There is perhaps no other continent on earth that possesses as diverse an ecosystem, biodiversity and cultural diversity as Asia. Yet, biodiversity conservation in Asia is in constant crisis, due to uneven development after gaining independence from Euro-American colonization, capital intensive infrastructure growth with worsening inequality, heavy dependence on natural resources at different scales, from household to nation, high population density and distribution that overlaps with spaces with endangered wildlife, illegal trade in endangered species, and finally, war, genocide, militarization and political conflict. Conservationists in Asia, therefore, have a difficult mandate for the continent’s future: To tackle the biodiversity, climate, and cultural crisis at a much faster rate. Yet, the conservation space is strictly dominated by researchers and practitioners, donors and funders, policymakers and other intellectuals based in Western knowledge production systems. To cater to this, almost 500 conservationists, majorly from Asian countries assembled in Kathmandu, Nepal, during the first week of June for the 6th Conservation Asia Congress. The conference was organized by the Asia region of the Society for Conservation Biology (SCB), in partnership with the Nepal chapter of SCB and a Nepal-based community-centric organization, Burhan Community Regeneration and Conservation Foundation (BCRCF). Under the theme “Harmonizing Biodiversity and Human Well-being in Asia,” the Congress united global experts, early-career researchers, and community leaders to address the critical intersection of nature conservation, community stewardship, and evidence-based policy. Almost 500 conservationists largely from Asian countries assembled in Kathmandu during the first week of June for the 6th Conservation Asia Congress. Image…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Changes like increasing geological and glacial instability driven by the warming climate are a growing concern across the Himalayas. Our hearts go out to the thousands of families across Nepal, China, and around the world grieving their loved ones and searching for those missing after the recent catastrophic flash flood at the Nepal-China border. Though nearly 400 kilometers (almost 250 miles) to the northwest of the recent flash flood zone, our study area in Nepal’s Limi Valley in Upper Humla — a landscape with several villages and a rich wildlife heritage, that we have spent years trying to understand and protect — is also affected by such changes. Limi Valley has been wild for as long as we’ve studied it, but not anymore. After many days of travel to reach the study area recently, our team was excited to check on the Himalayan wolves, to see if its family would be denning in the same spot as last year. We found no wolves. Instead, we found thousands of sheep and goats, trailed by herders from lower-lying villages, free-ranging herd dogs, and patches of burning vegetation. A Himalayan wolf in its natural habitat in Limi Valley, northwestern Nepal. Photo courtesy of Himalayan Wolves Project. Every season we return, there is less wild left to find. Upper Humla’s once-pristine high-altitude habitats are suffering from human encroachment advancing at an unprecedented pace, pushing wildlife into ever-smaller pockets of shrinking habitat. While formal protection of this unique ecosystem has been on the political agenda…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Modern conservation is often traced to the establishment of Yellowstone National Park in the U.S. in 1872. In Sweden, a similar milestone came with the founding of Sarek National Park in 1909, partly intended to protect the endangered brown bear of the far north. Yet, long before states established national parks and environmental agencies, people across the world protected landscapes through religion, customary law, and Indigenous stewardship. In Japan, Shinto shrine forests have been preserved for centuries. In India, villagers continue to maintain sacred groves. Ethiopia’s churches and monasteries are often encircled by protected forests, while parts of rural Italy still contain sacred landscapes rooted in traditions older than Christianity itself. Some are associated with Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals and ecology; others may descend from sites once dedicated to Jupiter. A growing body of research suggests that such places have often functioned — intentionally or otherwise — as informal systems of conservation. In 2021, the researcher Piero Zannini and his colleagues published a systematic review of sacred natural sites and biodiversity conservation. Examining studies from around the world, they found that sacred natural sites frequently contained greater biodiversity, more intact vegetation, and better-preserved ecosystems than surrounding landscapes. Sacred places, they argued, often operate as effective forms of conservation grounded not in state bureaucracy or scientific management, but in cosmology, ritual, and local tradition. Sami people in Enontekiö, Finland, at the summit of Saana Fell, which they consider sacred. Image by Ninara via Flickr (CC BY 2.0).…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Every city faces difficult choices about how to use its land. As populations grow, governments must provide homes, transport and other essential infrastructure while protecting the natural ecosystems that make cities liveable. These decisions are often framed as a trade-off between development and conservation, with forests viewed primarily as reservoirs of biodiversity or stores of carbon. What if we have been overlooking one of their most important contributions? As climate change intensifies, urban heat worsens and chronic diseases associated with sedentary, high-stress lifestyles continue to rise, a growing body of research suggests forests are far more than wildlife habitat. They are living public infrastructure that helps keep people physically healthy, mentally resilient and socially connected. Mature forests cool neighborhoods, encourage physical activity, provide opportunities for stress relief, strengthen community cohesion and support biodiversity, which is fundamental to many of these benefits. This perspective is particularly relevant in Singapore. The city-state has earned global recognition for integrating nature into one of the world’s most densely populated urban environments. Yet many of its remaining forests – including the 23-hectare (57-acre) Maju Forest in Clementi – are increasingly under pressure from development. Current plans would retain about one-third of the forest and convert approximately 15 hectares (37 acres) into public housing. Over 100 species of wildlife have been recorded in Maju Forest and six – mainly birds – are of conservation significance, including the straw-headed bulbul (pictured), buffy fish-owl, changeable hawk-eagle, oriental magpie-robin, bamboo bat and long-tailed macaque. Image courtesy of Singapore’s National…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Nigeria may soon become the site of one of the largest livestock investments in its history. JBS, the world’s largest meat company, is pursuing a reported $2.5 billion investment that could reshape parts of the country’s agricultural sector. The proposal has been welcomed by many for its potential economic benefits, but before it moves forward, Nigerians deserve clear answers about what it could mean for communities, land, water, and the climate. Much of the discussion around the project has focused on jobs, agricultural development, food security, and economic opportunity. Those are important goals. But there is another dimension that deserves far greater scrutiny: Methane. JBS is not simply the world’s largest meat producer. It is also responsible for more methane emissions than ExxonMobil and Shell combined, according to estimates published by Greenpeace in 2024. JBS undoubtedly disputes these figures, but the broader point is difficult to ignore: When measured by climate impact, the world’s largest livestock companies increasingly belong in the same conversation as the world’s largest fossil fuel companies. Methane rarely attracts the same public attention as carbon dioxide, yet it is responsible for roughly a third of the warming the world is experiencing today. Because it traps far more heat than carbon dioxide over the short term, cutting methane emissions is widely seen as one of the fastest ways to slow near-term climate change. Much of the public debate focuses on oil and gas. But industrial livestock production is also a major source, accounting for much of the…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Introducing animals outside their natural ranges is a practice fraught with risk, one that the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) — the recognized global authority on the natural world — explicitly discourages. The IUCN’s guidelines for responsible wildlife translocation classify the importation of nonnative wildlife as a “critical risk” to be carried out only under a very narrow set of exceptional circumstances. There are very good reasons for these precautions. The natural world is awash with examples of species that were released outside their natural ranges becoming invasive, with devastating consequences. Even if species released outside their natural ranges don’t become invasive, they may still drastically disrupt the ecological dynamics of a community. For decades, translocations of animals within their former ranges have been used as a helpful tool in conservation. Reintroduction of species for conservation purposes such as bolstering an existing population, reestablishing a population that has gone extinct in the wild, and maintaining genetic diversity all rely on translocations. Such movement of animals may also help enhance tourism by offering greater numbers or a more diverse array of local species. Moving animals outside their natural range (an introduction rather than a reintroduction), however, is a fundamentally different and a potentially problematic proposition. The outcomes of these “conservation introduction” cases are often binary: the animals struggle mightily, if not die off, or the animals manage to acclimate to the unfamiliar surroundings and proceed to compete for resources with the native species, potentially inflicting harm in the process. And while…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Hypertensive or high blood pressure disorders are among the leading causes of maternal deaths in low-income countries. A pregnancy complication known as preeclampsia, a hypertensive disorder, is listed among the top five causes of maternal deaths in Bangladesh. For expectant women with preeclampsia, timely treatment is required; otherwise, it can lead to issues such as elevated liver enzymes, low platelet count syndrome, hepatic failure, coma or loss of life.The Sustainable Development Goals adopted by the U.N. set an ambitious target to reduce the maternal mortality rate to less than 70 per 100,000 live births by the end of 2030. While many developed nations have already achieved the U.N. target, low- and middle-income countries are yet to achieve these goals. In Bangladesh, the maternal mortality rate is 196 per 100,000 live births and rates remain significantly higher in the neighboring countries . A recent study reported an association between hypertension, preeclampsia and high-salinity drinking water. The same study argues that, in Bangladesh, preeclampsia is associated with high-salt drinking water. Epidemiological evidence links high salt intake to hypertension in both adults and children. The scarcity of safe drinking water has become a serious global issue due to agricultural expansion, sea level rise caused by global warming and population growth. The IPCC, in its sixth Assessment Report (AR6), stated that climate change affects water availability and water quality. Globally, around 4 billion people face water scarcity for at least one month each year. Storm surges and rising sea levels make it easier for…This article was originally published on Mongabay

The forests of the Brazilian Amazon are, by any measure, among the most important ecosystems on Earth. They absorb carbon on a planetary scale, regulate rainfall across South America, and shelter biodiversity that science is still cataloging. International negotiations, carbon markets, and diplomatic agreements all rest on the assumption that these forests will remain standing. Yet while the Amazon spans nine Brazilian states, the three whose territory is most overwhelmingly forest — and which therefore carry the heaviest share of the conservation burden — are among the poorest and most fiscally dependent in the country. The states of Amapá, Acre, and Amazonas operate on budgets so dependent on federal transfers that they have almost no fiscal room to act on their own. That is not a coincidence. It is a design flaw in Brazil’s fiscal constitution, and it is getting worse. The argument here is simple: Brazil cannot credibly lead global climate diplomacy while its Amazonian states remain fiscally trapped. The forest will not protect itself. And the states responsible for protecting it do not have the money to do so. Tropical forest near Atalaia do Norte, Amazonas, Brazil. Image by Gloria Pallares for Mongabay. What the budgets show Amapá is larger than Ecuador. Nearly three-quarters of its territory is classified as federally protected land — national parks, Indigenous reserves, and conservation units — that the state is legally obligated to maintain but receives no specific compensation for. In 2025, more than 60% of its entire state budget came from…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Off the coast of Timor-Leste, fishers are building something many countries still lack: A clearer picture of how small-scale fishing nourishes people. For six years, fishers have logged their trips and recorded the gear used, the habitats visited and the catch brought home in a digital system built with the government of Timor-Leste. More than 77,000 trips later, that data has produced a study that urges governments to change how they think about fisheries management. The value of a catch is not just measured in kilos; where people fish and the gear they use can shape the nutrients that end up in local diets. Small pelagic fish can be rich in iron, calcium, zinc and omega-3s, while marine invertebrates gathered by hand, often by women and usually overlooked in official statistics, can also be nutritionally important. That matters because fisheries are too often managed around what is landed and sold, not who is nourished. A session during the Our Ocean conference in Mombasa, Kenya. Image by Malavika Vyawahare/Mongabay. After the first Our Ocean Conference held on African soil, this evidence feels especially timely. That event in Mombasa in June put Africa’s ocean future in the global spotlight, but the real test now is whether new commitments help countries build the systems needed to manage aquatic foods for people and not just for production, trade and conservation. Now the question is what those commitments will deliver. For decades, fisheries management has been built around one question: How many tons were landed?…This article was originally published on Mongabay

When we talk about climate change and wildlife, most people think about the impact of climate change on animals. We see individual organisms struggling to find food and being pushed into new places and environments, with global consequences for species distribution and animal abundances. What many overlook is the other side of that relationship: Wildlife can help heal our climate. Wild animals help shape how ecosystems store carbon, move nutrients, recover from disturbance, and remain resilient as conditions change. That is the message behind the new Scientific Consensus on Wildlife and Climate, currently endorsed by more than 300 scientists from around the world, and counting. The consensus makes a simple but important point for climate policy: We should account for wild animals and their ecological roles when designing climate plans, because natural systems are incomplete without the species that help them function. Climate mitigation conversations typically focus on technology and infrastructure. More recently, we have become better at talking about forests, wetlands, seagrass, and other natural habitats that store carbon. All of those ecosystems matter, but we are sometimes missing an important piece: The animals living in and moving through those systems. Animals ranging from plankton to sperm whales (pictured) and everything in between move carbon from the ocean’s surface into the deep sea through a variety of processes. Image courtesy of The Dominica Sperm Whale Project. A 2023 paper in Nature Climate Change estimated that protecting and restoring wild animal populations and their ecological roles could increase carbon dioxide…This article was originally published on Mongabay

For decades, deforestation has been treated as the central problem. It’s measured in hectares lost, monitored through satellites, and addressed through conservation programs, carbon mechanisms, and development interventions. Yet despite billions of dollars invested, forests continue to decline. What if we have been diagnosing it wrong? Deforestation is not the disease. It is a symptom. The deeper problem is the erosion of governance over territory, over resources, and ultimately, over the future itself. To see this more clearly, it helps to begin not with global statistics, but with a people and place, like Namblong, in Indonesian Papua, an Indigenous territory spanning more than 52,000 hectares (128,500 acres) that’s governed by a tribe of 44 clans. Around 42,000 hectares (almost 104,000 acres) remain forested as a living landscape shaped by generations of customary governance. When oil palm concessions entered this territory with legal permits, a fundamental question emerged: Who decides the future of this forest? Is it the company holding the concession, the government that issued it, or the Indigenous community whose identity and survival are inseparable from the land? Deforestation outside of Manokwari, West Papua, Indonesia. Image by Rhett A. Butler/Mongabay. This question points to a broader reality. Across Indonesia, and much of the world, Indigenous territories have been systematically stripped of effective governance. They are treated as empty land available for extraction or intervention. Concessions are issued, projects are introduced, and external solutions are layered onto landscapes that already have their own systems of authority Even well-intentioned efforts often…This article was originally published on Mongabay

“Al Dhiwaini!” HRH the Prince of Jazan called in the traditional way that spurred hundreds of people to sprint toward the water, carrying around nets and shouting. Standing on the shores of the Farasan Islands, I watched participants in the annual parrotfish festival pull fish from the sea en masse, with catches reaching up to 78 kilograms (more than 170 pounds) of parrotfish per person. Known locally as hareed — or generally as longnose parrotfish (Hipposcarus harid) — the scale of extraction immediately triggered my instincts as a scientist, as the question asked itself: How is this sustainable? How do the fish keep coming back, year after year? But in that moment, there was nothing to do except run into the water, follow the fish, and give myself over to the thrill of it. From a time before living memory, the people of Farasan have followed the moon to this annual aggregation, a phenomenon so unique and described as the fish swimming willingly to their deaths; the fish seem almost to be waiting to be caught. As a Saudi marine biology Ph.D. student, I know how much of the Red Sea remains scientifically uncharted, and this festival is exactly why science and traditional ecological knowledge must be woven together to manage marine systems. Participant at the annual Hareed Festival in the Farasan Islands, an archipelago in the Red Sea off the coast of Saudi Arabia, with his catch of parrotfish. Image courtesy of Laila Shaaban. When I asked locals where…This article was originally published on Mongabay

This week, as governments of various coastal states gather in Mombasa, Kenya, for the Our Ocean Conference, Africa must demand an end to industrial krill fishing in the Southern Ocean before irreversible damage is done to Antarctica and the ocean systems upon which our continent depends. A clear call from Africa would bolster international calls for a ban on industrial krill fishing and support positive leadership developments like the European Parliament’s recent call for a moratorium on krill fishing. The Southern Ocean regulates global ocean circulation, absorbs enormous quantities of heat and carbon dioxide, and sustains marine life across the planet. At the center of this system is Antarctic krill (Euphausia superba), the tiny crustacean that feeds whales, penguins, seals and seabirds while helping lock carbon into the deep ocean. Industrial krill fishing has expanded rapidly over the last few years, with the largest share of this extraction controlled by fleets linked to certain European and Asian countries. Most concerningly, fishing is intensifying precisely where Antarctic wildlife is most vulnerable: critical feeding grounds for whales, penguins and seals are actively targeted by the industry. A single adult Antarctic krill (Euphausia superba) is usually just five centimeters long, but the importance of its massive populations to marine food chains, and the millions of people who depend on ocean protein as part of their daily diet, is major. Image courtesy of Uwe Kils via Wikimedia Commons. The damage is already visible. In April, the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) classified…This article was originally published on Mongabay

In recent weeks, two outbreaks captured international attention: a hantavirus cluster linked to a cruise ship and an escalating outbreak of Bundibugyo ebolavirus in Central and Eastern Africa. How the world reacted to these outbreaks tells us more about inequity than about epidemiology. The Andes hantavirus outbreak aboard a luxury cruise ship generated extensive evacuation footage and widespread public anxiety. The numbers involved were small, and public health authorities clearly emphasized that the broader risk was very low. Meanwhile, the Bundibugyo virus disease (BVD) outbreak, involving a rapidly increasing number of cases and deaths, spreading across fragile border regions, and unfolding without an approved vaccine, or therapeutics, still struggles to command comparable global urgency despite its coverage in the news. This disparity reflects an uncomfortable and common truth: some outbreaks become global emergencies only when wealthy travelers, tourists, or Western borders appear threatened. Others remain regional tragedies, normalized by poverty, and neglect. However, both outbreaks point to the same deeper reality. These events are not isolated biological accidents, but predictable consequences of the ecological, economic, and political systems we have built. In partnership with local governments across Central Africa, WCS set up an early warning system for Ebola, working with traditional hunters, forest communities, and rangers to raise awareness and promote best practices in zoonotic risk reduction, and to monitor wildlife health through sampling and a carcass monitoring, as in this case where a worker surveys a gorilla. Image courtesy of A. Ondzie / WCS. Global health has largely focused…This article was originally published on Mongabay

The countries of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) have made an important commitment to environmental justice for the 680 million people who call this region home. Now comes the hard part: putting it into practice. Last October, ASEAN member states — Brunei, Cambodia, Indonesia, Laos, Malaysia, Myanmar, the Philippines, Singapore, Thailand, Timor-Leste, and Vietnam — adopted a Declaration on the Right to a Safe, Clean, Healthy and Sustainable Environment. They are currently in the process of drafting a regional plan of action to give it life. The right to a healthy environment as it’s usually called is now globally accepted as a fundamental human right. ASEAN first recognized this right in 2012 in the ASEAN Human Rights Declaration. In 2022, the United Nations General Assembly proclaimed the right in a virtually unanimous vote: 161 governments voted in favor, none against, and only eight abstained. At the national level, more than 100 countries now include it in their constitutions. Southeast Asia enjoys a rich natural heritage, like this coral reef in the Philippines, that supports the lives and livelihoods of millions of people. Image courtesy of Jett Britnell/Coral Reef Image Bank. At the same time, international tribunals and domestic courts have made strides in clarifying what the right requires. In July 2025, the International Court of Justice, also known as the World Court, issued an opinion on climate change in which it said the human right to a healthy environment is inherent and essential for other human rights, including…This article was originally published on Mongabay

In October 2015, Indigenous activists from Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Cambodia, Brazil, the United States, and Honduras, together with delegates from longhouse communities throughout the Malaysian state of Sarawak, gathered at Tanjung Tepalit, an Indigenous Kenyah village on the Baram River on the island of Borneo. They called the gathering WISER: the World Indigenous Summit on Environment and Rivers. Tanjung Tepalit hosted the gathering because the village, along with more than two dozen others along the river, was scheduled to be drowned. The Baram Dam, a 1,200-megawatt hydroelectric mega project backed by the Sarawak state government and aligned with a regional industrial development scheme called the Sarawak Corridor of Renewable Energy (SCORE), would have flooded an area of more than 400 square kilometers (more than 150 square miles) and displaced an estimated 20,000 Kenyah, Kayan, and Penan people. Muslims, Catholics, Evangelicals, Buddhists, agnostics, and people who followed traditional Indigenous religions were among the attendees. As we gathered, Peter Kallang, the Kenyah founder and chair of the local advocacy group SAVE Rivers, addressed the assembly: “We are people of many faiths,” he said, “but we are united in one mission. To protect our forest homes and our ways of life.” In one sense the WISER gathering was a strategy meeting to coordinate an international coalition against a state-corporate project. In another, and perhaps deeper sense, WISER was rooted in something older. It was an assertion that the values that hold communities to their land across generations — the sanctity of the…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Cities are expanding faster than at any point in human history, and wildlife is adapting in remarkable ways. We often talk about visible changes like animals becoming bolder, shifting their diets, or altering their daily rhythms to avoid people. But there is a deeper transformation happening inside their bodies, one that conservation science has barely begun to address: The reshaping of the gut microbiome. Urban ecosystems expose animals to a completely different set of pressures than their natural habitats. Artificial light, chronic noise, pollution, and human-derived food sources all interact to shape the physiology of wildlife rapidly. These pressures don’t just influence behavior from the outside, they alter the microbial communities that regulate digestion, immunity, stress responses, and even cognition, making key components of how animals evolve and adapt as “pressure cookers,” reducing diversity and decreasing overall health. When the microbiome becomes disrupted, a state known as dysbiosis, animals may become more anxious, more risk-taking, or more susceptible to disease. Urbanization is forcing this rapid adjustment of species not just through habitat loss, but by fundamentally changing their microbiota, and with that, things like foraging patterns and predator avoidance. In other words, urbanization may be shaping wildlife behavior from the inside out. Mule deer in Banff, Alberta. Image by Sharon Hahn Darlin via Wikimedia Commons (CC BY 2.0). Yet conservation strategies rarely consider this internal dimension. We focus on green spaces and habitat restoration, which are essential, but overlook how environmental stressors affect the microbial health of the animals we…This article was originally published on Mongabay

In the global debate over tropical deforestation, the usual cast of villains is well established: agribusiness, global supply chains, cattle ranchers, and governments granting land concessions for political support. One actor rarely appears in this narrative yet has played a consequential role in transforming the South American lowland frontier: The Mennonite agricultural colonist. For more than five decades, Mennonite communities have functioned as systematic agents of agricultural frontier expansion in the Gran Chaco and Andean Amazon, methodically clearing forests, draining wetlands, and catalyzing waves of deforestation that extend far beyond any individual colony. Mennonite communities operate within the law. They purchase land through formal channels, build permanent communities, and transfer agronomic knowledge to surrounding populations. Their values emphasize hard work, communal solidarity, and a theological relationship to land as stewardship. None of this changes the ecological outcome: Wherever a Mennonite colony is established, forests fall. Faith, mobility and colony formation Mennonites are an Anabaptist denomination rooted in the 16-century Reformation, distinguished by pacifism, communal life, and cultural separation from mainstream society. Conservative congregations — whose ancestors moved from Russia to Canada, then to Mexico, Belize and South America — are organized around a local congregation that functions simultaneously as a religious community, governance structure, credit cooperative and social welfare system. When a colony is established, it is an orderly community with collective decision-making, shared infrastructure, and a coherent plan for the future. Forest being cut, burned, and prepared by a Mennonite colony before planting crops. Image courtesy of Mario Silvero.…This article was originally published on Mongabay