Last summer, I spent a month in Mauritius with one of Stanford's Archaeology Field Schools. "Small Trees" is my attempt at piecing together several confusing and contradictory emotions I feel now reflecting back on the impact our actions had.
Our second day on Flat Island, we followed the forest ranger down a path that looked familiar, but overgrown. Grass stepped-on, but not flat. We didn’t know what to expect. When we got to the trees, Rajiv handed each of us a machete, said, “Whatever you do, don’t let go.” He held it up, swung, whacked the small tree. It fell. He motioned for us to go. We tried. The trees were so small it wasn’t even too hard. He said, “Every year we cut down the small trees that block our path to the site. Every year we map the path with pink tape. Every year they grow back.” We felt powerful, whacking the small trees with our heavy machetes, blisters rising on our soft, soft hands. Later, they stung in the salt water we bathed in, and when we got out, we were cold. The sky fell into night. We thought of the small trees we had injured on command, so swiftly, the assault we committed without a thought, and again we were afraid.