“Yes, the convicted poacher is my father.” I was stunned to hear these words. The woman in front of me was one of my respondents for our survey in a buffer zone community of Chitwan National Park. This survey was part of a rhino conservation and research program of Greenhood Nepal, focusing on various aspects of conservation with the indigenous communities living nearby. It was the third day of the survey; I visited a home where two cheerful sisters greeted me. Both were married and lived close to each other, which made them frequent companions. They offered me water and tea—a gesture that felt special, as no one else had done so during my survey. Typically, the questionnaire took about 20 minutes, but these women, full of joy and enthusiasm, engaged with each question more eagerly than anyone else. 

Then, I asked, “Has anyone in your village been arrested for poaching?” The elder sister’s face darkened as she replied, “Yes.” When I inquired who it was, she gave me a name. My heart sank. It was the same name I had heard countless times during my survey, even in neighbouring villages. I hesitated before asking, “Is he the same person I’ve been hearing about?” 

“Yes,” she said quietly. “The convicted poacher is my father.” 

For a moment, I was speechless. Their warmth throughout the survey stood in stark contrast to the tragedy they had faced. I gently asked, “When did this happen?” The younger sister explained that it was during the Maoist insurgency. Their father had been arrested in the middle of the night. The family heard the sounds of vehicles, guns, and shouting, and their mother, fearing it was the Maoists, urged her younger daughter to hide a photo of their brother, who was in the Nepal Army—the Maoists’ enemies at the time. But it wasn’t the Maoists. It was the park authorities. 

They took their father away, accused of poaching rhinos for their horns. The younger sister paused, saying, ‘Our father taught us right from wrong. It’s hard for us to believe he would be involved in something like that.’ The elder sister sat in silence, lost in thought, as if reliving difficult memories. I wanted to ask more, but held back, respecting their silence.

Whether he was guilty or not, I felt a deep sadness for the family and the toll this had taken on them. 

“How has life been since then?” I asked. 

“It’s completely changed,” they replied. “People are kind to us in person, but we know they still talk behind our backs. That’s why I mostly keep to my sister,” the younger one said. 

“And your father? How is he now?” 

“He’s fine,” they said. “He finished his time in prison and is back home.” 

“Is everything normal for him?” I asked, though I already sensed the answer. 

“No, it’s not. He stays locked in his room and never leaves the house. People still call him a poacher, even though he’s already served his punishment. They don’t understand,” the younger sister said with frustration. 

I decided not to press further, knowing this wasn’t a story they wanted to keep relieving. 

The convicted poacher, like many others in the community, was a poor man from an indigenous group often involved in poaching. A local leader I spoke to explained that while some of them may have been involved, they were never the masterminds. “How can someone who struggles to feed his family be part of an international wildlife trafficking network? They’re often exploited for a small sum of money, or even just a glass of alcohol.” 

The leader emphasized that while local poachers should be punished, the real problem lay higher up the chain. “Are the masterminds facing the same consequences as the locals?” he asked. I could only nod in agreement. 

That day weighed heavily on me, both mentally and physically. I had countless questions, but one realization stood out: conservation is far more complex than I had imagined. While we fight to save wildlife, local communities struggle to survive. Conservation doesn’t begin and end within the boundaries of national parks—the real challenges often lie outside them.