions about it are made far away from here, without even asking the people who live inside it.”
Tensions have intensified in recent months following reports that authorities have resumed work on projects involving artificial lake expansion and eco-tourism development within the forest.
Government officials say the initiatives are designed to address water shortages for wildlife and to restore parts of the degraded ecosystem.
But many Indigenous residents fear the projects could eventually lead to their displacement.
“First they dig the land, then they say we cannot stay here because it is protected forest,” said Monika Marak, another resident. “We have seen this pattern before.”
Heavy machinery has already begun preliminary earth-cutting in parts of the forest, according to villagers.
Residents worry that tourism facilities — including resorts, recreational areas and other infrastructure — could follow.
“When development enters the forest, the forest becomes smaller and our villages become uncertain,” Marak said.
Indigenous leaders say the current tensions are linked to policies introduced during the tenure of former environment adviser Syeda Rizwana Hasan, whom they accuse of promising conservation while advancing projects that threaten both biodiversity and Indigenous land rights.
“We were told these initiatives would restore the forest,” said Indigenous rights activist Shorna Mankhin. “But what we are witnessing instead is the gradual transformation of the forest into a tourism zone.”
Authorities previously announced a plan to restore large areas of the Sal forest by planting thousands of sal trees.
Officials said 750 acres would be replanted in the first year, with a broader plan to restore 6,610 acres over three years.
But Indigenous leaders say those commitments remain largely unrealised.
“Two years have passed, yet we have not seen meaningful restoration of the forest,” said Niloy Chiron, a Garo youth leader. “Instead, we are seeing projects that could further damage it.”
Community activists also question efforts to demarcate forest boundaries through the installation of boundary pillars in the Rajabari area.
They say the process failed to clearly recognise Indigenous settlements.
“When the government marks land without acknowledging our villages, it creates fear that one day those markings will be used to remove us,” Chiron said.
Some conservation initiatives have also sparked criticism among Indigenous leaders.
They point to the establishment of facilities at a deer breeding centre where peacocks and turtles were released — a move activists say prioritises display over ecological restoration.
“Instead of rebuilding natural habitats, they are turning the forest into something like a small zoo,” said Nokrek Marak, a Garo community organiser.
Marak also criticised contradictory agricultural policies.
Authorities have urged farmers to avoid pesticide-heavy cultivation of pineapple and banana crops, which are common in Madhupur.
Yet activists say agricultural chemicals remain widely available and promoted in markets.
“Farmers are told to reduce pesticides, but the same chemicals are approved and sold everywhere,” Marak said.
“That contradiction harms both the land and the people.”
Relations between Indigenous residents and authorities have also been strained by legal disputes.
Community leaders say 129 cases were filed against Garo villagers over alleged occupation of forest land in previous years.
Government officials have previously suggested that those cases might be reconsidered.
But activists say no significant progress has been made.
“Many families still live with the fear of arrest or legal harassment,” said Shorna Mankhin. “Promises were made, but they have not been fulfilled.”
Growing frustration has sparked renewed mobilisation among Indigenous students and activists.
Earlier this month, hundreds of students and community members gathered in Madhupur to protest the projects and demand protection of Indigenous land rights.
Organisers say the demonstrations are likely to continue if authorities move forward with development plans.
“We are not opposing conservation,” said Niloy Chiron. “But conservation cannot mean pushing Indigenous people out of their own homeland.”
For villagers like Sita Nokrek, however, the debate feels painfully personal.
As night falls over the Sal forest, she looks toward the dark line of trees stretching beyond her home.
“Our ancestors lived here and our children are growing up here,” she says softly.
“All we want is to live in peace on the land that has always been ours.”
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