NAMIBIA 17°47’58.2”S 25°10’13.1”E
JULIE CHANDELIER
the light is low as our boat drifts on the Chobe River. I’m balancing my camera, but all around me is stillness. We’re watching, waiting. And then, there she is—a silhouette rising from the nearby trees, her immense frame backlit by the fading sun, like some ancient spirit stepping out of time itself. The matriarch. She is colossal yet gentle, moving with a kind of grace I almost can’t fathom. More than just the leader, she is the heart of the herd. Elephant societies are matriarchal, led by the oldest and most experienced females. She carries within her the collective memory of the herd—where to find water in times of drought, which paths are safe, and how to respond to threats. Her knowledge is essential for survival, passed down through generations. Some matriarchs live well into their sixties, guiding and protecting their families for decades. But when a matriarch dies, her absence is deeply felt. The herd can struggle without her wisdom, sometimes even fragmenting as they attempt to adapt to life without their leader. I can see her eyes: deep-set, intelligent, scanning the horizon and her surroundings, her attention flicking from the water’s edge to the shadowed reeds. And she’s not alone. The whole family is here, following her lead. They emerge one by one, walking in a steady, regimented line. Chobe National Park is home to the largest population of African elephants, with an estimated 120,000 individuals roaming its floodplains and forests, stretching across Botswana, Zimbabwe, Namibia, and Zambia. These elephants, despite their towering presence, are slightly smaller than other African savanna elephants—a unique trait likely due to the mineral-rich soil and water they rely on. At this moment, I feel like I’m looking into the soul of the Earth herself. There’s power in her gaze, yes, but there’s also love—a kind of fierce protectiveness as she nudges the smallest calves forward. She is more than a leader. She’s a mother in the truest sense, the keeper of wisdom, of generations, of the land itself. Around her, the young ones dart in and out—some bold, others shy, curious trunks lifting, smelling, learning. They cling to the matriarch and the older females, absorbing everything from their elders—like how to cross the river, how to feed, when to retreat from danger, and when to advance. The matriarch’s memory plays a crucial role, as she leads the herd across vast distances—sometimes over 200 kilometers—seeking water sources she remembers from seasons past. I read once that elephants are known to be some of the most emotional creatures on the planet, that they grieve their dead and remember faces for decades. And as I watch them now, I believe it. The other females circle the younger ones, their trunks gently caressing each calf, guiding them toward safety. The matriarch lets out a low rumble, almost like a whisper, and immediately, the younger elephants turn, understanding her message in a way that
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MOTHER VOLUME FOUR
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