Sum up the narrator’s encounter with the elephants and the behavior of the people in the village. (Material)

Relate the text (Material) to the short story “Shooting an Elephant” by George Orwell.

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After being woken up in the morning and informed that a herd of elephants has consumed the local rice beer and is wrecking the village (ll. 1–4), the narrator, Randall, walks onto the devastated streets holding a rifle that is completely inadequate for hunting elephants (ll. 5–6, 12–13). At this point, the village is in complete chaos, with inhabitants frantically running around trying to extinguish fires with leaking buckets (ll. 8–9). However, as soon as they catch sight of the armed narrator, they instantly form a vengeful and hysterical crowd (ll. 10–11). The villagers gesticulate wildly, shout out their woes, and push the clueless narrator to the head of the mob to force him into action (ll. 11–12, 21). While the faces of his close acquaintances reflect deep panic and distress (ll. 21–23), the angry crowd suddenly falls completely silent when they turn a corner and are directly faced with one of the elephants (ll. 25–26).

In this precise moment, the narrator experiences intense fear of being killed or trampled, yet he faces immense social pressure due to his role as a white Westerner ("pukka sahib"), feeling desperate to meet the community's expectations and avoid looking like a coward (ll. 14–17). In front of him stands the massive animal, which appears visibly perplexed and staggers unsteadily due to the enormous amount of alcohol it consumed (ll. 31–36). Randall's temporary hope of remaining unnoticed by standing perfectly still to save face (ll. 37–39) is shattered when the elephant locks its eyes onto him and charges directly at him with a maniacal trumpeting blast (ll. 41–43). In a state of panic, the narrator drops his gun and flees, but after only a few paces, he trips over a loose piece of thatch roof and crashes to the ground (ll. 44–48). Lying helplessly, he looks up to see the attacking elephant accidentally brush against a snapped-off high-voltage cable, getting heavily electrocuted before crashing down like a collapsing city, which makes the entire ground shake (ll. 49–56).

T.C. Boyle’s short story "Almost Shooting an Elephant" (ASE) serves as a direct, modern intertextual response to George Orwell’s classic essay "Shooting an Elephant" (SE), as both texts explore the psychological burden of Western expectations, the overwhelming pressure of a crowd, and the tragic confrontation with a massive animal. However, while sharing a similar core conflict, the two narratives differ significantly in their political contexts, the symbolism of their weaponry, and the eventual demise of the elephant.

The primary conflict of both narrators stems from the discrepancy between their private feelings and their public roles. In ASE, Randall is merely a young American company worker and hobby hunter who unexpectedly finds himself thrust into the role of a leader and problem-solver expected to handle a herd of drunken elephants (ll. 1–4, 16–18). Similarly, Orwell’s narrator is a British colonial police officer in Burma. Both men experience a paralyzing fear of looking weak, foolish, or like a "wimp" in front of the local population (ASE, ll. 14–15). Yet, while Orwell’s conflict is deeply rooted in the moral guilt of representing a tyrannical colonial system, Randall’s crisis is more existential and absurd, driven by the sudden, ridiculous burden of having to prove his presumed "Western superiority" as a modern "pukka sahib" (ASE, ll. 16–17).

This psychological crisis is heavily exacerbated by the immense pressure exerted by the respective crowds. In Boyle's text, a panicked and "vengeful, hysterical crowd" physically pushes the narrator forward "like the surge of the tide" because he is the white man with the gun (ASE, ll. 10–11, 21). Boyle portrays the villagers as a chaotic, clueless mob singing a "song of woe" (ASE, ll. 11–12), turning the scene into a frenzied spectacle. In contrast, Orwell’s Burmese crowd is depicted as a massive, expectant force that symbolizes the passive power of the colonized. Orwell realizes that the white man, despite holding total legal power, is actually forced to act as an absurd puppet whose choices are entirely dictated by the will of the natives who expect colonial authority to perform.

The weaponry available to the narrators further highlights the shift in power dynamics and tone between the two stories. Randall’s 7mm Remington rifle is completely inadequate for bringing down an animal "the size of a house" (ASE, ll. 12–15). Rather than a symbol of power, his gun is a piece of mockery that he ultimately drops in a moment of absolute panic when he flees from the charging animal (ASE, ll. 44–45). In Orwell’s essay, however, the elephant gun represents the heavy, destructive military and authoritarian power of the British Empire. It is a highly potent tool of violence, yet it ultimately fails to kill cleanly, transforming into an instrument of slow, agonizing destruction.

Finally, the death of the elephant highlights the fundamental difference between Boyle’s absurd realism and Orwell’s grim political critique. In ASE, the confrontation ends in a bizarre twist of fate: the drunk elephant is accidentally electrocuted after getting caught in a high-voltage utility cable (ASE, ll. 51–53). The animal’s sudden, energetic "dance" and subsequent collapse (ASE, ll. 54–56) make its death a sudden, ridiculous coincidence of modern technology, meaning the narrator never actually has to pull the trigger. In sharp contrast, Orwell’s narrator deliberately shoots the elephant multiple times to save face in front of the Burmese people, even though the animal had already calmed down. The elephant in SE dies a painfully slow, cruel death, forcing the narrator to leave the scene in distress. While the elephant’s demise in ASE is a fast-paced accident of infrastructure, Orwell’s graphic depiction of the slow slaughter serves as a powerful metaphor for the profound cruelty and ultimate futility of colonial rule.

Discussion: Globalization as Modern-Day Imperialism

In his short story Almost Shooting an Elephant, T.C. Boyle introduces a protagonist whose presence in a remote Indian village is a direct result of globalization: he is there to install infrastructure for internet access and color television. Yet, when a crisis strikes, the narrator finds himself trapped in a historical echo, noting: “I was the one with the gun, the white man, the pukka sahib; I was the torchbearer of Western superiority, the one with everything to prove and everything to lose.” This striking quote highlights a profound psychological and structural reality: even in a modern, technologically interconnected world, old colonial stereotypes and unequal expectations persist. Taking this ambivalence as a starting point, it is crucial to discuss to what extent modern globalization can be considered a contemporary form of imperialism.

A compelling argument for viewing globalization through the lens of imperialism is the perpetuation of deep economic dominance and power imbalances. Historically, imperialist nations exploited colonies for raw materials and cheap labor. Today, multinational corporations from the Global North often exercise immense economic control over developing countries in the Global South. Critics argue that relying on cheap labor and outsourcing production to unregulated markets mimics old colonial exploitation, where the wealth flows back to Western centers while local economies remain dependent and structurally disadvantaged.

Furthermore, globalization frequently manifests as a tool for cultural homogenization and ideological control. Just as historical empires imposed their language, religion, and administrative structures on colonized populations, modern globalization exports a distinct set of Western values. Lifestyles centered on individualism, consumerism, and materialism are broadcast globally through media, technology, and entertainment. This asymmetrical flow of cultural exports often marginalizes indigenous worldviews, replaces local traditions, and significantly reduces global cultural diversity, creating a form of "cultural imperialism" where the Global North defines what is universal or superior.

However, equating globalization with imperialism overlooks fundamental differences in mechanics and agency, particularly the absence of direct political and military control. Historical imperialism was primarily state-driven, relying on military conquest, forced assimilation, and the systematic oppression of local sovereign entities. Modern globalization, by contrast, is largely decentralized and driven by market forces, international organizations, and non-state actors. Interactions are generally based on voluntary participation rather than physical coercion, allowing sovereign nations to negotiate their involvement in the global market.

In addition, globalization can be interpreted as a system of mutual benefit, equal partnership, and cultural hybridization. Rather than a one-way street of dominance, it enables significant technology transfers, infrastructural development, and economic growth in developing nations. Culturally, the process is increasingly multidirectional. Global platforms and social media have democratized cross-cultural dialogue, allowing marginalized communities to share their history, arts, and traditions with a global audience. The modern world sees a proliferation of cultural fusion—in food, fashion, and music—where distinct traditions blend collaboratively rather than hierarchically.

In conclusion, while globalization undoubtedly carries the baggage of historical power dynamics—as Randall’s sudden transformation into a reluctant pukka sahib demonstrates—it cannot be entirely reduced to modern-day imperialism. The structural inequalities, economic exploitation, and cultural erosion observed today are genuine, worrying remnants of an imperial past that globalization can exacerbate.

However, because globalization lacks centralized military subjugation and offers genuine opportunities for multi-directional exchange, agency, and collaborative growth, it is more accurately defined as a highly complex, interconnected network. It is a system where the ghost of imperialism still lingers in the machinery of economic and cultural dominance, but also one that holds the cooperative tools necessary to dismantle those very hierarchies.

Dear professors, fellow students, and distinguished guests,

Standing here before you today as an exchange student, I am incredibly honored to open this year’s conference, "Narrating Global Encounters." When I first arrived at this university, I was struck by the sheer scale of global awareness on this campus. We live in an era defined by headlines that shake us to our core: shifting climate patterns, geopolitical conflicts, economic inequality, and massive systemic crises. Faced with these pressing, concrete challenges, a crucial question inevitably arises: What is the relevance of literature today? When the world is practically on fire, why should we turn to fictional stories instead of looking solely at data, journalism, or policy briefs?

The answer lies in how we perceive the world because while data can inform our minds, literature has the unique power to transform our hearts. Global issues are often frustratingly abstract, and it is easy to feel detached from statistics about modern exploitation or displaced populations. Fiction changes this by translating massive, impersonal global crises into deeply personal, human experiences. It acts as both a mirror to our own societal flaws and a window into lives we might otherwise never encounter, thereby humanizing the individuals behind the headlines, breaking down rigid stereotypes, and building cultural bridges across geopolitical divides. Furthermore, unlike the rapid-fire polarization of social media or the daily news cycle, literature allows for ambiguity and contradiction. It shows us that global encounters are rarely black and white, but rather messy, multi-layered, and deeply complex, which ultimately encourages us to sit with discomfort and contemplate the underlying root causes of global friction.

However, if we are to have an honest discussion at this conference, we must also acknowledge the limitations of literary fiction when addressing global emergencies. We have to ask ourselves whether an individual narrative can truly capture systemic forces. Traditional fiction inherently relies on character development, individual plots, and personal arcs, yet the greatest crises of our time, like corporate exploitation or institutionalized injustice, are massive, collective forces that often transcend the scope of a single protagonist's journey. Furthermore, the very nature of literature can sometimes clash with the urgency of global issues. Fiction thrives on irony, open-endedness, and nuanced perspectives, but when an ethical or political crisis demands immediate, clear-cut action, ambiguity can feel like a luxury we cannot afford. We must also recognize that complex, metaphorical literature often reaches a highly educated, privileged audience. For broad public engagement and swift political mobilization, mediums like investigative journalism, documentaries, social media, and film are frequently far more direct and effective tools.

So, where does this leave us? Is literature irrelevant? Absolutely not. Literature should not be viewed as a replacement for political action, journalism, or economic reform—rather, it is the emotional foundation upon which these efforts are built. Journalism tells us what is happening, but literature reminds us why we should care, preserving the very empathy required to drive systemic change in the first place. As we embark on this conference over the coming days, let us analyze these global encounters not just as academic texts, but as vital catalysts for empathy, awareness, and ultimate transformation.

Thank you very much, and I wish us all an inspiring and thought-provoking conference!