Founder’s Briefs: An occasional series where Mongabay founder Rhett Ayers Butler shares analysis, perspectives and story summaries. The European wildcat is not one conservation story, but several. In the Czech Republic’s Lusatian Mountains, the signs are encouraging. Conservationists have found a male and female wildcat, which they named Jonáš and Tonka, the first recorded in the region in nearly a century. Tonka has since given birth to at least three kittens. For a species once pushed out by habitat loss, persecution, and the spread of domestic cats, that is a meaningful foothold, reports contributor Sean Mowbray for Mongabay. The animal itself is easy to overlook. The European wildcat (Felis silvestris) is roughly the size of a large housecat and lives mostly out of sight in forests. The species, found across Europe, is listed as least concern on the IUCN Red List. That label can make the picture look simpler than it is. Yet its fortunes vary sharply from place to place. In parts of Central Europe, wildcats are moving back into former habitat as forests recover and hunting pressure has fallen. Germany and France show what can happen when habitat protection, legal safeguards, and time line up. Italy, too, has seen enough progress for the species to be downlisted nationally. Elsewhere, the picture is much more fragile. In Scotland, the wildcat was declared functionally extinct in the wild in 2018. A breeding and release program in Cairngorms National Park, in the Scottish Highlands, is now trying to rebuild a population…This article was originally published on Mongabay

La Moskitia, on Nicaragua’s Caribbean coast, is often treated in Managua as a frontier: timber, gold, cattle, rivers, votes, and military concern. To the Miskitu, Sumu-Mayangna, Rama, Garífuna, and Creole peoples who live there, it is older than the Nicaraguan state. Its forests, savannas, rivers, and marine life are part of a political claim as well as a homeland. The demand has long been plain enough: land, autonomy, and a say over what happens there. Brooklyn Rivera Bryan spent most of his life carrying that demand into war, negotiation, electoral politics, exile, and prison. Known in Miskitu communities as Taupla Brooklyn, he died on May 30th, aged 73, in the custody of Daniel Ortega’s government. He had been detained since September 2023. For months the government denied holding him. It later acknowledged his imprisonment. No public trial was held. His family was denied visits. His public life began after the Sandinista revolution of 1979, when the new government sought to draw the Atlantic Coast into a national project directed from the Pacific. The Miskitu experience of that project was marked by surveillance, arrests, violence, and forced displacement. In 1981 Rivera was arrested while leading Misurasata, an Indigenous organization whose name linked the Miskitu, Sumu, Rama, and Sandinistas. By 1982, thousands of Miskitu had been moved from villages along the Río Coco. Many fled to Honduras. Rivera’s cause was narrower and more durable than the Cold War frame around him: an autonomous Indigenous territory in Yapti Tasba, the aboriginal homeland. That…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Thomas Crowther’s career has been shaped by large claims about small things. A seed, a patch of soil, a soundscape, a moment of fear, a local restoration project: each, in his telling, can become part of a larger system of cause and effect. His new book, Nature’s Echo, is built around that idea. Feedback loops, he argues, are not just a feature of ecology. They are among the forces that formed stars, spread life across Earth, drive climate change, and may yet help repair damaged ecosystems. Crowther, a British ecologist, became one of the best-known figures in global ecology while at ETH Zurich, where he founded the Crowther Lab and built a large interdisciplinary research group. His work helped popularize the idea that ecosystem restoration could play a major role in addressing climate change, especially after a 2019 Science paper on the potential for additional tree cover drew worldwide attention, as well as criticism from scientists who warned against simplistic tree-planting narratives. His work also helped give rise to the World Economic Forum’s Trillion Trees initiative, and he has served as co-chair of the advisory board to the U.N. Decade on Ecosystem Restoration. He is also the founder of Restor, an open-data platform that connects conservation and restoration initiatives around the world. Screenshot of the Restor interface. That public profile has made Crowther both influential and contested. In 2024 he was also at the center of a dispute over his departure from ETH Zurich. The university said its decision followed…This article was originally published on Mongabay

At Bradford Island, near Bonneville Dam, the river carried more than water. Beneath the surface of the Columbia were toxic sediments, dumped near a place where Yakama people had fished since time immemorial. To officials, it was a cleanup site. To the Yakama Nation, it was a usual and accustomed fishing place, protected by treaty. To Davis Washines, known to many as Yellowash, it was also a crime scene. The victims, he said, were first the water, then the salmon and other life that depended on it, and then the people who depended on them. He did not speak that way for emphasis. He spoke from a life spent moving between law enforcement, ceremony, public service, and the river. Evidence mattered to him. So did harm, responsibility, and the obligations carried through Yakama law, culture, and memory. Yellowash died on May 1st, at his home in White Swan, Washington. He was 74. By then he had held many titles: Yakama Tribal Police chief, Columbia River Inter-Tribal Fish Commission police chief, member of the Yakama Tribal Council, chairman of the Yakama Nation General Council, government relations liaison in the Yakama Nation Department of Natural Resources, trustee, board chair, counselor, teacher, and ceremonial leader. The titles marked a long public life. They did not fully describe it. He began that life in public service in 1973 with the Yakama Tribal Police Department and rose to chief in 1986. He later returned to that role, and then became chief of police for the…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Founder’s Briefs: An occasional series where Mongabay founder Rhett Ayers Butler shares analysis, perspectives and story summaries. Conservation journalists are facing a new issue: AI-generated wildlife imagery. The issue is not just that fake images exist. That has long been true. What has changed is how convincing synthetic wildlife photos and videos have become, how cheaply they can be made, and how quickly they can spread. A clip can move through Facebook, WhatsApp, TikTok, or even LinkedIn before anyone has checked whether it shows a real animal, a real place, or a real event. That matters because wildlife images carry an implicit claim. A photograph of a rare animal, a camera-trap still, or a video of unusual behavior usually tells the viewer: this happened. As generative AI improves, that assumption needs more scrutiny. The risks are not theoretical. False videos of animal attacks can deepen fear in places where human-wildlife conflict is already difficult to manage. Fabricated images of wild animals behaving like pets can feed demand for the exotic pet trade. Misleading footage of rare species can absorb the time of researchers, journalists, NGOs, and public agencies that have to determine whether an event actually occurred. It also changes the work of newsrooms. At Mongabay, we now spend more time looking at sourcing, provenance, metadata, reverse-image searches, forensic tools, and whether a photographer, researcher, or institution is known and trusted. AI detectors can occasionally help in some cases, but they cannot settle the question. False positives and false negatives…This article was originally published on Mongabay

In the Amazon, a forest can remain on the map while losing much of what makes it function. The Amazon rainforest is often discussed through a few familiar measures: deforestation, carbon, protected areas, and tipping points. Each is useful. But they do not fully explain why biodiversity continues to decline even where maps still show forest, laws exist, and international pledges sound ambitious. A territory can be recognized and still be invaded. A satellite can detect illegal clearing and still fail to trigger a penalty. A story can describe crisis and still leave readers unsure what can be done. Six gaps help explain the problem: finance and forest economy, governance, enforcement, forest function, Indigenous rights, and narrative. They overlap in ways that make each harder to close. The finance and forest-economy gap Protecting forests costs money every year. It requires staff, transport, monitoring, community work, legal support, fire control, restoration, and the ability to respond when illegal actors arrive. Yet the money available for those tasks remains far below the scale of the problem. Globally, UNEP estimates that forest investments need to reach about $300 billion a year by 2030 to meet climate, biodiversity, and land-degradation targets. The report also notes that this figure excludes some enabling conditions, including governance and law enforcement, which means the true need is probably higher. The Brazilian Amazon shows the imbalance more clearly. WWF and Conservation Strategy Fund estimate that Brazil needs about $12.8 billion a year to meet forest policy goals. Current positive…This article was originally published on Mongabay