Not always. The word “riding” is often used too loosely. What harms elephants is usually not one or 2 persons sitting gently on their back for a short time. The real damage often comes from heavy saddles, hard equipment, sharp ropes, poor fitting, long working hours, and constant pressure repeated day after day. Traditional elephant saddles can be extremely heavy. Some can weigh over a hundred kilograms before any person even sits on them. The pressure does not stay only on the back. It can affect the skin, shoulders, joints, and feet. In some cases, ropes and fastening systems can rub, cut, or pull against sensitive areas, including around the tail. That is suffering. But bareback contact, when limited, calm, and based on trust, is not the same thing. Some people say an elephant’s back was “not designed” to carry anything. That is too simple — and often misleading. Elephants have carried weight, worked with humans, and moved through difficult terrain for generations. Some injuries blamed on riding may actually come from logging, accidents, heavy labor, chains, poor nutrition, or years of harsh handling. A simple rule like “no riding = kind” can hide the truth. At our home, we do not use saddles. We do not use hooks. We do not force performance. We keep our elephants familiar with people because closeness matters in real care — especially during medical treatment, when a calm mahout may need to guide the elephant and help keep her from panicking. Care is not proven by distance. Cruelty is not defined by one word. The truth is in the weight, the method, the hours, the intention, and the life the elephant lives every day.

There are different reasons. Some places genuinely choose to limit interaction. Others operate with large numbers of visitors, where activities need to be shared and managed efficiently. Riding, even when done gently, requires time, attention, and individual elephants. It cannot be rotated across large groups. Removing it allows more people to pass through. At the same time, “no riding” has become a powerful message. It is simple, visible, and easy to communicate. But simplicity is not always truth. The absence of riding does not automatically mean better care. And a label does not always reflect how elephants actually live. What matters is not what is removed for visitors — but what is consistently done for the elephants.

Not always. Watching elephants from a distance may feel peaceful. But without familiarity, trust, or understanding, it becomes passive observation — not so different from watching animals in a zoo, only in a larger enclosure. Distance alone does not create better care. Real care requires awareness, responsiveness, and the ability to support the elephant when it matters — not just leaving them to be seen. At our home, we do not force interaction. But we also do not avoid it entirely. Because in real life, elephants still need to live with people. They need to feel safe around us — especially during moments like medical care, stress, or uncertainty. Think of it simply. Even with children, care is not about leaving them completely on their own. You carry them, guide them, stay close– not to control them, but to help them feel safe and grow. Elephants that live with people are not so different in that sense. Without familiarity, they do not become "more natural". They can become uncertain. Without that familiarity, distance can become separation — not kindness. Removing interaction does not restore a wild life — it removes the relationship that care depends on.

This question is rarely asked — but it matters. Horses are smaller animals, yet riding them is widely accepted. Elephants, on the other hand, are significantly larger and physically capable of carrying weight. So the issue is not simply about size or strength. What often goes unexamined is how different animals are perceived — and how certain ideas are repeated, until they feel like unquestioned truth. In reality, harm is not defined by the act alone. It depends on how the animal is treated, the equipment used, and the conditions over time. A single, simple rule cannot explain something this complex. Elephants can carry weight. But what matters is how , how long and under what conditions. The question is not whether they can carry— but how they are treated while doing so.

Because not everything people call a “trick” is forced. Most of our elephants were originally rescued from zoos and tourist camps — and their individual histories are openly shared. They were trained long before they arrived here, and they are used to interacting with people. For them, interaction is familiar. It is how they connect. When that is suddenly removed, it does not create freedom. It can create confusion — and sometimes boredom. During the COVID period, when visitors disappeared, we saw our elephants become quieter and less engaged. They were not “freer” — they were simply missing the interaction they were used to. Elephants, like people, have different personalities. Some are social and enjoy interaction. Some prefer quiet. Some naturally seek attention. There is no single rule that fits all. Care must adapt to the individual — not the other way around. At our home, we do not force interaction. But we also do not remove it entirely. Simple actions — like an elephant offering her trunk — are not performances. They are small, familiar moments, often followed by food, attention, or connection. We do not run shows. We do not demand repetition. We do not train for performance. We allow space for play — when the elephant is willing. Because care is not about removing everything. It is about understanding what matters to them.

No — not as a method of control. In traditional elephant handling, hooks are often used, especially with young, strong, or unpredictable elephants. They are also part of long-held beliefs among mahouts, which makes them difficult to remove overnight. In real life, not a show, change takes time. When a new mahout joins us, they may still carry a hook at first — often kept in a bag for reassurance, not for use. As trust builds between the elephant and the mahout, it is no longer needed. Our goal is simple: no use, not in front of guests, and not behind them — 24 hours. Because elephants are intelligent. If they are treated one way in private and another in public, they will notice. That inconsistency creates tension, not trust — and in the presence of visitors, that can become dangerous. So we choose consistency. We build trust by removing the need for force altogether — not just hiding it. Instead of control, we rely on familiarity, voice, and presence. When an elephant is startled — by sudden noise, movement, or uncertainty — a calm, familiar touch can be enough to refocus and reassure. Sometimes, a simple bamboo twig is used to gently touch or guide — not to hurt, but to communicate. It reflects how elephants naturally move through their environment, not a method of force. This is not about proving a point. It is about creating a relationship where both elephant and human feel safe. True control is not force— it is understanding.

Yes — at times. We do not pretend elephants are always free. And we do not hide what we do. During COVID, someone once asked us this directly before offering support. We answered honestly — that sometimes, we do use chains. They chose to support us anyway. Elephants living within a community cannot simply walk wherever they want. They may enter farms, damage crops, or encounter real dangers — electric fences, chemicals, or traffic. We can pay for damage. But we cannot undo harm to an elephant or to people. So sometimes, we limit their movement. Not as punishment — but as protection. It is not very different from tying a dog near a roadside shop. Not because you want to control it — but because you know what could happen if you don’t. Fencing the entire area would require millions in cost, which is simply not realistic for us at this stage. And even then, our land sits along the river — elephants can still move through water. There is no perfect barrier. So we choose responsibility over appearance. We use long chains, with access to food, water, and space to rest. This is not confinement for suffering. It is care within real limits. Mahouts cannot be present every moment. They need time to rest, eat, gather food, and live their lives. It is not so different from raising a child. You cannot watch them every second— and sometimes, you have to set limits to keep them safe. Without that balance, stress builds — and that can affect both human and elephant. So the question is not whether a chain exists — but why it is used, how it is used, and whether it comes from control or from care.

Not always the way it is presented. When elephants enter farms or villages, they are often labeled as “problem animals.” But we rarely ask a harder question: Who moved into whose space first? In many cases, elephants are not expanding into human areas. Humans are expanding into elephant habitats. So when conflict happens, it is not always fair to expect elephants to adjust — through confinement, sterilization, or behavior modification — simply to fit human needs. Wild elephants are not meant to live by human rules. If we choose to live near their space, we also accept a level of risk. That is part of sharing land with wildlife. At our home, we work with elephants that already live with people. That is a different responsibility. But turning wild elephants into controlled versions of themselves is not a solution we support. Because coexistence is not about forcing one side to change. It is about understanding the limits of both. Not everything that is inconvenient should be controlled. And not every conflict should be solved by changing the animals.

Not always — and not in the way it is often presented. Elephants have lived alongside humans for generations. They were part of daily life, labor, and even history — from logging to transport, and in some cultures, even in warfare. When those roles disappeared, the elephants did not. Some were returned to the wild. Many could not be. Elephants are not small animals that can simply be “released” and forgotten. They require food, land, and long-term care — every single day. Without a sustainable way to support them, the reality becomes much harder. When tourism declines, some elephants are forced into far worse conditions —   walking long distances on hot concrete, entering cities, or being used in ways that are far more harmful, simply to survive. This is not a theory.   It has happened before. So the question is not whether elephants should exist alongside humans —   because they already do. The real question is: What kind of system supports them best? We do not believe in performance-based shows.   We do not believe in using suffering to attract sympathy. But we also do not believe that removing all human interaction is the answer. Responsible tourism, when done with care, can provide something essential —   a stable life for the elephants, support for the people who care for them, and a balance with the surrounding community. Without that support, the alternatives are often much worse. So this is not about entertainment. It is about responsibility Not every system is perfect. But ignoring the reality does not make it better.

Not in the way people often assume. During the COVID period, when there were no visitors, we observed changes in behavior. Some elephants became quieter, less engaged — and began interacting more with their surroundings. We noticed simple actions — breaking branches, rubbing against trees, and making marks. So we offered something else. A brush. What followed was not training. There was no pattern, no repetition, no expectation. Just movement. Just engagement. The marks they make are not “paintings” in the way humans define them. They are simply an extension of behavior — a form of enrichment. Sometimes, it becomes something shared. An elephant may offer the brush, and a guest adds their own marks. Together, they create something simple — not a performance, not a product — but a moment. It’s not about painting a picture. It’s about creating something together — a one-of-a-kind piece that carries a shared memory. We do not teach them to create images or perform for an outcome. We offer an option. And if they choose to engage, we allow it. Because not every action needs to have a purpose for us to have meaning for them. What you see is not a performance. It is a moment—on their terms.

Not entirely. Elephants can bathe themselves. But care is more than just water. They cannot check their own wounds, apply treatment, or remove parasites effectively. They cannot always reach every part of their body — especially areas that require close attention. Bathing, in this context, is not about control. It is about care. It is a moment to observe, to clean, to check for injuries, and to maintain their well-being. It is also part of building familiarity and trust — which becomes essential in situations that require cooperation, such as medical care. Some believe that human interaction increases the risk of disease. But in reality, elephants live in shared environments. They bathe in rivers. They defecate in the same water. And people, in many places, share those natural water sources as well. Risk is not defined by interaction alone. It is defined by hygiene, awareness, and responsibility. So the question is not whether elephants can care for themselves — but whether we are willing to care for them properly when they live with us. We do not cut their tails — so they can naturally protect themselves from insects. But that does not replace attentive care.

For us, cruelty is not defined by a single image. It is not the presence of a chain. It is not a moment of contact. And it is not an activity taken out of context. Cruelty is the loss of life, dignity, and well-being. It is causing lasting physical harm. It is creating fear, stress, and suffering as a system — not as a moment. And if we are honest, it exists in many forms that are widely accepted without question. Bullfighting, where animals are killed for sport. Mink farming, where animals are raised and killed for fashion. Laboratory testing, where animals are confined and used for human needs. Horse racing, where animals are pushed beyond their limits for competition. Hunting practices where animals are reduced to trophies or commodities. These are not misunderstandings. They are real and ongoing forms of suffering. Yet at the same time, other situations are judged instantly — based on a single visible moment. So the question is not who “uses” animals more. The question is: Are we willing to look at the full picture, or only the part that is easiest to criticize? Because cruelty is not always where it appears to be. And responsibility cannot be defined by a single image. We are quick to question what we see — but far slower to question what we accept.