The last frontier of empathy: why we still struggle to see ourselves as animals
The sun rises over Massachusetts Bay, and a North Atlantic right whale gracefully navigates the shallow waters with her calf in tow. As she surfaces, a V-shaped breath of vapor disappears into the cold air, a fleeting moment of life. The calf, approximately three months old and the length of a small truck, is still learning the rhythm of its mother's wake. They move as one, guided by instinct, towards food and safety, just like any other mammal mother and baby.
In contrast, the same waters are ruled by a different logic. Tankers and container ships follow timetables set by executives thousands of miles away, their routes fixed and unyielding. Boston's approach lanes have been adjusted to reduce whale collisions, but the traffic persists, adhering to human schedules. These vessels, driven by commerce and the relentless pursuit of efficiency, prioritize speed and punctuality over the well-being of the whales. The demand for fast shipping, a reflection of our desire for instant gratification, often comes at a devastating cost to these endangered creatures.
The threat to the North Atlantic right whale is not unique. Every challenge they face, be it speed, noise, or entanglement in fishing nets, stems from a fundamental assumption: that human needs take precedence over theirs. This belief, known as human exceptionalism, asserts that humans are not just distinct from other life forms but morally superior, entitled to claim space, speed, resources, and survival. It underpins our dietary choices, habitat destruction, resource extraction, and environmental impact.
Many cultures have challenged this notion, recognizing the interconnectedness of all life. The Māori of Aotearoa (New Zealand) view humans as kin to rivers, mountains, and forests through whakapapa, or genealogy. The saying 'Ko au te awa, ko te awa ko au' ('I am the river and the river is me') encapsulates this reciprocal relationship.
Similarly, Lakota philosophy emphasizes 'Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ' ('all are related'), treating animals, plants, waters, and winds as relatives rather than resources. The Kumulipo, a 2,100-line Hawaiian creation chant, honors the humble coral polyp as an ancient ancestor, connecting people to the natural world through spiritual genealogy.
Westerners, however, may need to reconsider their place in the cosmos. Admitting to a misreading of our role could lead to a shift towards a more harmonious relationship with the natural world. Instead of commanding, we could become kin, interconnected equals among other beings and systems.
This idea might seem sentimental in a political climate where empathy towards fellow humans is often met with resistance. Refugees are turned away at ports, a grim reminder of the fragility of our empathy. Yet, the challenge lies in the very concept of human exceptionalism, which threatens the coherence of our lives. Our minds naturally defend old ways before exploring new ones.
Psychologist Erik Erikson's concept of pseudospeciation, the desire to divide the world into 'us' and 'not us', explains our tendency to justify mistreatment. This psychological distance allows us to degrade beings we deem inferior without conscience. However, humans possess the capacity for self-reflection and growth, and it is time to question our centrality in the human experience.
Anthropologist Professor John Doe, with a crooked finger allegedly from a monkey bite, encouraged us to see our animal behavior and recognize our DNA similarities with chimpanzees and bonobos. He urged us to be suspicious of our altruism and aware of our animal nature.
The realization of our animal origins can be a powerful catalyst for change. Giving birth to my daughters connected me with my animal nature, as I witnessed instinct at work, unmediated by thought. This primal, powerful place is where true connection lies.
Despite our comforts and technological advancements, we remain estranged from our natural origins. As biologist EO Wilson observed, 'The real problem of humanity is the following: we have Paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions, and godlike technology'.
The struggle to acknowledge our animal nature stems from a deep-seated discomfort with significant animal intelligence and emotion, or the humility of viewing ourselves as animals. Charles Darwin's work, 'The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals', highlighted the evolutionary continuity of human feelings with other animals, an idea later overshadowed by behaviorism and the taboo against anthropomorphism.
Primatologist Frans de Waal argues that Darwin was correct, emphasizing no principled boundary exists between 'human' emotion and intelligence. He coined the term 'anthropodenial' to describe the blindness to humanlike traits in other animals and animal-like traits in us.
The reluctance to accept our animal nature may stem from the fear of disrupting our self-concept. It would challenge the ways we move through life, threatening our sense of superiority. However, admitting our flaws and recognizing our animal nature is essential for growth.
As a professor of writing, I've taught Shirley Jackson's story 'The Lottery', where a small town's annual ritual of stoning a person reflects a deep-rooted tradition. The story highlights the danger of relying solely on tradition, especially when it has contributed to the Earth's sixth mass extinction.
Proponents of exceptionalism argue for a unique moral status and full rights for humans, often grounded in religion and the belief of being made in God's image. Others point to our advanced brains and cumulative culture as evidence of our priority in times of trade-offs.
However, the counterargument is simpler. Exceptionalism confuses evolutionary difference with superiority, and uniqueness has never equated to higher moral rank. If it did, even the bioluminescent lantern fish or the ancient honey mushroom might deserve consideration.
The concept of decentering humans is gaining traction in policy and literature. As environmental writer Ben Goldfarb notes, there are faint signs of progress, but the mainstream still considers it threatening. The 'rights of nature' movement, often led by Indigenous communities, has made strides, recognizing the inherent rights of the Klamath River as a crucial step towards dam removal.
In the legal arena, the Whanganui River in New Zealand and the Atrato River in Colombia now hold legal personhood, while Spain's constitutional court has upheld the Mar Menor Lagoon's ecosystem personhood. Canada's Magpie River enjoys comparable standing through municipal and Indigenous resolutions.
Storytellers, like Robert Macfarlane and Amitav Ghosh, advocate for centering animals as literary characters, honoring non-humans and restoring their agency and voice. Macfarlane's book 'Is a River Alive?' highlights the mismatch between company rights and river rights, arguing that story and statute can repair this imbalance.
The death of Jane Goodall, a champion of humility and peace, served as a poignant reminder of our interconnectedness. Her words echoed through the tributes, emphasizing the need for consideration and kindness towards all life forms.
While policy may be contested, we can still make thoughtful choices in our daily lives. Simple actions like swapping lawns for native plants, skipping pesticides, feeding birds, and supporting wildlife corridors contribute to a more compassionate world. Each step, no matter how small, broadens the circle of consideration with sincerity.
The time to act is now, as the whale, river, and tern ask for more space, standing, and habitat. We have the power to give, and the choices to make a difference.
