Sri Lanka’s Worst Drought in Decades Leaves Farmers Reeling and Wildlife Parched

MEDIRIGIRIYA, Sri Lanka — When the decades-long civil war that forced Samantha Pushpakumara from his village in northern Sri Lanka finally ended, he returned home believing farming could finally offer his family stability. That peace was short-lived.

Sri Lanka has been gripped by prolonged drought, leaving reservoirs cracked and farming communities dependent on seasonal rains struggling to survive. The crisis worsened as above-average temperatures and high humidity intensified heat stress across the island.

“We feel like we’re caught in a vise,” Pushpakumara said. “Without water, our farms fail—and with them, our livelihoods.”

Climate scientists attribute the worsening conditions to a convergence of factors: a powerful El Niño disrupting global weather patterns, rising ocean temperatures partly driven by human-induced climate change, and shifts in traditional monsoon behavior. This year’s southwest monsoon, typically delivering up to 30% of Sri Lanka’s annual rainfall between May and September, delivered little when it mattered most.

“We can’t definitively link every drought to climate change yet, but these extreme events are becoming more frequent,” noted Gayana Krishanthi Hendawitharana, a climate scientist at Sri Lanka’s Department of Meteorology.

Scattered showers have offered fleeting relief, yet climate experts warn they won’t reverse the damage. Months of relentless dryness have left the country’s 74 major reservoirs hovering near one-third capacity, triggering strict water rationing nationwide.

The crisis extends beyond farms. Wildlife in protected areas is also suffering, with shrinking waterholes forcing elephants, deer, buffalo, birds, and even crocodiles into closer proximity—and sometimes conflict—with both humans and each other.

Land transformed

Nowhere is the devastation starker than in Medirigiriya, where rice paddies define rural life. In better years, seasonal rains fill irrigation tanks that sustain crops throughout the growing season. Today, cracked earth stretches where lush fields once thrived.

Dust blankets barren plots. Once-productive vegetable gardens lie fallow. Cattle comb through dried tank beds searching for sparse fodder.

In villages where wells now run dry, residents line up daily with barrels and jerrycans to collect free water distributed by government trucks and aid groups. Families gather quietly beside tankers, waiting for their turn under an unforgiving sun.

For farmers like Indika Nuwankumara, the toll is personal and financial. A $1,500 loan intended to plant rice, okra, and eggplant has instead become a burden after an entire cropping cycle failed without sufficient rain.

“I expected to harvest at least 50 sacks,” he said, shaking his head. “Instead, I got six—and no way to pay back what I owe.”

The searing heat doesn’t just kill crops; it makes labor unbearable. Even basic cooling inside homes offers no respite.

“The heat is unbearable during the day,” he added. “Fans just blow hot air around us.”

Wildlife driven to edge

Yala National Park, sprawling across 1,000 square kilometers in southeastern Sri Lanka, tells a parallel story of scarcity. Home to leopards, elephants, sloth bears, and countless bird species, the park relies heavily on seasonal water sources that have largely dried up.

Though the Menik River still flows, many natural and artificial ponds scattered throughout the reserve have vanished entirely. Dehydration and hyperthermia are increasingly common among wildlife, according to park officials.

On recent visits, wildlife researchers observed clusters of animals around remaining pools—elephants standing ankle-deep in mud, deer carefully navigating cracked trails, and workers laying hoses to replenish critical watering stations.

Temperatures have consistently exceeded 35°C (95°F), accelerating evaporation and further stressing ecosystems already strained by years of erratic precipitation.

Unpredictable seasons

Back in Medirigiriya, veteran farmer Vidanaarachchige Wimalasuriya reflects on nature’s fickleness. Last year brought devastating floods; this year, crippling drought.

“I harvested only six sacks of rice when I needed at least fifty,” he said grimly. “There wasn’t enough water when the crop needed it most.”

His neighbor, Hemapala Mallika, echoes the frustration shared by dozens of locals. Brief rains provide false hope—they evaporate before soaking into parched soil.

“The water disappears faster than drops on hot iron,” she explained. “Until we see sustained rainfall, nothing changes.”

As uncertainty grips the nation, so too does fear—for harvests yet to come, for wildlife facing extinction risk, and for a future shaped by increasingly volatile skies.

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