In the dry, thorny landscape of Kunene North, where the midday sun scorches the earth and water is as precious as gold, three elderly men have taken it upon themselves to protect what little their community depends on—its gardens.

Niklas Tjauira, Kambanga Zaryama, and Unyonena Katupose are not trained wildlife rangers. They do not wear uniforms, nor do they carry radios or protective gear. What they have instead is courage born of necessity and a deep love for the land that raised them. Armed only with whistles, sticks, and the occasional torch or horn, they spend their nights watching over community gardens—small patches of green that feed their families and their neighbours.

“We are not young, but we know what hunger feels like,” says Niklas, his eyes scanning the dry riverbed where elephants sometimes appear without warning. “If we do not protect these gardens, who will?”

Kambanga, tall and quiet, remembers when elephants respected boundaries, when the land had more water and conflict was rare. Now, he says, elephants are desperate—just like the people. “We do not blame the elephants. They are hungry too. But we must eat. We must survive.”

Unyonena, the eldest, has chased elephants away using only burning chillies and banging pots. He laughs when asked if he is afraid. “Of course I am. But I am more afraid of waking up to a destroyed garden.”

Despite their bravery, the challenges they face are enormous. They have no proper training on how to safely use deterrent tools, and their nights are long and dangerous. One wrong move could cost them their lives. Yet, they continue—night after night—because these gardens are more than crops. They are life.

Their story is a powerful reminder of the human cost of human-wildlife conflict. It also highlights the urgent need for support: training, gear, and recognition. For now, though, Niklas, Kambanga, and Unyonena stand firm—three elderly men with the hearts of lions, guarding hope in the face of giants.