The War on Poaching Has Gone Full Tech Dystopia—and It May Not Be Working

Gizmodo · Feb 28, 2026 · Collected from RSS

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Forget khaki shorts and binoculars: Modern wildlife conservation has morphed into something that looks less like protecting elephants and more like a video game, although with more real-world consequences. With AI-powered surveillance systems, military drones circling over national parks, ex-special forces contractors hunting poachers, and vast satellite imagery, the old safari ranger clichés are all at play. This is the 21st-century battleground for endangered species, which often goes unnoticed by those normally concerned about biodiversity as we race through the Sixth Extinction. Conservation has rebranded itself as a “crisis discipline” over the years, where every decision feels like defusing a bomb with seconds on the clock. Species extinctions loom, so much of the industry has embraced a scorched-earth mentality: deploy counter-insurgency tactics borrowed from Iraq and Afghanistan, militarize rangers into paramilitary units, and turn African wilderness into monitored conflict zones. Organizations like the non-governmental African Parks now manage a staggering 2,000-strong ranger force across the continent—a private army bigger than some nations’ militaries, as Mongabay recently reported. But green militarization isn’t just dystopian theater. Human rights abuses are often reported, community privacy is sacrificed for mass surveillance, and local populations who are already marginalized by colonial-era conservation policies face violent enforcement. Meanwhile, the root causes of poaching, including crushing poverty, land dispossession, and historical injustice, can be sidelined in many cases. This enforcement-first approach swallowed up millions of U.S. international conservation dollars as late as 2018, and experts now warn that the recent, abrupt elimination of foreign aid pipelines since the Trump administration obliterated them will create a dangerous vacuum increasingly filled by unaccountable private sector and NGO actors. Park rangers at Murchison Falls National Park in Uganda assemble for a briefing before a joint activity during a public event inside the park / Credit: Gerald Tenywa In the village of Huntingdon, South Africa, the tragedy often began with a sound from the sky. In research conducted near Kruger National Park, published in 2022, residents described the terror of surveillance helicopters flying so low over their homes that they woke sleeping children and shook the roofs — a signal that the village was “under the spotlight” and a raid was imminent. For these families, technology ushered in brutality. One resident recounted that when security forces arrived, often acting on surveillance data, they would “kick your door down” and terrorize the household. And the human cost of this dragnet has been visceral: in extreme cases, residents described how suspects were “tied [by their] private parts with an elastic band” during torture sessions to extract information. The outcome has even been fatal in some cases. “Whether you are poaching or not, as long as you are found inside the park you will be killed,” reported one resident in another piece of research published on Kruger. Technology designed to protect endangered species has helped convert some conservation areas into zones where, as some residents put it, “wildlife is valued more than human life.” Over the course of several months, we filed scores of public records requests with the US government, interviewed dozens of officials in South Africa and Uganda, and sought input from researchers who study the militarization–and increasingly the surveillance focus–of wildlife conservation in sub-Saharan Africa. Perhaps most importantly, we interviewed people living near protected areas who have been part of the global efforts to combat wildlife trafficking, like those in Huntingdon. While much remains opaque about this story, everyone points out that the times are unprecedented, and it remains unclear how internationally funded conservation efforts will approach their work going forward. South Africa: Green Violence and Apartheid Echoes Passing by a college near Kruger National Park in South Africa, Anika* sees “tall poles, sleek cameras, boxes on fences… every vehicle scanned; my [truck] logged twice.” She adds, “Now I feel a low‑grade anxiety… if I drive to a community meeting about land rights, will my plate be flagged? That’s the chilling effect; you start to self‑censor your movements.” (*Not her real name; a pseudonym to protect her identity out of fear of reprisal from law enforcement.) Meanwhile, a local community leader nearby suggests that intensified security has made some residents feel “safer and freer,” yet he warns that accountability remains elusive as suspects are often questioned and released without community feedback. This fragile peace has transformed the region into what Anika describes as a “conservation-industrial corridor.” A lot has changed, and a lot hasn’t, since Kruger first entered the world’s stage as a conservation success story. Pole‑mounted surveillance node with clustered fixed cameras, multidirectional eyes scanning along Kruger National Park electric fence © Rifumo Mathebula. Courtesy Oxpeckers The park is inarguably a conservation success story on the African continent, hosting some of South Africa’s most iconic wildlife species. Established in 1898, Kruger is a massive, highly biodiverse South African reserve famous for its “Big Five” wildlife and world-class infrastructure that attracts millions of visitors annually. But depending on whom you speak with, it’s also a monument to state violence wearing an environmental mask. The architect of Kruger National Park’s modern anti-poaching strategy was Johan Jooste, an apartheid-era general who imported the counter-insurgency playbook perfected against Black liberation movements and aimed it at armed poachers, with reported cases of impoverished local people hunting bushmeat or just living nearby becoming targets. That there isn’t massive outcry among international donors tells much about who conservation is really designed to protect. And while it seems that Kruger National Park and many conservation NGOs in South Africa and beyond have changed both their rhetoric and how they talk about green militarization, questions remain. “There has been a marked improvement with regards to community engagement, [but] I wouldn’t say that the infrastructure is dismantled though,” said Annette Hübschle, a University of Cape Town researcher who has studied militarization around Kruger for many years. Hübschle added that the recent withdrawal of international donor support has accelerated a regression in strategy: “Fantastic programming involving communities, social welfare and educational initiatives have been defunded. So there has been a focus on hard power [now].” Jooste himself defended this militarized turn as a matter of necessity. In an interview with Hübschle, he argued that the rhino poaching crisis in Kruger was at a point of no return: “When you look at the figures you wonder if it might be too late for the rhino of Kruger or for the whole rhino species,” and that rangers had to be trained as a paramilitary corps to survive daily armed encounters. In a tell-all book, which was later made into a film, he insisted his campaign was professional, guided by rules of engagement, reinforced by surveillance systems, tracker dogs, and intelligence platforms. By his account, ranger services respected communities and he always instructed his rangers that “nobody can ever point a finger at you and suggest that you’ve abused or taken your authority outside the park.” This defense stands in stark contrast to independent scholarly critique. South African conservation scholar Ashwell Glasson describes the “hybrid” nature of militarized conservation, where equipment, tactics, and mindset blur into a security doctrine rooted in colonial and apartheid legacies. “You often hear the term ‘protected area integrity,’” he explains, “but it is really a militarized ranger corps doing law enforcement to ‘protect’ those areas.” The result is a model that privileges surveillance and force over ecological work or community trust, which set the stage for Kruger’s counter‑insurgency approach. Ashwell Glasson stands with Yakos, a ranger dog wounded in anti‑poaching operations and retired due to injuries. Credit: Rifumo Mathebula The numbers from Kruger’s neighboring communities in light of this have read like a serious indictment of protected area officials. In research published in 2022 but dating back a decade, geographer Mbuelo Laura Mashau noted that in the villages of Justicia and Huntingdon, community members living alongside wildlife for generations witnessed a culture of militarized conservation-related actions. When an animal was killed inside, Kruger armed rangers didn’t investigate; they often invaded. A staggering 88.7% of Justicia residents and 98.7% in Huntingdon report experiencing armed home raids, with security personnel ransacking houses in search of wildlife parts. While South African law is not explicit on these matters, the country’s Criminal Procedures Act does allow for warrantless searches. According to Mashau’s results, between 95.4% and 100% of surveyed community members in the two villages reported that anyone suspected of poaching faces systematic beatings or outright torture by security forces. Virtually everyone had witnessed or experienced this brutality firsthand in fenceline communities. In Huntingdon, 100% of respondents said that suspected poachers are killed inside the park boundaries, often with no attempt at arrest or trial. “Despite the scale of the wildlife economy in the region, local communities, especially those in Mozambique and near Kruger’s western boundary, remain largely excluded from meaningful, long-term economic opportunities. Current conservation models largely limit local communities to low-wage roles in anti-poaching units, maintenance, and t