The Last Roar, A Future Without the Sumatran Tiger

A Voice Fading

Sometimes I wonder what silence really means. Not the quiet of a library or a sleepy afternoon, but the silence of a forest where something has gone missing. 

For centuries, Sumatra's rainforest had a voice, the roar of its tiger. It cut through mist and morning air, a reminder that the jungle was alive.

Today, that roar is fading. Scientists say fewer than 600 Sumatran tigers remain in the wild. A number on paper, yes, but behind it lies something heavier: an entire spirit of the forest being pushed to the edge.

Speaking for the Voiceless

The tiger cannot speak in meetings or write a policy brief. Its voice is carried in scars, in tracks left by riversides, in a sudden cry when caught in a snare. Most of us will never hear that cry. It doesn't make headlines in the same way politics or sport does. But it is real.

In Riau, in Jambi, villagers sometimes wake to find livestock missing. Fear spreads. A tiger must have crossed nearby. Too often the story ends with a trap, a gunshot, a body carried out of the jungle. People call it "conflict." I call it desperation. The tiger isn't invading our world, we're erasing its own.

Between Coexistence and Crisis

I grew up hearing that in old Minangkabau stories, the tiger was a guardian. A symbol of strength. People once believed harming it would bring misfortune. I try to imagine that kind of reverence today.

But things have changed. Farms stretch further, plantations eat into forest, and companies chase profit at a pace the land cannot recover from. The tiger, once a spirit of awe, becomes just another threat on the edge of someone's field.

And yet, there are moments of hope. Some villages near Kerinci Seblat have started building fences, using solar lights, even calling rangers instead of retaliating. Anti-poaching patrols have dismantled snares by the thousands (Mongabay). These are not grand victories, but small, stubborn acts of coexistence.

Imagining the Future

Fast-forward to 2050.

A child in Jakarta visits a zoo. She runs to the tiger enclosure, but finds only a hologram. A digital roar fills the air, loud but empty. She turns to her teacher and asks, "Was it ever real?" The answer comes with a pause: "Yes. But it disappeared before you were born".

In a village once bordered by forest, elders tell stories of nights when glowing eyes watched from the dark. The children listen, but it sounds more like legend than memory.

And the forest itself? Quiet. Without tigers, prey animals multiply. Young trees are eaten before they can grow. Rivers clog with mud. The jungle begins to collapse, slowly but surely. This isn't fantasy, it's the very real consequence of losing balance.

Hope in Small Choices

The picture doesn't have to end there. Protected parks like Gunung Leuser, Kerinci Seblat, and Bukit Barisan Selatan still hold tiger strongholds. Rangers are out there, sweating in the heat, removing snares. Communities are learning new ways to coexist.

And we, far away from Sumatra, still play a part. Choosing products not tied to deforestation. Supporting eco-tourism. Even sharing stories so the tiger's plight isn't forgotten. Small things, yes. But many small things together create space: for trees, for rivers, for life.

A Plea, Not for Pity

The tiger doesn't beg. It never did. It asks for something simple: space to live, respect to exist.

If we call ourselves the most intelligent species, then maybe the true test is not in how much we conquer, but in how much we allow others to live beside us.

I don't want future generations to know the tiger only as a logo or a hologram. I want them to feel the ground tremble with a real roar, to walk through forests that still breathe.

The choice is here, in our hands. The voice is fading. But it doesn't have to be the last roar.