This is the world’s largest overland migration. Can it be saved?
Each year around this time, an unfathomable parade of antelope travels across South Sudan. Now, after decades of war, the grandeur of the once hidden migration is being revealed—as well as its fragility.
For most of the past half century, one of the planet’s greatest wildlife spectacles has unfolded almost entirely unseen. South Sudan spans nearly 250,000 square miles across East Africa, and it’s covered in vast and fertile floodplains, savannas, and grasslands. But due to decades of brutal conflict, first to gain independence from Sudan (which was achieved in 2011), then a civil war from 2013 to 2018, the country’s natural wonders have largely remained a secret to the outside world.
Scientists from the nonprofit Wildlife Conservation Society realized that something special was happening there in 2007, when a short peace agreement gave them a window to conduct a brief aerial survey of the landscape. What they found was extraordinary: seemingly endless herds of animals traversing the grasslands in an unbroken stream. Each year, millions of antelope—primarily white-eared kob, along with tiangs, reedbuck, and Mongalla gazelles—move in a sweeping circuit across southeastern South Sudan. During the dry season, they funnel toward permanent water and greener grass in places like the Sudd wetland and Boma National Park. When the rains return, they disperse again, spreading across tens of thousands of square miles. That early survey documented more than 1.3 million animals. More recent aerial counts conducted by the conservation nonprofit African Parks, using high-resolution imagery and machine-learning analysis, indicate the population approaches six million, far exceeding the famous wildebeest migration of East Africa. It is the largest land mammal migration on Earth.
Today the relative peace in the region has brought new pressures, as people looking to restart their lives are expanding settlements, hunting bushmeat to feed their families or help make a living, and, in some places, weighing whether oil extraction might be a path to prosperity. At this critical moment, an emerging corps of guardians is finding ways to keep the migration alive. Here, five of the area’s most essential voices share their own stories about the phenomenon and what they’re doing to ensure it continues.
The ecologist who revealed the migration to the world
Mike Fay: Ecologist, consultant for African Parks, and National Geographic Explorer
In 2007, I flew a small plane over the swamps and savannas of South Sudan. From above, I saw a world untouched by development—no roads, almost no people—a landscape frozen by conflict. I had heard this war-torn expanse might hide something spectacular. Sure enough, as we began our aerial survey, herds of antelope appeared everywhere by the thousands. It blew my mind.
Many experts had assumed these herds were gone, wiped out by the fighting. But it appeared that the war might have actually lowered the hunting of the migratory herds. With people displaced or focused on fighting, there was no transport system for commercial hunting, which created a dynamic that allowed the animals not only to survive but to possibly thrive while the fighting took place mostly in populated areas.
It felt like going back in time. I remember following one river of animals for minutes on end. It was like imagining North America when bison still blanketed the plains. There’s really nothing else like it on the continent. Most of Africa’s landscapes have been heavily altered—fragmented by roads, settlements, agriculture, and resource extraction. In countries such as Kenya, Uganda, or eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo, the only remaining natural areas are inside protected parks. But in South Sudan, vast ecosystems are still intact, unbroken by infrastructure and full of wildlife that move freely over huge tracts of land.
Now our challenge is to keep this migration alive. Ironically, peace can be as perilous as war for wildlife. South Sudan is building roads, oil exploration is underway, and bushmeat hunting has increased with the newfound freedom of movement. It’s not about never hunting. It’s about doing it in a way that keeps populations healthy and landscapes intact.
If unchecked, these threats could fragment this great migratory corridor. So we’re racing to work with South Sudanese communities to safeguard the herds. Locals here value these animals—many remember how abundant wildlife was decades ago, and they want those days back. We’re helping establish community conservancies and anti-poaching patrols. Since communities collectively own their land, they have a real stake in managing the wildlife. Together we’re designating key calving grounds and water holes as no-hunting zones and securing corridors for the animals’ passage.
I always tell people we’re not trying to rewild this place. It’s already wild. That’s the opportunity here—manage before it’s destroyed. What keeps me up at night is the pace of change: unregulated land use, oil, roads. Once the landscape is broken up, it’s hard to put back together. But right now, the wildlife is still here. The movement is still happening. And we have a shot at doing it right.
The government official balancing conservation with development
Denay Jock Chagor: South Sudan’s minister of wildlife conservation and tourism
I grew up in a pastoral area where wildlife was part of everyday life. From a young age, we were always alert—watching for lions that could attack cattle or for other animals that could harm people. It was normal for us. Wildlife was not something separate from life; it was something we lived alongside.
For a long time, this migration was overlooked because this land was neglected by the government. Before South Sudan was a country, there was no interest in development here—no roads, no infrastructure. Villages were isolated, and the land was treated as empty.
For a long time, this migration was overlooked because this land was neglected.
When I became governor in 2020 and worked directly with African Parks, I began thinking seriously about how wildlife protection and development could work together. South Sudan’s economy depends heavily on oil, with some mineral resources, but we also have wildlife—something that can bring long-term value. If protected, this migration can attract people from around the world. Tourism can bring revenue. That is where my passion comes from: putting those pieces together and introducing this to the world.
It hasn’t been easy. Many communities around the parks have lived for generations by hunting bushmeat. When we tell them they can’t do this anymore, there’s pushback. They ask what they will get in return. Without jobs or alternatives, it’s very difficult. That’s why we are working on outreach at the same time as enforcement—educating communities while cracking down on commercial poaching.
Land use is another major challenge. We’ve already stopped proposed roads from cutting through national parks, because they would disrupt migration routes. We’re making park boundaries and passing laws so these protections can’t be changed later. And we’ve learned from past mistakes, like the Jonglei Canal, a massive, unfinished drainage project begun under Sudanese rule built near the Sudd wetlands, which would have disrupted seasonal flooding and which altered wildlife migration routes long before South Sudan became a country.
This can’t be done by the government alone. We need outside investors to help build our tourist infrastructure. Recently, I took someone from Qatar to visit several national parks. We flew to Boma National Park and to Badingilo, landed near the camps, and saw the animals. I want people to have a real visual sense of what’s here before they decide to invest.
When it’s time, we will be fully open to tourists. But tourism must be done carefully. Safety must be 100 percent, not 99 percent. We aren’t fully ready yet, but we are preparing. This is a long-term vision. With peace, stability, and strong laws, we can build infrastructure—hotels, roads, schools, clinics—and create jobs for local communities. People are proud when they learn that the largest land animal migration in the world is here. They want it protected. And we are determined to make sure it benefits the country and its people.
The cartographer mapping invisible corridors before they vanish
Inge van den Meiracker: Data collection manager, African Parks South Sudan
This migration isn’t animals moving across empty land. It’s animals moving through villages, around roads, past farms, toward water, and away from danger. I use software called geographic information systems (GIS) to layer animal movement, time, rainfall, and human activity together to reveal patterns and relationships that aren’t visible from the ground or even from the air. Without mapping those layers together, you’re seeing only fragments of the story.
With data from collared animals, aerial surveys, satellite imagery, and field observations, we can begin to understand how the migration actually works—where animals go in different seasons, how fast they move, and where they return year after year. What surprised me most is how adaptive they are. If rainfall shifts, they shift. If human activity increases, they change their routes.
In the northern part of the migration landscape, where settlements and roads are expanding along a canal, I mapped current wildlife tracks and historical movement alongside hand-annotated images of villages and infrastructure. When all those layers came together, it became clear that some remaining wildlife corridors were only a few kilometers wide. In some places, animals were crossing roads at night, moving quickly through the last available gaps to reach water. Without protecting those corridors now, they could disappear entirely. That’s why we’re currently working on an official land use plan. It’s essential but incredibly difficult.
Millions of people live in this landscape. There’s pastoralism, agriculture, oil development, traditional landownership, and wildlife all sharing the same space. The land use plan brings everything together—migration routes, breeding areas, villages, roads, oil blocks, development areas—so coexistence is still possible.
Without protecting these corridors now, they could disappear entirely.
Poaching is part of this reality. We use the data we’ve gathered on where we’ve seen carcasses and where we’ve seen hunters to identify bushmeat hot spots. But enforcement is complex. In some areas, communities have their own legal systems. Protection has to be negotiated, community based, and informed by data.
We don’t have 10 years to wait for perfect science. The animals don’t have that time. The maps don’t make the challenge simpler—but they show us where decisions matter most and where acting now could still make a difference.
The conservation officer walking hundreds of miles to lobby for wildlife
Oleyo Koko: Member of African Parks tango teams who work with communities to protect the animals
There are 54 community engagement personnel divided into nine teams. They call us tangos, which is shorthand for transhumance engagement officers. Usually I work with Denis Kaka and Philip Kaka. We work every day, moving from one cattle camp or village to another. Sometimes the distance between camps takes more than a day to walk. Last dry season, we covered around 375 miles.
When we arrive in a community, the first thing we do is call the chief, who then gathers the elders and the people. We sit down together and introduce ourselves—who we are, where we come from, and the organization we work for. We tell them we’re there to talk about conservation, about protecting wildlife. That if we don’t protect it, one day it will disappear, and there will be nothing left for us to depend on.
We also speak to children, who often chase down kob with dogs and kill them for their meat. We tell them that if we don’t protect these animals, one day you won’t see them again. If you want meat, speak to your family. Don’t just kill and leave the animal there. That’s not a good habit.
Another important part of our work is supporting Murle communities in the east, whose culture revolves around transhumance, or the seasonal movement of their livestock. We bring veterinary medicine. When cattle are sick, we treat them. We explain to the community why we do this: We want your cattle to stay alive so that you depend on your cattle, not on wildlife. If cattle are healthy, people don’t need to hunt as much.
People listen because we’re from the same community. We’re from the same clan. They know our families. They know we’re not lying to them. In Murle culture, if someone from your own community speaks to you, you listen because you know they want something good for you.
Before we started this work, people killed wildlife without thinking. Now they know that wildlife is important. They remember that before poaching became widespread, animals were everywhere—zebras, elephants, kob. Now many of them are gone. They don’t want everything to disappear.
But talking alone is sometimes not enough. Some people agree with us when we’re there, but then they keep hunting after we’ve left. That’s why we believe customary law is important. If chiefs and elders enforce traditional rules together with us, people will really change, because then there are consequences.
This work is difficult. We walk long distances, sometimes without water or food. But we keep at it because we know we’re working for our own people. If we stop, there will be no one to explain why wildlife matters.
The king charting a sustainable path for the future
Akwai Agada Akwai Cham: 24th monarch of the Anyuak Kingdom of Western Ethiopia and South Sudan
As a boy, I hunted. Everyone did. We hunted for meat, for skins, for daily needs. When you go out and see so many animals together, you don’t forget it. So when I later learned that this migration is considered the largest land animal migration on Earth, it surprised me only in the sense of the title. We always knew there were many.
But I have seen what happened to other animals—the poaching. Zebras are gone from places where they once lived. Many elephants were killed, and the rest moved away. That is because of poaching. It makes me sad, especially about zebras. And it makes me afraid that the same thing could happen to the kob.
The kob are important to our culture. We depend on them in many ways—meat, skins for sleeping. Sometimes people hunt and sell to the market to get money for schooling for the children. If the kob disappear, it will be devastating to our community.
In the past, we didn’t have a system to protect animals. People hunted freely. But what changed is scale. Before, our numbers were not many. Now the numbers have grown, and hunting has grown. That is not good.
I left my village when Sudan was still one country and went to Khartoum—to get an education when I was about 17. When the war intensified, I managed to go to Kenya and became a refugee. Then the resettlement process came, and I went to the United States and lived in Minnesota.
Living there showed me that hunting doesn’t mean taking everything. People hunt, but with limits. There are rules, and those rules are followed. You can’t just go and kill as many animals as you want. That stayed with me—protection is possible when systems exist.
My brother was the king before me. When he died, I was called back to take his place. That is why I returned—to save our people. And when I became king, conservation became important right away. The kob are connected to future generations of the Anyuak.
I understand why poaching happens. People want money so their children can go to school. But the government needs strong rules and strong punishment for those who hunt without control. I do not say hunting must stop completely, but no guns and no dogs would be good. Still, it is difficult. Without enough rangers, people will go crazy and kill animals.
In the best future, the kob will still be there. There will be peace, and tourism will come. People will benefit, communities will benefit, the national government will get revenue. With development—roads, schools, hospitals, clean water—we will transform for the better.
