It is an alarming and bitter truth: not once have I heard the call of a wild Hornbill in Nagaland. As I occasionally interact with school students, most think the Hornbill is the state bird of Nagaland- poor Tragopan, stuck playing second fiddle in a band it technically leads, ask the children about hornbill though and you might as well be describing a unicorn with a helmet, that’s how fast legends go extinct. But what does it mean for a cultural symbol to be on the brink of extinction? Why don’t we see Hornbills flying through the untouched forests of East Nagaland? What about the few glimpses now and then in the news and papers? Are they residents of this land, or just passing visitors from elsewhere? I think deep down, we already know the answers to half of the above questions. Which begs another question: just how many Hornbill sightings have been documented in Nagaland in the past 10 years? According to sources, only a few hornbills have been sighted in the last four to five years- Isolated reports include the rare sighting of six birds at Khar Village, Mokokchung in 2016. And not forgetting the Great Indian Hornbill of Wokha, whose graceful flight ended not in the forest canopy, but in a cautionary tale we now awkwardly retell at conservation workshops.
But, then again, hold on. These sightings, however scattered, might not just be flyover. They could be fragile signs of persistence. Hornbills are notoriously elusive, especially in disturbed habitats- and in conservation science, even a single breeding pair can spark cautious hope. If fruiting trees still exist in patches, and if local hunting pressure has declined in certain areas, these birds might be clinging on quietly, resiliently. Perhaps these sightings aren’t just echoes, but the beginning- the first whispers of a return, if we’re willing to listen. Or…I would argue, what if these sightings are not signs of a surviving population, but simply fleeting visits? – Nagaland may no longer offer the stable conditions Hornbills need to settle and breed. These birds are not your average opportunistic city survivors like crows or pigeons; they are forest specialists, they depend of ancient trees, seasonal fruiting cycles, and most importantly, undisturbed canopy. So, the hornbills we see today may be outsiders- wanderers navigating a once familiar landscape. The ones that used to belong here, the ones our forefathers knew by their sounds and silhouette, maybe long gone. If we mistake a pit stop for a homecoming, just because a few hornbills pass overhead doesn’t mean they’re unpacking their bags and settling in. Habitat for birds like Hornbills isn’t just background scenery- it is everything. They need tall, old-growth trees with deep hollows to nest in, a steady supply of native fruiting trees to feed on, and large, connected forest patches to safely move through. These aren’t casual preferences- they’re strict requirements shaped by evolution. And right now, much of that critical infrastructure is missing or far less for them to bother. A Hornbill gliding through your village at dawn might be more like a tourist on a detour- curious, maybe even impressed, but not ready to move in. And hornbills aren’t known for making poor life choices when it comes to real estate. You could say the hornbills that pass over are like long-distance travelers looking for a hotel- but finding all the doors locked, the rooms stripped bare, and the roof half missing. If only they had the right accommodation- the right trees, food, and safety- perhaps they’d stay. Perhaps they’d nest. Perhaps they’d raise the next generation right here, where their ancestors once thrived. So yes, we can take heart in the sighting- but only if that pushes us to rebuild what’s been lost, not lull us into thinking nature is fixing itself, while we sit back and watch.
I remember my mentor, who once worked at the Nagaland Zoological Park, telling me something that stayed with me: “Hornbills are more loyal than humans.” he shared the story of a female Rufous-necked hornbill who had lost her mate- and how, despite all efforts, pairing her with a new male seemed almost impossible. She refused to accept him. She kept to herself, distant and unmoved, as if still mourning. For Hornbills, pairing is for life, and once that bond is broken, it’s not easily replaced.
Some Hornbills never breed again. So when a nesting tree is felled or a mate is lost, it isn’t just one life that ends; we lose generations of them. That’s why the quiet in our forests today isn’t just ecological. It’s generational- a kind of grief that builds slowly, until it becomes silence.
When a cultural symbol like the Hornbill teeters on the brink of extinction, it’s more than just the loss of a species- It’s the slow silencing of a story that has lived in the bones of people for generations. It means a shared memory is fading, a thread in the fabric of identity is frying. In the case of hornbills in Nagaland, it’s not just a bird vanishing into the misty hills- it’s the echoes of folktales, the pride in warrior headdresses, the heartbeat of festivals like the hornbill Festival itself, all growing fainter. When that symbol disappears, so does the bridge between past and present- the reminder that culture is not just what we celebrate, but what we protect. The extinction of a cultural symbol doesn’t happen in silence – it happens in the absence of songs once sung, rituals once performed, and children no longer asking, “What is that bird with the giant beak that looks like a unicorn?” It’s loss layered with meaning, not just ecological, but ancestral. Remember…A forest without Hornbills may still stand, but it no longer speaks.
Tekameren I Jamir
M.Sc.Wildlife Science
Eco Warriors Nagaland.
Saturday, August 9, 2025