ANGNIDE MAMUNG DONGJA REYANGBO

“Elephant rampage” or “elephant frenzy” is a phrase we hear all the time around here. To most of us, a wild elephant simply means a towering, angry monster on a tear. But is that really the whole story? Just the other night, around 1 AM, a troop of wild elephants wandered into Nagad Sherpur’s Jokhomkura village looking for food. They trampled down the fences of several homes and started foraging. 

In one of those houses lay an elderly Garo woman who couldn’t move. As the herd broke through the fence and entered her yard, she spoke softly, “Mama, angnide mamung dongja; reyangbo…”—“Uncle, I have nothing; please go away.” And just like that, the elephants stopped, turned, and walked off. She was found unharmed at dawn. 

Here’s another true tale. There was an elephant named Banshi who had a terrible reputation as a man‑killer. One day, in a drunken stupor, his mahout (owner) stumbled and fell under Banshi’s foot. Everyone thought the man was done for, but instead of stamping, Banshi froze, lifted his foot, and balanced on three legs. He seemed to understand: if he put his foot down, his mahout would die. Struggling to keep balance, the young bull trumpeted desperately, calling for help. People rushed over, pulled the man out, and only then did Banshi gently set his foot back down. 

The Sensitive Elephant Heart 

Actually, elephants are incredibly sensitive and emotional creatures. After tracking wild herds across the country, I’ve come to realize that their enormous chests are filled with nothing but love and respect. Believe it or not, elephants go out of their way to honor females—they rarely harm any of their own. You might have seen wild elephants wading into water to rescue a drowning person. Elephant society is matriarchal: even when their leader grows old and blind, she remains the matriarch. A younger female steps in as her assistant, but the elder retains her title and authority. 

Elephants always make decisions as a group. Not all pregnant females carry at the same time instead, a few aunts and sisters stand ready to help care for any newborn. When a young female is about to have her first calf or to mate, her mother, aunts, and sisters touch her gently with their trunks, reassuring her: “Don’t be afraid—this is a new chapter of your life.” After a roughly two‑year pregnancy, when it’s time for birth, every adult female surrounds the mother, offering silent support. Once the calf arrives, and with the mother’s tacit blessing, each elephant reaches out with her trunk to welcome the newborn into the world. Their joy is as genuine as ours. 

That little one is now embraced by the whole herd and raised together. Elephant calves don’t drink only their mother’s milk; aunts and sisters take turns nursing and caring for them. Just as we hold a child’s hand as we cross the street, elephants keep their calves close—keeping a trunk gently on their backs, guiding them between adult legs for protection, scolding and then showering them with affection. In countless stories, elephants have shown more humanity than humans. When they lose a loved one, their grief is profound, and they carry that sorrow for years, often touching the body, offering a final farewell, then standing guard in silence. 

But tragedy strikes too. On a national highway near Gerik in Perak, Malaysia, a baby elephant was crushed by a speeding truck. The mother stood by her child’s body through the night until sunrise.

Humans vs. Elephants: An Ancient Conflict 

We’ve shared stories of elephant–human friendship since ancient times, but as civilizations grew, so did our conflicts. In the bygone era of Palka Pya, King Rompad of Anga ordered all wild elephants killed because he couldn’t tolerate their raids. The Mughals significantly reduced North India’s elephant population. The British, too, hunted them relentlessly to consolidate power. 

Modern humans are even more brutal: they kill elephants for their tusks and nails, snatch three‑month‑old calves from their mothers to enslave them, torch their habitats, blast them with mines or electric shocks, poison their food—anything for land or profit. And if that fails, they scare “trespassing” herds at night by dousing them in petrol or diesel wrapped in plastic, then lighting them on fire. As long as the oil burns, the elephants burn. Sometimes they use scorching metal torches to drive them away—melting flesh with searing rods. And that’s just a few of the horrors. 

Elephants know no borders; they roam freely across thirteen Asian countries. But human settlements, cramped spaces, and competition for resources have made them unwelcome everywhere. Pushed from Nepal into India, chased from India into Bangladesh, and then driven back into India or Myanmar. Yet, these giants are our priceless heritage. They create forests, scatter seeds, and keep whole ecosystems alive. Without elephants, many hills and forests would turn barren. 

Saving the Gentle Giants 

We simply cannot stand by and let these beautiful, intelligent, sensitive creatures vanish in our lifetime. While working with the Garo tribal people around Garo Hills, I witnessed an extraordinary gift: they can sense elephant movements miles away, pick up their scent, and even read the herd’s mood. I met a cheeky Garo child nicknamed “Mongma Pisa”, which literally means “little elephant”. This mischievous boy could mimic an elephant calf’s call perfectly; in an instant, the wild herd would answer and draw near.

They never harmed him. 

We too must learn to feel elephants with our hearts. Only then can we truly resolve the conflicts between humans and elephants. No elephant ever sets out to harm us. They lose everything chasing us away. In their silent agony, they cry out the same words the old Garo woman spoke: “Angnide mamung dongja; reyangbo”—“I have nothing; please go away…”