Biologists classify them as Atta cephalotes. Here in Panama, people call them La Arriera—a name synonymous with destruction. Kneeling down in the earth, I helplessly watch them march by. Leafcutter ants—thousands of them, a seemingly endless procession of six-legged pirates, each one balancing a bright green fragment as if cradling a piece of treasure.

For weeks I had battled them, spraying increasingly strong chemicals like a sorcerer casting spells, but each morning I awoke to find their marauding mandibles had plundered my garden yet again. The harder I fought the more powerless I felt. Their efficiency and scale left me suspended between awe and exasperation. “Where did they live?” “How many of them were there?” “And how could such tiny creatures consume that many leaves anyway?” In my search for a secret weapon, I turned to research, though what I found was not a method for control, but an awakening.

The ants weren’t thieves; they were master cultivators. Leafcutters didn’t eat what harvested, instead, they carried the foliage underground to farm the fungus that grew on it. This was a primordial partnership, mutualism formed millions of years before Homo sapiens stepped onto the global stage. As their colony grew unseen below ground, their numbers could surpass the biggest human megacities, but unlike their “wise” neighbors, leafcutters left no lasting scars on the land. Rather than the force of destruction I had mistakenly believed them to be, leafcutter ants lived in harmony with the forest, their operation was indispensable for enriching the nutrient-poor tropical soil and sustaining countless other species.

This changed everything. Leafcutters were a central node in the forest’s web of interconnection. Far from being my enemies, they were a linchpin of the ecosystem I was trying to work within. These ants had achieved equilibrium with their environment, using it without exhausting it. What right did I have to evict them from their home? Their civilizations were complex systems of sustainability with diverse divisions of labor; each worker was committed to collective action over individual gain. How vibrant and alive could human society be if we moved with such coordination and collaboration? The removal of this keystone species would have cascading effects on the entire ecosystem. Maybe, after all, the real intruder was me?

La Arriera didn’t just reshape my garden—they reshaped my thinking. I began to observe more closely, not just the ants, but the rhythms and cycles of life all around me. The forest became less of a battleground and more of a classroom.

When I share this story with others, whether in Panama or beyond, I emphasize the lesson I learned kneeling in that garden: true stewardship begins with listening. The leafcutters offered a blueprint for coexistence, urging me to rethink how I engage with the world around me. They dared me to imagine a future where human progress doesn’t come at the expense of other species but grows in partnership with them.

And as I step back to watch them marching yet again—leaf cuttings fluttering in the wind like banners of resilience—I am filled not with frustration but with awe. Their presence is a testament to the enduring wisdom of nature, a wisdom that urges us to look, listen, and learn.

In their silent toil, La Arriera told me, “Take notes.”