Crossing Lines: The Human-Elephant Conflict in Sri Lanka’s Disappearing Wild
A wild elephant pauses on a busy highway outside Minneriya National Park—part of a traditional migration corridor now interrupted by human development. Feeding these elephants, though often well-intentioned, reinforces dangerous habits that put both animals and people at risk.
An elephant stepped out of the forest and onto the road like a ghost following an ancient trail—because that’s exactly what he was doing. I was in Sri Lanka, photographing wildlife in and around Minneriya and Yala National Parks. I’d come in search of the island’s iconic elephants, hoping for that perfect image: low golden light on wrinkled skin, perhaps the flick of a tail, a quiet moment captured forever. But what I witnessed instead—on the road, at the park gates, and even during a supposedly tranquil lunch stop—left me unsettled.
The Old Paths Still Call
For thousands of years, Asian elephants have moved across Sri Lanka along natural migration corridors—broad, instinctual highways connecting forests, water sources, and seasonal food supplies. These ancient routes don’t show up on maps. But elephants remember.
The problem is, humans now live where elephants once roamed freely.
Villages have sprung up along these migration paths. Rice paddies, banana groves, and sugarcane fields provide an irresistible buffet of calories far richer than what the forest offers. To the elephant, it’s not an act of invasion—it’s a continuation of a journey they’ve always made.
To the farmer, it’s a disaster. Crops were destroyed overnight. Fences trampled. Sometimes, homes are broken into. Sometimes, lives are lost.
A Conflict Without Villains
Human-elephant conflict in Sri Lanka is growing. According to the Department of Wildlife Conservation, over 400 elephants and 100 humans die each year in encounters gone wrong. That makes Sri Lanka one of the deadliest places in the world for this sort of conflict.
But calling it a conflict implies two sides. In reality, both are victims.
Farmers are often living on the edge themselves, trying to support their families on small plots of land with little margin for loss. Elephants are following instinct, unaware that the world has changed beneath their feet.
It’s hard to witness up close. I saw one elephant standing at the edge of a road, trunk curled, waiting. Cars slowed. A tourist leaned out with a handful of fruit. The elephant approached, bold and practiced. The fruit disappeared. Cameras clicked. The human smiled. The elephant learned.
What was once wild is now something else—half-wild, half-tamed by well-meaning gestures.
When Kindness Turns Dangerous
Inside Yala National Park, the situation was no better. I was at a designated lunch stop, a spot where tourists step out of their jeeps to stretch and eat. I watched, stunned, as a full-grown elephant emerged from the bush and walked straight up to a tourist who had a sandwich in hand.
No fear. No hesitation.
The elephant reached out, took the sandwich, and walked off. The tourist laughed. The guide looked uneasy.
That elephant had been fed before. And now, it expected food.
These aren’t isolated incidents. Across Sri Lanka’s parks and roadways, elephants are learning a new behavior: approach the humans, get a treat. What starts as a moment of awe—"I fed an elephant!"—ends with a dangerous pattern of dependence and aggression.
Habituated elephants are more likely to break into vehicles, chase people, and end up in fatal conflicts. They’re also more likely to be labeled as "problem animals" and relocated or shot.
The Role of the Photographer
As a wildlife photographer, I’m painfully aware that the line between appreciation and interference is thin. Our lenses often point outward, but our presence is never neutral.
Every time we stop our vehicle and reach for a snack when an elephant is near, we make a choice that ripples beyond the moment. Every photo taken of someone feeding a wild elephant becomes encouragement for someone else to do the same.
It’s tempting to think one apple tossed from a car window doesn’t matter. But for the elephant, it does. The behavior reinforced today becomes the danger of tomorrow.
Travel With Eyes Open
So what can we do? If we love these animals—and most visitors to Sri Lanka truly do—how do we make sure our presence helps rather than harms?
Here are a few ways to travel more responsibly around Sri Lankan elephants:
Never feed wild elephants—not in parks, not on the road, not anywhere. No matter how gentle they seem, feeding creates long-term problems for both people and elephants.
Don’t stop your vehicle when elephants are on the road, especially if others have stopped. It encourages the animals to linger and wait for food. Keep moving slowly and give them space.
Choose ethical safari operators. Ask if their guides enforce no-feeding policies, maintain respectful distances, and avoid crowding the animals.
Don’t support or share photos that show people feeding or touching wild elephants. We vote with our likes and shares. Let’s reward behavior that protects, not endangers.
Talk to other travelers. If you see someone preparing to toss food to an elephant, say something. Most people don’t know the harm they’re doing.
A Shared Landscape
Sri Lanka is a small island, and elephants are big animals. The space they need is shrinking, and the margins for error are razor-thin.
But coexistence is still possible—if we understand that the wild is not a zoo, and our kindness must be informed by responsibility. Feeding wildlife feels generous in the moment, but the cost comes later, often paid in the life of the very animal we admired.
When I look back at my time in Sri Lanka, it’s not the perfect photo I remember most clearly. It’s that elephant reaching for a sandwich. It’s the look in its eyes—not wild, not afraid, but expectant. And in that moment, something was lost.
Let’s not lose more.
