KOYRA, Bangladesh — As the Shakbaria river recedes during low tide, it reveals a treacherous mudbank separating Suranjan Raptan from the edge of the Sundarbans, the planet’s largest tidal mangrove forest. For four decades, Raptan has traversed this narrow strip to harvest leaves, roots, and bark, using them to create remedies as a traditional healer, known locally as a kabiraj.
Recently, however, the 40-year-old healer has noticed a stark decline in the availability of these natural medicines. After borrowing his uncle Chapal Raptan’s boat to venture into the forest, he navigated the muddy waters to reach the mangroves. While the ecosystem remains rich with wildlife—evidenced by fresh deer tracks and the calls of kingfishers—Raptan laments that the landscape has changed significantly since Cyclone Aila struck in 2009.
“Before Cyclone Aila, the forest was so dense that sunlight could not enter,” Raptan recalled. “Since then, it has thinned. The forest feels empty.” He noted that the most dramatic shift occurred around 2015 and 2016, when previously shaded areas began receiving direct sunlight, and rare species such as the Sundari tree became increasingly difficult to locate.
The Sundarbans spans 10,000 square kilometers across Bangladesh and India, hosting the Royal Bengal tiger, saltwater crocodiles, and over 300 plant species. It is home to nearly 2.7 million people in surrounding coastal districts. Rising sea levels are pushing saltwater deeper into the ecosystem, a process that is decimating the salt-sensitive medicinal flora that Raptan and other traditional healers rely upon.
Raptan’s knowledge is part of a hereditary lineage spanning three generations, passed down orally through practice rather than written records. He recalls a time, roughly twenty years ago, when his yard was crowded with patients seeking treatment for coughs, fevers, wounds, and stomach ailments. Today, the clientele has dwindled to a small fraction of its former size.
This decline is driven by two converging factors. First, environmental degradation is reducing the supply of medicinal plants. Second, the healthcare landscape in Bangladesh has shifted. Since 2009, the government has revitalized its community clinic program, establishing approximately 14,000 clinics by 2015 to provide basic care in remote areas. Coupled with a proliferation of retail pharmacies where over-the-counter drugs are widely available, many villagers now prefer modern medicine.
“Younger villagers increasingly turned to clinics, doctors and pharmacies,” Raptan observed. “Many of those who continued to seek help from kabiraj are older or have few affordable alternatives.”
Despite the shrinking demand and the environmental challenges, Raptan remains committed to his practice on principle. Recently welcoming his first daughter, he emphasized that he never charged for his services, accepting only whatever offerings patients could provide. He also noted changing weather patterns, remarking that the air no longer cools after rain as it once did, forcing him to keep a fan running even after rainy nights.
For Raptan, the loss of these plants represents more than a professional setback; it is the erosion of a cultural pharmacy deeply intertwined with the health and identity of the Sundarbans community.
Three generations of oral history vanishing because the trees are dying. Where is the policy protecting both the forest and the healers?
Wait, he says he never charges? That seems incredibly noble but also fragile when the environment itself is under such severe pressure.
I never realized saltwater intrusion could be so devastating to medicinal plants. We need more scientific documentation of these dying traditions.
Are the government clinics actually accessible enough for these remote islanders? The article suggests modern medicine is easy, but transport is tough.
It breaks my heart to hear about Kabiraj Raptan losing his livelihood. This is not just ecology; it is cultural erasure.