They finished everything. Even the pumpkins were not spared.
In the shadow of the world's largest transboundary elephant sanctuary, Zambian farmers are discovering that the boundaries drawn between wilderness and survival were never as fixed as maps suggested. Driven from desiccated reserves by a climate crisis they did not cause, hundreds of thousands of elephants are pressing into agricultural land, consuming in a single night what families spent months cultivating. The collision is not merely between species but between two forms of desperation — and in one of the world's poorest nations, the human cost is falling entirely on those least equipped to bear it.
- Elephants displaced by record drought are raiding farms weeks earlier than historical patterns, obliterating entire harvests before families can bring in a single kilogram.
- At least ten people have died in human-elephant encounters, and the psychological weight of losing everything overnight is compounding a malnutrition crisis already stunting one in three Zambian children under five.
- Farmers are resorting to chili-soaked rags, fire, and noise to hold back herds of animals that outweigh every deterrent available to them — and rangers acknowledge that once elephants enter a field, the damage cannot be undone.
- The government has responded with photographs and suggestions to hire private security — an answer so disconnected from rural poverty that farmers describe it as no answer at all.
- With no compensation mechanism, no subsidies, and no effective policy response, hundreds of farming families have been left destitute by a crisis that sits at the intersection of climate change, conservation policy, and extreme inequality.
Veronica Akabondo spent months tending the maize that would feed the eight children in her care. One morning she walked out to find it gone — roughly six thousand kilograms consumed overnight by a herd of elephants. Not even the pumpkins survived. Across southern Zambia, farmers are describing the same catastrophe: elephant raids arriving earlier in the season than anyone can remember, stripping fields before harvest and leaving families with nothing.
The deeper cause is the climate crisis reshaping the region. Severe droughts have dried up the water sources and stripped the vegetation that Zambia's elephants depend on, pushing them out of protected areas like Mosi-oa-Tunya National Park in search of food and water. Zambia sits at the center of the Kavango-Zambezi Transfrontier Conservation Area, home to more than 200,000 elephants — the largest population on Earth. That system was designed to give these animals safe corridors. Instead, drought has compressed their range directly into the farmland where some of the world's poorest people have built their livelihoods.
The consequences have turned deadly. At least ten people have died in human-elephant encounters, and some desperate farmers have killed elephants that entered their fields. Traditional deterrents — chili-soaked cloth, fire, noise — offer little when a herd has already decided to move. Rangers acknowledge the hard truth: once elephants are in a field, the damage is done.
What sharpens the crisis into something close to abandonment is the complete absence of a safety net. When Akabondo reported her loss to government officials, they came, took photographs, and left. The only official suggestion has been to hire private guards — an expense that is both unaffordable and, as Akabondo notes, dangerous. Zambia already struggles with severe malnutrition, with roughly one-third of children under five showing stunted growth. When a family's entire harvest disappears in a single night, they lose not just income but their primary source of food. Hundreds of families now face that reality, caught between two species driven to desperation by a changing climate — and receiving help from neither.
Veronica Akabondo woke one morning to find her maize field destroyed. The 60-year-old farmer in Livingstone, Zambia, had spent months tending the crop, expecting a harvest that would feed the eight children in her care. Instead, a herd of elephants had come in the night and eaten everything—roughly 6,000 kilograms of maize, worth about $2,700. "They finished everything," she says, standing in the trampled remains. "Even the pumpkins I had planted in the same field were not spared."
Akabondo's loss is not isolated. Across southern Zambia, farmers are reporting an unprecedented surge in elephant raids on their fields, arriving earlier in the season than they ever have before and destroying crops with devastating efficiency. Kennedy Muleya, 53, experienced the same catastrophe in February. "In the past, elephants appeared around May to July," he says. "But this time they came while crops were still in the fields." When he and his neighbors ventured out the next morning to assess the damage, they found nothing left. "This is the food we depend on," Muleya recalls. "Now we have nothing."
The cause lies in the climate crisis gripping the region. Zambia, already one of the world's poorest nations with more than 60 percent of its 21 million people living below the poverty line, has been hammered by extreme weather in recent years—severe droughts punctuated by violent flooding. These conditions have dried up the water sources and depleted the vegetation that elephants depend on. The animals, displaced from their usual migratory routes, are venturing out of protected areas like Mosi-oa-Tunya National Park in desperate search of food and water. According to a 2025 United Nations Development Programme report, the situation has become acute: "For the animals, particularly the elephants, this is a matter of survival. Their water sources have dried up, and their typical food sources are dwindling."
Zambia sits at the heart of the Kavango-Zambezi Transfrontier Conservation Area, the world's largest transboundary conservation zone, spanning Angola, Botswana, Namibia, Zambia, and Zimbabwe. The region is home to more than 200,000 elephants—the largest population of these mammals anywhere on Earth. The conservation area was designed to provide safe migratory corridors for these animals. But the system is buckling under pressure. Elephants from neighboring countries have migrated into Zambian parks, and the drought has compressed their range into agricultural zones where farmers have built their livelihoods. The situation has grown so tense that at least 10 deaths linked to human-elephant encounters have been reported, and some desperate farmers have killed elephants that entered their fields.
The timing of the elephant incursions has made the problem worse. Rwinick Mapanza, president of the Livingstone District Farmers' Cooperative Union, notes that heavy rains produced abundant fresh vegetation that drew the animals into Zambia—a territory they prefer during wetter seasons. But the elephants arrived while crops were still standing, not after harvest. Farmers have tried traditional deterrents: banging cans, lighting fires, and spreading clothing soaked in chili and grease, a cheap method that irritates the animals' sensitive trunks. "Once elephants get into the fields, the damage is done," says Wilfred Moonga, a ranger with Zambia's Department of National Parks and Wildlife.
What makes the crisis even more acute is the absence of any safety net. Farmers have received no compensation for their losses and no subsidies to help them protect their crops more effectively. When Akabondo reported her destroyed field to government officials, they visited, took photographs, and left. Nothing has followed. The only suggestion from authorities has been to hire private guards—a solution that is both expensive and, in Akabondo's view, reckless. "We would be putting lives at risk," she says. "Elephants are too dangerous."
The human toll extends beyond the farmers themselves. Zambia is already struggling with severe malnutrition: roughly one-third of children under five show stunted development due to poor nutrition. When families lose their entire maize harvest in a single night, they lose not just income but their primary food source. Hundreds of farming families across the region now face destitution, their livelihoods erased by animals driven to desperation by a changing climate. The farmers are asking for help from a government that, so far, has offered none. "We are really suffering," they say.
Notable Quotes
For the animals, particularly the elephants, this is a matter of survival. Their water sources have dried up, and their typical food sources are dwindling.— United Nations Development Programme, 2025 report
Once elephants get into the fields, the damage is done.— Wilfred Moonga, ranger with Zambia's Department of National Parks and Wildlife
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why are the elephants coming now, when they didn't before?
The drought has dried up their water sources and killed off the vegetation they normally eat. They're not invading—they're starving. And the timing is cruel: they're arriving while the crops are still standing, not after harvest.
But Zambia has these massive protected areas, right? The conservation zones?
Yes, but they're overwhelmed. Elephants from Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Namibia have migrated in. The system was designed to let them move freely, but the climate has compressed everything into smaller areas with more animals competing for less food.
What happens to a farmer like Akabondo after she loses her crop?
She has eight children to feed and no income. The government took photographs of her destroyed field and did nothing. She has no compensation, no subsidy, no way to protect herself except hiring guards she can't afford and doesn't trust.
Are people dying?
Yes. At least 10 deaths from human-elephant encounters have been reported. Some farmers have killed elephants in self-defense. It's becoming a cycle of desperation on both sides.
What's the actual solution here?
That's the question no one is answering. The elephants need to eat. The farmers need to eat. The climate keeps getting worse. Without compensation, without deterrent technology, without a real plan, both are just losing.