This month’s piece is near and dear to my heart, explaining a bit about the journey we undertake with each one.

As you read this story, know that your donations make it possible to give these neonates the second chance they deserve, on top of the extensive conservation work that goes on to protect the habitats they will one day call home. We truly couldn't take on this immense, intense responsibility without you.

– Angela Sheldrick

It is an extraordinary thing to be part of a creature’s life from the very beginning, especially a creature as long-lived and complex as the elephant. We have had that great privilege and enormous responsibility to raise neonate orphans, many of whom have come to us just hours out of the womb. So begins a journey of many years and a lifetime of commitment — but first, we must forge through the difficult neonate months.

I must admit that when a neonate is rescued, the primary feeling one experiences is dread. It is such a turbulent journey — a roller coaster of emotions, marked by high highs and low lows. We classify a neonate as an infant orphan who was rescued without teeth. Many aspects of them remain complete enigmas. A neonate can wake up perfectly healthy, then take a precipitous downward turn in a matter of hours.

It is nature’s great paradox: the mightiest creatures are also the most fragile. As adults, elephants are titans of the landscape, as immutable as mountains or mighty baobab trees. But these titans come from delicate beginnings. In my lifetime, I have raised a great many of Africa’s wildlife — and neonate orphaned elephants are by far the greatest challenge. Extremely fragile, emotionally complex, and vulnerable to the slightest change, they require absolute commitment.

To understand why, you must first understand what these babies have lost.

At first glance, elephant calves appear to be tough little creatures. They weigh about 100 kilos at birth, can stand within 20 minutes, walk within an hour, and keep up with their herd by their second day of life. While they are sturdy in body and strength, they are also enormously cosseted. The entire herd revolves — quite literally — around the youngest. At rest, they orient themselves in a protective circle with calves at the centre; in transit, calves are flanked by a security force of mothers, nannies, and siblings.

This vigilance is borne of love and of necessity: unsupervised calves can easily get stuck or lost, and they are easy prey for lions. They require lots of sleep and even more milk, which makes up the entirety of their diet for the early months of life. They have insatiable appetites, and a mother must eat copious amounts of vegetation in order to produce enough milk to sustain a single calf. This is why females cannot afford to take on an orphan without compromising their own baby.

When a calf loses its mother, it loses everything — its family, its food source, its protection, its entire support system.

That's where we come in. Over the years, we have rescued many orphans in extreme infancy, through a range of misfortunes: Lemeki was washed away in a flood; Ndotto was found among a herd of livestock, his umbilical cord still attached; Korbessa was stuck inside a well; Mutara likely lost her mother to poaching; Tomboi was left behind in human–wildlife conflict; Mayan was trapped in a septic tank; and the list goes on.

While many calves are orphaned through human activities, others fall victim to natural misfortunes. A compromised calf puts the entire herd at risk — and ultimately, if the matriarch must choose between one life or the well-being of the herd, she will prioritise the group. These are difficult, heartbreaking, but necessary decisions for survival in the harsh wild. But when an orphan is discovered and KWS calls for a rescue, we will do everything we can to save them.

My mother, Daphne Sheldrick, always said, “Get the husbandry right, and the elephant lives.” She was the first person to successfully raise a neonate orphaned elephant — a hard-won success borne of years of trial and error, heartbreak, and breakthroughs.

Daphne was guided by the husbandry — and that continues to be our north star today. Elephants are intensely emotional beings: they love deeply, experience grief, and hold on to trauma. In the wake of losing their family, many orphans fall into a cavernous depression. You have to give them a reason to live.

We just experienced this with Kaikai, a neonate orphan we rescued in May. She was only days old when her mother died. Despite being so young, the experience traumatised her deeply. When she arrived at our Kaluku Unit, she was unsettled and spent her first nights pacing disconsolately and crying for her mother.

But then Kaikai found her reason. She realised she had new figures who loved her — and whom she loved in return: her Keepers. That was the turning point. Suddenly, she wanted to live. The despondent calf we rescued morphed into a bubbly and bright little character, curious and affectionate and invested in her new existence. More challenges would come, but we had crossed the first major hurdle.

Integral to the husbandry, the Keepers play an absolutely pivotal role in the success of a neonate. A small team rises to the task — some who have been with us for decades, others who have a special gift. They all have an indefinable quality, a special wavelength that immediately connects them to elephants. It is impossible to describe but immediately apparent.

The Keepers know everything about their little charges. It is an intimacy that can only be achieved through time and experience: they spend every minute with them, day and night. They understand these elephants like their own children, with a second-nature knowledge of their quirks and foibles. They are nurturers and guides, swaddling calves in blankets when it is chilly, lulling them to sleep with song, hand-picking their favourite greens, scooping handfuls of mud and dust on their bodies, and gently helping them learn acceptable behaviours and habits — just as their mothers, nannies, and siblings would in the wild.

A neonate Keeper is also forensically observant. They are highly attuned to the slightest shift in weight, behaviour, appetite, sleeping patterns, or stool — and equally important, to the intangible signs that indicate what might be going on within. They require constant supervision. We record every stool, measure out every milk feed, track weight gain or loss, take photos to monitor daily progress.

Teething is the great mystery of neonate orphans. For the first few months of life, elephants are entirely milk-dependent. When they are about one to two months old, the first tooth erupts, beginning the growth of a set of eight molars that enables them to start eating greens. 'Erupts' is an accurate term — as soon as the first molar pokes through, we brace ourselves for a fraught time ahead. The discomfort of the teeth brings on low fevers and a loss of condition. Cheeks hollow out, stool becomes runny, and energy ebbs away.

If we are going to lose an orphan, this is the phase in which it is most likely to happen. It is a delicate dance, tiptoeing through teething with absolute conviction. A milk formula that works for one neonate may not work for another; the same applies to drips and medication. Each requires highly individualised care. There is no one-size-fits-all approach to raising a neonate, no template to follow.

To compound the mystery, teething is a non-event in the wild. We were reminded of this viscerally when the Umani 'grandkids' (wild calves born to our orphans) recently went through it. In stark contrast to our neonate orphans, they remained as plump and energetic as ever. Lenny struggled with a bit of diarrhoea but suffered no major change in condition. A mother’s milk is able to support her baby through the process — something no one has yet been able to perfectly replicate in formula.

For the little miracles who make it through teething, the change is rapid and astonishing. Almost as soon as the eighth tooth flattens out, their hollow cheeks begin to fill and their energy levels spike. After weeks — and sometimes months — of unmitigated stress, we can all breathe a collective sigh of relief.

I have found that neonates often come in multiples — completely unrelated rescues, but a curious twist of fate. Each individual requires extraordinary commitment, but when they survive, the pride and delight we feel is indescribable. It is a hard-won fight, but the worthiest one. Decades from now, the tiny creature that stands before us will be one of nature’s titans — and it all started here, with us. That is a privilege indeed.