He held it in his hands gently, as if it was the most precious thing he’d ever held, which indeed it was. In his village or the plains around, he’d only heard of these things, spoken in hushed voices by those afraid of the power of the men with weapons.
The men were outsiders. No one who’d been born and brought up in these valleys would be as ruthless. The elders said so and even the elders were powerless. He’d seen money change hands in return for information and silence, although when he’d asked the question insolently, the reply he’d received was that weapons could not be argued against, not when lives were at stake. Mothers and children. The elderly. All possible victims. All helpless.
He’d been tossed into this tent, hands and feet bound, his mouth stuffed with a filthy rag. When he regained consciousness, in the half-darkness cast by the moon outside, his eyes grew accustomed to his surroundings. Returning consciousness brought pain – in his groin and belly, chest and shoulders – and he recalled that he’d been beaten up earlier before being thrown into the back of the lead truck. Shortly after, he’d lost consciousness.
Now, there was blood in his mouth and he couldn’t lose the metallic taste despite spitting into the ground by his side repeatedly. He fell backwards, unsteadied by the weakness of his body and the unfamiliar place. That’s when his hands grasped the smooth, hard object, with pointed end. The object that had caused all the deaths and suffering and fear in the valley, in villages like his own and among the elephants of the plains. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew what it was.
He held the tusk with reverence, feeling a sorrow that wrapped itself around all the living things he’d known since his childhood. He was at the very point where the soul of his community was being repeatedly raped, among the very people who carried out the deed for the rich buyers in the capital and cities overseas, and he could do nothing.
Image from Unsplash.com by Jean Wimmerlin.