In Thar, Deer Are Family—Until Hunters Arrive

Ali Nawaz Rahimoo

Umarkot: At dawn, when the first light spills gently over the rolling sand dunes of Tharparkar, the desert breathes peace. The wind moves softly across golden sands, peacocks call from distant rooftops, and for a fleeting moment, the world feels untouched.

Tharparkar, in the eastern reaches of Sindh, is not merely a land reduced to drought statistics and barren maps. It is a living, breathing sanctuary of culture, faith and coexistence—where humans, animals and nature have shared space for centuries in quiet harmony.

Among the most cherished beings of this land is the chinkara deer—delicate, alert and graceful. For the people of Thar, the chinkara is not wildlife in an abstract sense; it is a neighbour, a companion, almost kin. Children grow up watching deer leap across dunes, women whisper prayers as herds pass nearby, and elders speak of them with affection and reverence.

Yet today, this peace is being shattered.

Despite clear laws and declared sanctuaries, blood continues to seep into Thar’s sacred sands. In February 2017, the Sindh government declared a 940-square-kilometre area of Tharparkar a Chinkara Wildlife Sanctuary, formally banning the hunting of deer and birds. The Sindh Wildlife Protection, Preservation, Conservation and Management Act, 2020 further strengthened these safeguards, prescribing imprisonment, heavy fines and the seizure of weapons and vehicles used in poaching.

On paper, protection appears strong. In reality, the desert tells another story.

Illegal hunting continues in Tharparkar with alarming boldness. Armed groups drive deep into the dunes using modern firearms and trained dogs. These are not covert operations hidden under the cover of darkness. They often unfold in broad daylight. Gunshots echo where silence once reigned. Videos circulate, whispers spread, and communities watch helplessly.

This defiance exposes a painful truth: the law exists, but its spirit rarely reaches the sand.

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The Sindh Wildlife Department carries the responsibility of protecting these sanctuaries, yet it operates under severe constraints. Vast desert stretches are guarded by too few staff, often without vehicles, fuel or basic equipment. One guard may be responsible for hundreds of square kilometres of unforgiving terrain.

But limited resources alone do not explain why poaching persists.

The deeper wound lies in selective enforcement. FIRs are delayed, investigations weakened and prosecutions diluted—particularly when influential hunters are involved. Political pressure, silent compromises and institutional hesitation have fostered a culture of impunity. When the powerful hunt, the law often looks away.

And yet, amid this imbalance of power, the true guardians of Thar have emerged: its people.

Villagers across Tharparkar have repeatedly risked their lives to protect wildlife. They have intercepted poachers, rescued wounded animals and, at times, physically detained hunters until authorities arrived. These acts are not driven by reward or recognition, but by love—a profound moral connection to the land and all that lives upon it.

This bond was most powerfully displayed after the brutal killing of eight rare chinkara deer. In an act that shook the conscience of the nation, the people of Thar held a collective burial ceremony. Hindus and Muslims stood shoulder to shoulder. Graves were dug. Prayers were offered. Tears flowed freely.

The deer were mourned as family, not animals.

It was an extraordinary moment—perhaps the first time in recorded history that wildlife received full funeral rites across faiths. The message was unmistakable: in Thar, life is sacred, regardless of species.

Here, coexistence is not poetry; it is practice. Peacocks wander freely through courtyards, perching atop choonara—the cone-shaped thatched huts of the desert. Deer move fearlessly near homes. Folklore speaks of women nursing orphaned fawns alongside their own children.

Tharis believe harming wildlife disrupts the balance of life and invites misfortune. This worldview stands in stark contrast to trophy hunters who see animals as targets, status symbols or entertainment.

Hunting in Thar is not new, but its scale and cruelty have escalated. Modern weapons, vehicles and political patronage have transformed sporadic poaching into organised destruction. Past cases have implicated influential figures, even those linked to law enforcement, reinforcing the belief that hunting continues not because laws are weak—but because they are unevenly applied.

The ecological cost is devastating.

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Tharparkar shelters chinkara, nilgai, wolves, hyenas, caracals, desert cats, pangolins and desert hares. It lies along a vital route for migratory birds—flamingos, cranes, bustards and birds of prey—supported by wetlands linked to the Rann of Kutch, a Ramsar site.

Yet no comprehensive wildlife census exists, leaving conservation blind and reactive.

The killing of female deer is particularly catastrophic. Chinkara reproduce slowly, and the loss of breeding females accelerates extinction, unraveling the fragile ecological balance of the desert.

Despite provincial laws, Tharparkar lacks a dedicated conservation policy backed by political will. Elected representatives remain largely silent, while local communities stand alone on the front lines of protection.

The truth is painfully clear.

The ban exists.

The law is written.

The people are ready.

What is missing is courage—moral and institutional.

Illegal hunting in Thar is not merely an environmental crime. It is a failure of governance. It is a failure of justice. And above all, it is a failure of conscience.

As the sun sets over the dunes, peace briefly returns to the desert. But beneath the silence lies fear. If the powerful continue to hunt while the law remains timid, the songs of peacocks may fade, the soft steps of deer may vanish, and Thar’s ancient harmony may be lost forever.

Thar is peaceful.

Its dunes whisper calm.

Its deer are gentle.

It is time the law finally stood with them.

The writer is a social development professional based in Umerkot, Sindh. He can be contacted on anrahimoo@gmail.com. 

The article is the writer’s opinion, it may or may not adhere to the organization’s editorial policy.