It has been a hard week for Alexander Bołbot. The vice director of nature protection at Bialowieza National Park has spent most of it battling what he calls “online hate,” not the usual fare for a nature protection official. His stress is palpable, mirrored by the heavy spring rain outside his office.

The trouble began on the grass less than a hundred yards from his window, when rangers shot a beloved local bison that had wandered into town. The death of “Borys” ignited a social media firestorm, a testament to the deep public affection for an animal synonymous with national identity, even gracing the iconic Zubrowka vodka bottle.

It is no wonder that Poles are protective of the animal: After all, they brought the bison back from the brink of extinction. But this success, celebrated globally as a conservation triumph, with over 12,000 of the creatures living across Europe, masks a brewing crisis. The primordial forests of Bialowieza National Park, the bison’s ancestral home, now border villages and farms, a stark contrast to the open plains they once roamed. This proximity has turned success into a problem: Bison increasingly raid fields, and in some cases have injured people, opening a Pandora’s box of liability and public anger.

“It was a very aggressive animal, which had been transported at least twice deep into the forest. It kept coming back, disturbing the residents,” explained Elwira Plis-Kuprianowicz, a national park vet, visibly irritated by media inquiries about what would happen to the “meat” from Borys. “The animal got so used to living around humans that it showed no fear. … There was no other solution”.

This is the story of a species that humans brought back from the brink of extinction without fully anticipating the consequences. The Polish bison is both a conservation triumph and a cautionary tale. From just 12 surviving individuals to over 12,000 within a century, its recovery marks one of the most remarkable achievements in modern wildlife preservation. Yet the original goal was never true ecological restoration. As Bołbot points out, the concept of a freely functioning, self-sustaining population was absent from early plans. “Those who saved the bison did not create space for it,” he explains. The bison was saved so it could be hunted again. As if to emphasize the point, Bołbot’s office stands in place of the old hunting lodge used by Russian tsars.

As the bison population swells and conflicts escalate, two fundamentally opposing conservation philosophies are clashing in Poland. One advocates for regular culling and regulated trophy-hunting to manage the growing numbers. The other calls for ending supplementary feeding and allowing the animals to disperse naturally into open landscapes. The irony is sharp: The bison is a national symbol and tourist attraction, yet its costly upkeep in Poland is barely covered by the private sector. The conflicts and ideological clashes over its management now ripple across the continent. In Spain, far outside the bison’s natural range, wealthy landowners can apply to host the animals on their estates, offering safari-style experiences to tourists. Conservationists in Romania are taking a different path — rejecting the more controlled Polish model in favor of true rewilding, allowing bison to fend for themselves and reclaim their place in the wild, unaided.

Now, a new era is unfolding, one that demands thoughtful decisions about how the bison fits into contemporary ecosystems and human society. Its survival is no longer in question; how we choose to live alongside it is.

Tsar Nicholas II of Russia looking at a slain bison during a hunting expedition in the Bialowieza Forest in 1897. (Laski Diffusion/Getty) Historically, the bison was a prized trophy for Polish kings and, later, Russian emperors. By the 1910s, relentless hunting and poaching had brought the species to the edge of extinction. It was rescued by a coalition of conservationists and sport hunters, an unusual alliance that ensured its survival but left a complicated legacy.

Today’s situation is also rooted in decades of land-use policies from the 1960s and 1970s that aimed to make all idle land “productive,” which was often achieved through large-scale afforestation. Forest clearings, meadows and open landscapes were overtaken by trees, with little consideration for the habitat needs of wildlife. This approach erased the gradual, naturally diverse transitions between forest and farmland, once a natural buffer zone between bison and people.

But forests alone have proven inadequate to meet the bison’s basic needs. Across Poland, the species now relies heavily on supplemental feeding, especially in winter when natural forage is scarce. In Bialowieza, bison are fed for up to seven months each year, with each animal receiving around 22 pounds of hay each day, plus several more of sugar beet. This is meant to keep them healthy and deter them from wandering into fields and villages. So far, it has achieved limited success.

Professor Wanda Olech, at times called the “bearer of the bison-protection tradition” and a pivotal figure in the species’ recovery since the late 1980s, advocates for active management. In her Warsaw office, decorated with bison and cow plush animals, she says, “If we don’t regulate the population, we will face either mass starvation, disease outbreaks or public demand for extreme removals later.”

Olech, a scholar at the Warsaw University of Life Sciences, may have an abiding fondness for bison, but it never softens her no-nonsense demeanor. She wears a necklace of a bison she brought back from Colorado. “Nobody can tell it’s the American bison,” she says of the creature’s stockier, lower-headed distant cousin.

With the entire population descending from just a handful of individuals, the species remains highly vulnerable to illness. Olech’s vision would see 30,000 bison roaming Europe, managed through controversial methods like regulated trophy-hunting and the selling of meat. She argues this would make the animal profitable, fostering human acceptance and a return to a historical relationship with the species.

It is conservationism, she argues, that needs to dramatically change course. “We saved the European bison from extinction. Now we must ensure it has a sustainable future.”

This includes culling, which until recently was widely used for managing population size, preserving genetic stability and addressing human-wildlife conflicts. Over the past decade, nearly 400 bison were culled in Poland, mostly due to diseases such as thelaziasis, which causes blindness, or tuberculosis.

Bołbot is quick to explain that this should never be done commercially. “We need a professional to shoot a bison, not a Sunday tourist,” he says. “We don’t want to have a conflict of interest in which we earn money from killing a protected species.”

Until 2018, hunters, most of whom were foreign, were allowed to come and shoot the bison in the national forest for sport. After the environmental organization Greenpeace proved that a much higher percentage of animals were shot there than in other, noncommercial protected areas, the practice was banned.

But not all conservationists and scientists agree with Olech’s approach. Just a few minutes’ walk from Bołbot’s office is the Mammal Research Institute of the Polish Academy of Sciences. The building hums with conversations in dozens of languages, as researchers from around the world gather to share knowledge and experiences. Only the top floor remains silent. Beneath its slanted ceilings, hundreds of bison skulls lie in rows of metal cabinets, collected over decades, whenever possible, from nearly every creature that has died.

Polish biologist Rafał Kowalczyk, the institute’s former director, champions a self-regulating approach. His research supports the “refugee species” theory: Bison, historically plains dwellers, were pushed into suboptimal forest environments by human activity. Kowalczyk believes that the science used currently for bison management — supplementary feeding and strict control — is dated. “Feeding, strict control and culling only create more issues,” he says. His ideas run contrary to the very ethics of conservation. He advocates ending supplementary feeding, which paradoxically leads to healthier, less disease-prone herds and allows natural dispersal.

Poland’s rewilding success has inspired projects across Europe, but with varied outcomes.

In the Andujar Sierra of Spain, 18 bison, handpicked by Olech, arrived on giant trucks five years ago, under the curious gaze of locals. “We tried to keep it quiet for months, and then the truck drove through town. A huge truck with bison pictures all over it. It was a crazy weekend,” recalls 33-year-old Jessica Hohne.

Together with her husband Alexander, 35, the South African couple had taken on a bold project: introducing bison to their 1,000-hectare estate, El Encinarejo, the furthest point from the species’ natural range. It was a passion project: Both grew up in families where game capture and managing large tracts of land were part of daily life, making the challenge feel familiar, even if the species was not.

Today, tourists travel to these rocky hills for the rare chance to see bison, which are usually associated with cold, green forests, roaming under the Spanish sun. The luckiest visitors might also catch a glimpse of another elusive resident of the estate: the Iberian lynx, one of the world’s rarest wild cats.

The project was far from universally welcomed. It received a frosty reception from some in the scientific community, who compared the relocation of bison from Poland to the potentially harmful introduction of an exotic species into a Mediterranean ecosystem. A group of 12 experts — including Miguel Delibes de Castro, the world’s foremost authority on the Iberian lynx — petitioned the Andalusian authorities to halt the project, demanding a thorough scientific assessment before the animals were introduced. The authorities declined to intervene, but the criticism didn’t stop there.

A second group of 40 scientists, including Kowalczyk, published an academic paper the following year opposing the introduction of bison to the Iberian Peninsula. According to Carlos Nores, a retired zoology professor and lead author of the study, the data is clear. “What we observed in trials within enclosed areas was a very low birth rate and a very high mortality rate, which suggests serious adaptation issues in a Mediterranean climate,” he explained. Nores also questioned one of the key arguments made by the project’s supporters: that bison could help prevent wildfires. He remains unconvinced of their effectiveness in that role.

In contrast, the owners of El Encinarejo report only positive outcomes from their experiment. According to them, the bison have adapted well, shifting their reproductive cycles to avoid the summer heat, and have already produced six calves. They also observe noticeable improvements in the landscape. As large herbivores and natural foragers, bison were introduced to Spain with the promise that they could increase biodiversity and serve as “natural firefighters” by clearing underbrush and reducing fuel for wildfires.

Yvonne Kempf, a Dutch ecologist who monitored the herd during its first two years in Spain, supports the Hohnes’ findings. “The bison adapted well — already within a few years. We don’t have to wait 10 or 20,” she said. “They’ve shown themselves to be remarkably plastic, able to adjust to new conditions. Their comeback has been incredible, and that’s because people gave them the chance to return.”

Bordering the Bialowieza park lives Piotr Stocki, a farmer managing a middling-size farm of a hundred acres, growing hay, carrots, corn and rapeseed. As a boy, he admired the playful bison, but now that has changed.

The creatures regularly ravage his land, to the extent that he has not sown some crops for a couple of seasons, and will probably stop farming these altogether. At the same time, he is one of the Park contractors, providing feed for the bison – that is, if he manages to get it before the bison do.

He says that he finds himself having to hide crops from the bison that he will sell to the park to feed the same animals, describing how he regularly conceals his hay, sugar beet and carrots so the bison won’t find them. According to the contract, he must deliver the yield to the Park in pristine condition. But when the herds stray into his fields, they don’t just feed — they crush the crops, rip open the hay bales and sample the silage. What remains is deemed contaminated and refused by the Park, even if the offenders were the very bison it was meant for.

The state regularly pays for the damage, but the amounts continue to grow. In two provinces, bison already top the list of the most destructive protected species. Moreover, local institutions responsible for analyzing the damages lack the personnel to assess them quickly. Farmers claim that the money is not only insufficient but doesn’t take into consideration less obvious damage, like the destruction of soil structure they spend years developing.

Many farmers chase bison away, with legal and illegal means, but Stocki refuses to do so: “They will just go elsewhere. And it’s no comfort to see them on my neighbor’s field.”

So why does the debate around the Andujar project persist? At its heart, the experiment reflects a deeper division within the global rewilding movement, one that first emerged in Poland. On one side are the proponents, whose projects are often supported by direct collaboration with Olech and partially funded by the Polish government. They seek to demonstrate the bison’s adaptability through real-world experimentation, arguing that bold action is necessary to restore ecosystems and test nature’s resilience.

On the other side are the critics, who believe that any rewilding effort must be grounded in rigorous scientific research to anticipate and mitigate potential harm to both the animals and their environment. Carlos Nores, a leading voice among the skeptics, argues that the concerns go beyond ecology. For him, these rewilding initiatives raise unresolved ethical issues. Most of the Spanish projects, he points out, take place on large private estates that resemble private zoos more than wild habitats. In such settings, animals often rely on the goodwill of their wealthy owners and require supplemental feeding simply to survive.

“Let me refer to Escobar’s hippos,” he says by way of explanation. The late Colombian drug lord famously introduced four hippos to his private zoo. After Escobar died, the animals escaped. Today, their numbers have grown to over 150, and they pose a threat to locals and their environment.

“Problems emerge afterwards, and who solves them? People, the animalist movement, are not going to accept, as they did not accept in Colombia, that animals be killed just like that. This is extremely complex and extremely costly.” He argues that when these projects malfunction, the state has to step in, and it is taxpayers’ money that will resolve issues. For Nores, it is imperative that these projects are closely monitored so that animals are not released into the wild.

He points to several Spanish examples that went wrong. In Extremadura, at the border with Portugal, a project that welcomed nine bison in 2015 was enthusiastically covered in the local press. Within a span of three years, all the animals died, but it didn’t even make the news.

In Valencia, a tragic case made international headlines: Two bison died of malnutrition before being decapitated, with the headless body of the 1,760-pound herd leader dominating the news. Police initially suspected that the head had been removed to be sold as a trophy, but later investigations revealed the beheading was botched and unlikely to have been done by a trophy hunter. Spanish prosecutors charged the preserve’s director, who was eventually convicted of animal abuse.

Fernando Moran, the veterinarian behind every bison project in Spain, emphasizes that releasing bison fully into the wild is not part of existing plans. His passion for the species began 15 years ago when he was accidentally gored by a female bison. Since then, working with Olech, he has brought over 178 bison to Spain and Portugal. Over the years, Moran has carefully reviewed more than 200 proposals to host bison, understanding that the key to success lies in selecting responsible owners.

Today, his focus is on making bison popular in large private estates. Smaller properties tend to increase the animals’ dependence on their caretakers, whereas estates larger than 300 hectares provide conditions closer to a natural habitat. “There are about 10 million hectares of private land, very well maintained by owners who love nature,” Moran says. “It’s full of wildlife, mostly hunting grounds. I really hope that one day this animal becomes popular in these places.”

But will these large estates include local communities in bison protection? Lessons from Romania seem to show that such inclusion in conservation projects is the only way forward, and that this can be done without hunting them.

Bison and their young wandering in Vanatori Neamt Natural Park. (Adina Florea) Romania’s Carpathian Mountains hold an untamed wilderness, with villages that press against dense forests and predators like wolves and bears lingering in the shadows. But the area is also home to nearly 400 free-roaming bison. The first animals were released here in 2012, along a dirt road deep in the Eastern Carpathians. Leading the effort was Sebastian Cătanoiu, director of the Vanatori Neamt Natural Park, who had spent more than two decades working to bring back a species that vanished from these mountains in the 19th century.

Cătanoiu’s motivation wasn’t simply admiration for the bison; after all, the animal already existed in captivity at a nearby reserve. What pushed him was a broader ecological problem. As villages emptied out because of migration to Western Europe, fewer people tended the grasslands. With smaller numbers of grazing animals, the meadows started vanishing under a tide of young trees. Bison, he believed, could step in, browsing on saplings and helping to keep the landscape open.

He borrowed lessons from Poland, but along with the know-how came the problems. Although Cătanoiu released only 30 animals, the herd quickly tripled and grew to 100. And the healthier the population became, the more tensions flared with nearby communities. In 2018, he was forced to quietly halt new releases after the bison caused damage to nine properties that year. Locals complained of orchards stripped bare and haystacks raided.

Now Cătanoiu openly reflects on the limits of his project and of the laws that staunchly protect the species. His controversial conclusion: The only way to ease growing conflicts may be to cull certain “problem animals,” the individuals repeatedly causing damage in villages. With populations still vulnerable, the idea of hunting is politically and ecologically premature.

Not everyone in Romania followed the Polish model of managing bison. The country’s largest free-roaming herd lives in the Southern Carpathians, where more than 200 animals now roam the forested mountains above the picturesque village of Armenis. Over the past decade, the Romanian branch of the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) has released them, and while conflicts with locals still occur from time to time, they haven’t slowed the project down. New bison will continue to be released until at least 2028.

What makes Armenis different is that the rewilding effort was paired with a social enterprise designed to bring tangible benefits to the community through bison tourism and finding a market for local products. “We tried to prevent frustration by creating more value and joy in the community from the opportunity of having bison in Armenis,” explains Oana Mondoc, who manages the WeWilder Campus, a WWF-founded social enterprise.

Ever since a pivotal phone call, Mondoc has been driven to prove that conservation is about more than just saving animals; it also has a human element. The call came in the middle of the night from the then-director of WWF Romania, who was working in London at the time. A local observer watching the release of the very first bison asked a simple yet profound question: “And what happens now?”

Tasked with answering that question, Mondoc relocated a few months later to a small village of just over 2,000 residents, deep in rural Romania. “We didn’t bring these animals into untouched wilderness,” she explains. “We brought them into a human-shaped landscape, into communities that depend on nature for their livelihoods.”

That perspective has reshaped the village. The project created 15 local jobs and became the third-largest employer. It brought in foreign tourists, boosting demand for food, lodging and traditional products. In 2022 alone, over $88,000 went to 105 families supplying food for visitors. Two families turned old homes into guesthouses, and one ranger launched a horseback trekking business, guiding tours along bison trails.

When locals see the clear benefits of jobs, income and tourism, they are more tolerant of the occasional damage caused by the animals. Much of the project’s success comes from its small scale and close community involvement. “Rewilding can transform communities,” Mondoc says. “But it takes time, shared values and trust.”

That’s why the model is hard to replicate. It demands long-term presence and resources — something many projects lack. In contrast, Romania’s first rewilding initiative in the Eastern Carpathians, run by a state agency, hasn’t invested in local communities, leading to deeper resentment.

A bison stands in a clearing in Armenis. (Adina Florea) Armenis also broke from the Polish model by refusing to feed the bison. “It’s like with cows — if you teach them to expect food, they stop grazing,” says ranger Daniel Hurezeu. The choice cost a few animals early on, but, he says, “That’s the price of learning to live wild.”

Pointing to a fenced clearing deep in the forest, Hurezeu recalls the day the gate swung open to release two bison brought in from a zoo in Italy. It was 2019, and hopes were high. Daniel imagined the newcomers slipping quietly into the mountains, joining the free-roaming herd already established in the Southern Carpathians. But that’s not what happened.

On their very first night in the forest, the pair wandered straight into the neighboring village. They tramped through the center of town, confused and restless, circling back and forth as if unable to make sense of their sudden freedom. The rangers chased them away, but the bison seemed lost, unaccustomed to the tangled undergrowth, unsure where to find food.

Within weeks, the female weakened. The wild showed no mercy. She died soon after, and her companion followed not long behind. The lesson was harsh but unmistakable: Animals bred for zoos are rarely prepared for the unforgiving realities of life in the wild. “If they can’t adapt, they perish or worse, they turn into serial troublemakers,” Hurezeu reflects. Since that failed release, WWF and Rewilding Europe have stopped accepting zoo-donated bison for reintroduction projects in this corner of the Carpathians.

The experience drove home the truth that wildness cannot be manufactured or shipped in crates; it has to be lived. Careful selection became essential, not only to preserve genetic diversity, but also to ensure the animals had the instincts and resilience to survive.

In Armenis, the experiment continues. The Carpathians are no playground for the half-wild. This is a raw, untamed landscape, and in the end, it is the wild that decides which animals truly belong.

This article was produced with the support of Journalismfund Europe.

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