Wild animals around the world are being removed from human communities and killed en masse. What are the animals doing to deserve this punishment?
Craig O'Neal/Flickr
Earlier this month, officials in Australia announced plans to shoot and
kill thousands of camels. What did the camels do to deserve this punishment?
They were looking for water to drink, and this search brought them into
human communities.
Last year, U.S. federal and state governments spent tens of millions of
dollars on plans to “eradicate” bands of feral pigs. What did the pigs do to
deserve this punishment? They were looking for food to eat, and this search,
once again, brought them into human communities.
This year, Denver is poised to kill more of its Canada goose population,
after slaughtering 1,600 geese last year. What are the geese doing to
deserve this punishment? They are merely trying to live—Colorado is part of
their historic range—and are seen as a nuisance.
These stories are the tip of the iceberg. While the details vary, the
general theme is always the same. When human and nonhuman interests appear
to conflict, we use violence, often in the form of organized extermination
campaigns, to resolve these apparent conflicts in our favor.
In many cases, we use militaristic, catastrophizing language to justify this
violence against other animals. Instead of portraying nonhumans as fellow
creatures who are simply trying to exist, we portray them as enemy invaders
who are coming to destroy our communities. For example, as The New York
Times wrote last month regarding feral pigs: “Ranchers and government
officials here are keeping watch on an enemy army gathering to the north,
along the border with Canada.”
The idea of invasive species is political as much as scientific. The U.S.
federal government, for instance, defines invasive species as “an alien
species whose introduction does or is likely to cause economic or
environmental harm or harm to human health.” By this definition, the mere
potential to harm economic interests is enough to qualify a non-native
species as invasive. Prominent ecologists like Marc Bekoff note that beliefs
about the impacts of “invasive species” are value-laden too–especially when
these beliefs inform decisions about whether animals live or die.
When we use invasive species rhetoric, we might not intend for our language
to contribute to violence against other animals, but it does. This rhetoric
creates distance with other animals, erasing them as individuals who matter
morally and erasing the reality that humans attack and kill nonhumans much
more than the reverse. This rhetoric makes it easier to rationalize killing
other animals rather than searching for ways to peacefully co-exist with
them.
Invasive species rhetoric is, of course, not the only way that humans create
distance from other animals. We also create distance by calling individual
animals “it” and by calling violence against certain animals a “cull.” This
language is both a product of, and a contributor to, a deeper ideology that
prioritizes human interests above all else, an ideology that supports a
policy of dispatching with perceived threats to human interests by any means
necessary.
According to this human-centric ideology, humans (or, at least some humans)
have the right to self-determination. Every other animal is assigned a role
based on their value to our species. At one end of the spectrum,
domesticated animals are meant to live in captivity and provide humans with
benefits ranging from love to food. At the other end, wild animals are meant
to live in nature and provide humans with benefits ranging from beauty to
ecosystem services. If wild animals play their role, we might let them be.
But if they deviate from their human-prescribed role, we respond swiftly and
brutally.
Human activity is increasingly leaving other animals without a place to
live. Our species is taking over more of the planet, and is also, through
human-caused climate change, making more of the planet uninhabitable. It is
no coincidence that pigs, camels, geese, and other “invasive” species are
desperately searching for food, water, and shelter. While resource scarcity
has always been a threat for nonhumans, humans are making these threats
worse and creating new ones. We then punish animals for trying to cope with
the problems that we create.
What if, instead of assuming that nonhumans are here for us, we accept that
they deserve to live their own lives? We can learn to feel inspired rather
than threatened by the surprising, creative ways that other animals adapt.
Pigs, for example, only exist in the Americas because humans brought them
here for food, yet they have proven remarkably resilient. They can survive
in many climates, and are adapting to cold weather in Canada and the
northern U.S. by learning to burrow into the snow, creating so-called
“pigloos.”
Similarly, what if, instead of scapegoating nonhumans for resource scarcity,
we accept that humans are primarily responsible? Our focus should be on the
human behaviors that are creating these scarcity problems. Camels, for
example, only exist in Australia because colonists brought them there to
explore the outback. Camels now live in autonomous communities, and humans
are blaming—and executing—them for water scarcity. Yet Australian animal
agriculture is much more responsible for this problem, along with other
environmental problems.
We also need to be thoughtful when assigning responsibility for violence
against nonhumans. Our focus should be on the societal structures that
create human-nonhuman conflicts and the people in power who work to uphold
these structures. In Australia, for instance, the people most responsible
for the deaths of the camels are not the Aboriginal communities who approved
the “cull”; instead, the people most responsible are the climate
change-denying political leaders (and their supporters) who created this
predicament.
Many conflicts with other animals can disappear over time if we restructure
society to be more inclusive of other species. The more territory and
resources that we protect for other animals (for example, by creating parks
and reserves), the less that these animals will need to enter “our”
communities looking for food, water, or homes. And, the more accommodations
that we create for other animals in “our” communities (for instance, by
making buildings and roads more animal-friendly), the less conflict there
will be among humans and nonhumans co-existing in these spaces.
As we work to build a more just society for humans and nonhumans alike, what
should we do about thirsty camels, hungry pigs, and other such animals? We
might not, in this deeply imperfect world, be able to treat everyone in the
manner they deserve. But we can—and must—envision better ways of living with
other animals now. If we can at least discuss perceived conflicts without
describing animals as pests and invaders or treating violence as the default
solution, then we might be surprised by how humane we can be.