Dar es Salaam – For Moses Oleshengay, a 77-year-old Maasai elder from Endulen, history is repeating itself with tragic familiarity. In 1959, as a young man, he was forcibly relocated from the newly established Serengeti National Park.
He and his community were promised a permanent home in the Ngorongoro Conservation Area. Today, he faces the same threat of eviction from the land that was meant to be his last refuge.
“I recently returned to where my old home was,” recounts Moses. “I didn’t stay long. When the rangers realised I was Maasai—even though I had a regular tourist ticket—they firmly asked me to leave.”
His current reality in Ngorongoro reflects the systematic pressure being applied to him. “Pastoralism is under attack,” he says. “Farming is banned. Schools lack teachers and hospitals lack doctors. Services have been removed. Roads are impassable. Livestock are starving.”
His story is a living testament to a decades-long conflict between a state-driven conservation model and the indigenous communities who have co-existed with wildlife for centuries.
This conflict reached a boiling point with the 2022 “voluntary” relocation exercise in Ngorongoro, which has left a trail of broken families and shattered livelihoods.
A pattern of displacement
The human cost of Tanzania’s conservation policies extends far beyond individual stories. Saningo Olesiapa, a traditional leader from Kayapus in Ngorongoro, challenges the very narrative used to justify relocations.
“The Maasai have lived in Ngorongoro since time immemorial,” says Olesiapa. “We were not brought here by colonialists from Moru. That is a fabricated story. We’ve had eleven full age sets born and raised in Ngorongoro. You can’t count generations like that in just a few decades.”
Moru is another name for the southern Serengeti.
Noorkiponi Mikas Olesilondo’s experience illustrates how families are being torn apart by the relocation policies. Her home in Ngorongoro was demolished after she refused to leave. Her husband, who consented to the move, left with their livestock and two of their children, leaving her destitute.
“When I told my husband I couldn’t relocate, he became fierce and beat me,” she recalls. “I was left homeless, without cows just roaming around, and some of my children were taken away.” Despite her hardship, her resolve remains strong: “I am ready to stay here with nothing as long as I can step on my land.”
The pressure to relocate has been systematic and deliberate. A public employee in the Ngorongoro department, speaking anonymously for fear of retribution, explains the reality behind the government’s “voluntary” claims.
“You can’t put obstacles in someone’s way and still claim they’re choosing freely,” he says. ‘Voluntary’ means I have all my things and freedom and the right to choose, but that’s not the case. There were no public forums to talk to the people and say, ‘We request you to move.’ Nothing like that happened.”
The Ngorongoro Conservation Area Authority (NCAA) did not respond to requests for comment on these matters for this story.
The consequences of this approach are devastating. The anonymous official describes the social fragmentation: “There are men here whose wives are in Msomera. There are women here whose husbands are over there. Children are here while their parents are in Msomera.”
READ MORE: Two Presidential Commissions Launched to Address Ngorongoro Saga
Even those who agreed to relocate found themselves deceived. An anonymous resident who moved to Msomera reveals that when they first arrived, they were told it was an uninhabited conservation area.
“But when we arrived, we found people already living there,” he recounts. “It’s land that was taken from others and repurposed, but originally, people were farming there. So there’s no proper grazing area because it was seized from those we found there.”
Authorities plan to relocate at least 70,000 people. Satellite images analysed by PlaceMarks, an Italian-based organisation specialising in the analysis of satellite imagery, show that new settlements are already under construction in Msomera, Kitwai, and Sauny.
Neither the NCAA nor the Ministry of Natural Resources and Tourism responded to requests for clarification sent by Irpi Media, a partner outlet for this investigation.
Beyond Ngorongoro
The displacement extends far beyond Ngorongoro. The establishment of the Pololeti Game Reserve in 2022, managed by the UAE-linked Otterlo Business Corporation, represents one of the most violent episodes in this conservation campaign.
On June 9, 2022, Tanzanian security forces, including park rangers, police, and military, forcibly evicted over 2,000 Maasai from the area.
Saitoti Parmwaat, a resident of Ololosokwan, witnessed the violence firsthand: “When they approached, they started shooting bullets. Three people were hit immediately.” A young man was killed during the protests, and several people, including children, remain missing.
Metian Tikwa Lekiyony, chairperson of Sanjan village, describing the sudden nature of the evictions, says authorities simply asked them to leave with 24 hours’ notice.
“No explanation, just a command from above,” he says. “It was terrible. Security forces were deployed in large numbers: rangers, police, [the national service] JKT, [Tanzania People’s Defence Force] TPDF. We could recognise their vehicles.”
Mathew Eliakim Siloma, a councillor from Arash, shows the physical evidence of the destruction, a beacon, No. 228, which was installed within Oltinayio Boma at Armanie without his knowledge or consent, without the knowledge of the village or any authority in the district.
“You can see signs of fire—more than ten Maasai houses were set ablaze,” says Siloma, as he points his hand to the area. “These are our traditional houses. It was terrible.”
The impact on access to basic resources has been severe. Lekiyony explains how water access was cut off.
“After the Game Reserve was established, people were no longer allowed to use the water from this tank,” he says while pointing to the tank. “The government cut off the water supply, forcing people to return to Malambo. There used to be more than 1,000 people living here. In fact, there were 1,902 residents before they were displaced.”
The displacement crisis extends to infrastructure development as well. Around Kilimanjaro International Airport, over 15,000 people, mostly Maasai, have lost their homes since 2024.
Lemirai Melubo Siria, an activist documenting these evictions, notes the irony: “When the airport was opened, the people were living there many, many years before even the airport was constructed. So, it doesn’t really make any sense when the government says the people invaded the land.”
Aeneya Loti Mollel, a former resident of the airport area, describes the destruction of his livelihood, noting that after authorities forced him to sign, they left and came back with a grader that demolished the houses.
“Good houses,” he describes them. “They demolished seven of my homes. I had a rainwater collection tank—they destroyed it. I had a shed that held 40 sacks of maize—they destroyed it. My chickens disappeared; some scattered into the wild.”
The business of conservation
Following widespread protests in August 2024, President Samia Suluhu Hassan intervened, ordering the restoration of services in Ngorongoro and establishing two commissions.
One is to investigate the relocation exercise, and the other is to re-evaluate the area’s multiple-land-use plan. Announcing the commissions, President Samia urged them to work freely to help the government find “sustainable solutions.”
However, the underlying economic drivers of displacement remain powerful. Joseph Oleshengay, a human rights lawyer and son of Moses, identifies the root problem: the imported conservation model.
“It is not a homemade experiment,” he notes. “It was brought during colonial times. We have a problem of conservation that was imported. Then we have a problem of conservation that is not founded on morality, but on the idea that we make business out of it.”
Anuradha Mittal of the U.S.-based environmental think tank Oakland Institute describes the broader network behind these policies, which she says involves more than just one actor.
READ MORE: What You Need to Know About the Ngorongoro Maasai Demonstrations in Tanzania
“It’s a web of characters that are responsible for this fortress conservation, creating these areas where you displace people and call them protected areas, so people from outside, people with money, can continue to treat Africa as a playground,” she said during an interview.
Charting a new path
As the nation awaits the findings of the presidential commissions, experts argue that a sustainable solution requires moving beyond the current paradigm, often described as “fortress conservation”—creating pristine, empty wilderness for tourism and hunting by removing its inhabitants.
Matthew Bukhi Mabele, a conservation social scientist at the University of Dodoma, suggests a radical rethinking.
“We need to move away from thinking of a protected area,” he argues. “We have to transform protected areas into promoted areas, facilitating these harmonious ways of engaging and living with natural landscapes.”
This vision involves several key shifts. First, Mabele advocates for inclusive governance that empowers local communities with genuine decision-making power and land titles, rather than the top-down management seen even in community-designated Wildlife Management Areas (WMAs). The goal is to ensure conservation benefits and is led by the people who live with wildlife.
Second, experts call for redefining the human-nature relationship by moving away from the colonial mindset that sees humans, especially indigenous ones, as separate from and a threat to nature.
Joseph Oleshengay articulates the Maasai perspective: “For the Maasai, conservation should be an idea based on moral values. First, we protect the environment, animals, people, and land. Our survival depends on it.”
READ MORE: Lawmaker Accuses Govt of Depriving People of Ngorongoro of Basic Social Services
This involves respecting and integrating traditional ecological knowledge to create a model based on co-existence, recognising that communities like the Maasai have been stewards of the land for generations.
Third, there is a push for alternative economic models that develop and prioritise revenue streams beyond trophy hunting, such as high-value ecotourism and innovative schemes like “wildlife credits.” The goal is to establish a conservation economy that is more equitable and less reliant on extractive practices.
Projects are already exploring these alternatives. In the Kitenden corridor, the Swiss-based wildlife conservation group World Wide Fund for Nature is piloting a “wildlife credits” project, aiming to create tradable credits that provide financial returns to the community for protecting elephant populations.
Finally, experts propose financial support mechanisms that establish funds to directly compensate communities for the costs and challenges of living alongside wildlife, such as livestock predation.
Mabele emphasises this need: “We also need to find a mechanism that would facilitate, particularly financial mechanisms, that would facilitate the costs of living around and adjacent to these wild animals.”
Bram Büscher, chair of the Department of Development and Change Sociology at Wageningen University, contests this view. In an interview, he said: “Since 1960, the number of protected areas has grown ten- or fifteen-fold, and conservation funding has never been higher. Yet the extinction crisis has worsened.”
The professor points out that the system favours the protection of iconic species, ignoring the broader collapse of ecosystems, adding: “Many insects, amphibians and small mammals are disappearing, but they are not part of the economic priorities of the current model.”
Mittal, on her part, stresses that a genuine solution lies in learning from communities “that have not been pillaging the earth,” a sentiment echoed by the very people affected, who see themselves not as a threat to nature, but as an integral part of it.
However, the paradox of current efforts is that they often operate in the same areas where trophy hunting is permitted, raising questions about their ultimate impact.
READ MORE: Maasai People From Ngorongoro Yearn for Rights Their Fellow Tanzanians Enjoy
“In places where WWF carries out its projects, there are often hunters operating,” Oleshengay notes. “In the last two years, there has been massive elephant slaughter in Enduimet, precisely where they work.”
A future built on partnership
For Moses Oleshengay and his son Joseph, the hope is that the government will finally see them as partners, not obstacles. “I found my father fighting for this land, and now my children are in the same fight,” Moses says.
The struggle is no longer just about resisting eviction; it is about defining the future of conservation in Tanzania—one that can sustain both its world-renowned natural heritage and the communities that call it home.
Experts believe that the path forward requires acknowledging that effective conservation cannot be built on the displacement and impoverishment of indigenous communities.
As the presidential commissions continue their work, the voices from the ground offer a clear message: true conservation must be founded on moral values, community partnership, and respect for the people who have been guardians of these lands for generations.
With reports indicating that Tanzania plans to convert another 7,000 km² into Game Reserves, the question now is whether authorities will listen to these voices and chart a new course—one that moves beyond the fortress model to create a conservation approach that truly serves both people and nature.
This project was funded by the Pulitzer Centre on Reporting Crisis and the Investigative Journalism for Europe Fund (IJ4EU).
One Response
Thoughtful article. In the long run we should vacate the idea of fortress conservation and invest on the community based conservation practice