I watched the full moon rise in the east as the sun was setting, falling behind the clouds like a glowing ball pulling the moon up. Blood moon tonight, I thought—I don’t like this. I was far away from where the elephants live, 300 miles in a straight line southeast, bobbing up and down in a small boat over red-lit waves in Manda Bay, with the sun on one side and the moon on the other. Soon we would have only the bright full moon lighting up the tropical sea, with a warm wind blowing. Beautiful as it was, a full moon on Saturday night filled me with foreboding.

The moon was so bright I had to call someone for reassurance. But there was no answer. I called again and asked, “Is anyone out there? This is bad for the elephants.”

“Yes,” came the reply, “we are alert.”

Two hours passed. I was having dinner, as the moon blinked on and off through white clouds racing by as if in a hurry to get somewhere. I noticed three calls on my cell. I sent a message back: ”Is there a problem?”

And then I read, “TWO ELEPHANTS SHOT.”

I knew that out there men were hacking at tusks, sweating and bloodied. Reports came in of gunshots heard at dusk. Sharp-eyed scouts gathered. Moving fast they found the tracks of four, maybe eight, men who had all night to run and hide. Another message came saying the scouts had found an older female elephant with a young male beside her, tusks gone, and a bloody trail.

Striding over the rocky hill, carrying axes and tusks, the killers took their loot south to the road. Was someone waiting in a car? They got away—and behind them, scrambling through the bush all night, the scouts searched, until the sun rose and closed the night.

Were these the same men who had killed Changila?

And then I heard that Phylo was shot. Phylo was only 20 years old. Another butchered, faceless male elephant who hours before had strolled on the golden grass.

Phylo's mutilated carcass. Was this 20-year-old male killed by the same men who hacked the tusks out of Changila's face on January 3? Photo by Gilbert Sabinga, Save the Elephants.

Changila striding toward our vehicle, December 29, 2012. The 30-year-old bull was gunned down and butchered for his ivory a few days after this photo was made. Photo courtesy of Shifra Goldenberg, Save the Elephants.

I am deeply moved by all your letters, which I have read over and over again. Thank you.

[You may read and add to the letters to Oria at the foot of her blog post Saluting Changila.]

I share your feelings of rage and sadness. It will be a long battle to put an end to this “legal” and illegal ivory trade. I do not have any answers, but we can make our voices heard: Tell them, the Kenyan authorities, to stop the illegal trading of blood ivory. And ask the Chinese authorities to close the door on ALL ivory coming into and out of China or being sold in China. They should help in every way to put an end to BLOOD IVORY TRAFFICKING. They should close all ivory shops.

The killing of elephants continues. Last night under the full moon, three of our elephants were killed. Nearly all our big bulls have gone, gone to ivory trinkets, and among our studied elephant families in northern Kenya, we already have five orphaned families in which every senior female has been killed, leaving small groups of orphans to find their way in the battlefield without leadership.

Thank you all for your heartfelt messages.

Oria Douglas-Hamilton

Dear friends of Changila,

I am deeply moved by all your letters, which I have read over and over again. Thank you.

I share your feelings of rage and sadness. It will be a long battle to put an end to this “legal” and illegal ivory trade. I do not have any answers, but we can make our voices heard: Tell them, the Kenyan authorities, to stop the illegal trading of blood ivory. And ask the Chinese authorities to close the door on ALL ivory coming into and out of China or being sold in China. They should help in every way to put an end to BLOOD IVORY TRAFFICKING. They should close all ivory shops.

The killing of elephants continues. Last night under the full moon, three of our elephants were killed. Nearly all our big bulls have gone, gone to ivory trinkets, and among our studied elephant families in northern Kenya, we already have five orphaned families in which every senior female has been killed, leaving small groups of orphans to find their way in the battlefield without leadership.

Thank you all for your heartfelt messages.

Oria

On January 3 Oria Douglas-Hamilton flew in tribute over the mutilated remains of an elephant named Changila, slaughtered outside Kenya’s Samburu National Reserve. He was killed the day after her 80th birthday.

By Oria Douglas-Hamilton

Flying with the vultures, I salute you Changila, to say farewell. You will now return to the earth where you and I came from a long long time ago. Piece by piece, vultures will take you away and bury you, leaving only white bones by the river to mark your grave, where you stood that last moment in your life. We did not know you well, but you were named Changila, “Fighter.”

You came from the north in December, as you always do. Now at 30, having survived droughts, war, and floods, you stood tall and strong, heading south in full musth over well trodden paths, leaving a scent trail behind, your trunk sweeping the ground as you searched for fertile females to mate with. The land was lush and green after the rains. Butterflies fluttered from flower to flower, and step by step, your great big feet crushed the long grass stems. Like all warriors, you came to fight, to do what you were known for. Did you leave us an heir in your kingdom?

The new year had just begun. We’d seen you here and there for a few days, and then you disappeared, walking back west. Oh yes, people saw you—you were so determined; no one stood in your way. You drank and washed and crossed the river. Alone, you stood on warm earth pondering your next move while the sun’s rays lit the sky red. The day was ending.

Gunfire broke through the silence of dusk, and you fell.

I apologize for man, my species. You did not deserve this.

Changila destroyed by poachers, January 3, 2013. Photo courtesy of Chris Leadismo, Save the Elephants.

As I flew over you, I scanned the eroded gullies on the hillside, wondering where the men had been sitting, watching, waiting for you to turn and face them, guns at the ready. They hit you not once but two, three, times, and you fell. I saw your leg covered in dark red blood. Your eyes were open. Did you see them as you were dying, coming toward you with their axes? And then, without a moment to waste, demented, they hacked into your skull, just below your open eye, your blood spattering those hands that would steal the prize you carried: two beautiful tusks, white like your bones will be, but stained with blood.

I will never forget your face, so savagely butchered. Rage fills my heavy heart, Changila.

Where will your tusks go? They will leave Africa, hidden in dirty sacks, in boxes, trucks, and stores, changing hands from man to man. No one will know who you were, where you lived. You will be like thousands of others, unknown, abused, and used. One day, a piece of you will be cut into myriad items.

I’m sorry, Changila. May your name live forever—we will miss you.

Oria Douglas-Hamilton

In 1997 Iain and Oria Douglas-Hamilton established the Research Centre in Samburu to study the elephants that frequent the reserve and range beyond it. Four years later Oria opened Eco Camp, Elephant Watch, where guests can go out daily to spend intimate hours with the known elephants. Changila was one of the few remaining big bulls in the area.

More from National Geographic Magazine

Ivory Worship
Thousands of elephants die each year so that their tusks can be carved into religious objects. Can the slaughter be stopped? By Bryan Christy.

Family Ties: The Elephants of Samburu. By David Quammen.

Africa’s Elephants: Can They Survive? By Oria Douglas-Hamilton.