A criminology of extinction: Biodiversity,extreme consumption and the vanity of species resurrection

Introduction

Significant international work in recent years has drawn attention to ‘animal abuse,’ ‘wildlife crime’ and, more broadly, harms and crimes affecting non-human species (Bayrachnaya et al., 2018; Beirne, 1995, 1997, 1999, 2009, 2014; Gibbs et al., 2010; Maher and Sollund, 2016; Maher et al., 2017; Moreto, 2018; Nurse, 2013, 2015; Pires and Clarke, 2011; Sollund 2011, 2013a, 2013b, 2015; Wyatt, 2013). In some respects, this work has been pioneering. In other ways, it builds on the past work of others and serves as a reminder of the historical complexity of human–non-human relations. Bryant (1979: 412) made an early call for the study of ‘zoological crime’ – a term coined to refer to the violation of ‘animal related social norms . . . [that] may well be among the most ubiquitous of any social deviancy.’ Beirne’s (1995) essay, some 16 years later, was, in part, a frustrated reaction to the failure to respond to Bryant’s proposal. Although Beirne (1995: 5) acknowledged that ‘the field of crimes against animals does not yet constitute a recognized, let alone a coherent, object of study,’ he maintained that it would be inaccurate to state that ‘animals are never present in criminological discourse,’ and he noted the wide range of materials involving animals as central figures in relation to ‘inter alia, the configuration of rural class relations in 18th-century England, the alleged links between crime and human nature, and the behavioral manifestations of children who are likely to be violent as adults.’ For example, the American scholar and linguist, E.P. Evans (1987 [1906]), had documented the role non-human animals play in human society in The Criminal Prosecution and Capital Punishment of Animals, and historians, such as E.P. Thompson, Peter Linebaugh and others, outlined the importance of wildlife in terms of class oppression, moral economies, property law, and social and environmental transformation (Hay, 1975; Linebaugh, 1976; Thompson, 1975). Game laws and poaching/anti-poaching activities and initiatives reflect centuries of human relationships with nature, as have measures aimed at balancing conservation, culling, hunting for sport, and killing for food. Many sociological studies of deviance and leisure have produced descriptive accounts of the recreational pursuit of wildlife, abuse of animals and breaking of wildlife protection laws (Eliason, 2003; Nurse, 2013). ¹ Hence, although Moreto and colleagues (2015: 360) may, in general, be correct that law enforcement and criminal justice systems have accorded wildlife offences a ‘low priority when compared to other crimes (Cook et al., 2002),’ this is not to suggest they have been ignored completely or have not been regarded as important.

Criminological attention to poaching, trafficking and related animal abuse is now substantial, and encompasses contributions aimed at market reduction and enhancing conservation efforts (for example, Lee et al., 2014; Schneider, 2008; Shepherd et al., 2017). Although all of this represents a welcome shift, attention to the dynamics of the illegal market for a particular species or the investigation of the scope, extent and geographical range of the international trade in specific wildlife as live bodies or as harvested ‘parts and products’ has overshadowed – and has perhaps come at the expense of – broader criminological considerations of ‘biological diversity’ (or ‘biodiversity’) loss, decline and extinction, of which wildlife crime is but one cause. ²

In 2016, the World Wildlife Fund for Nature’s Living Planet Report (WWF, 2016: 4) noted that, for some decades, ‘scientists have been warning that human actions are pushing life toward a sixth mass extinction’ (see also Kolbert, 2014; Mirzoeff, 2014: 227, citing Novacek, 2007). The data from the Living Planet Index – which offers an indication of the state of global biological diversity, based on trends in the populations of vertebrate species from around the world – show that, between 1970 and 2012, the planet experienced a ‘58 per cent overall decline in vertebrate population abundance’ with populations of vertebrate species falling, on average, ‘by more than half in little more than 40 years … an average annual decline of 2 per cent,’ with ‘no sign yet that this rate will decrease.’ (WWF, 2016). This decline of other species is one measure of the magnitude of human impact on the planet stemming from the expansion and acceleration of human activity designed to meet the demands of human survival as a growing global population needs more food, requiring more human-engineered change to natural habitats (for example, deforestation) and contributing to more over-fishing and over-hunting (EEA, 2015).

Along with pollution and global warming, these anthropogenically-induced pressures on the planetary ecosystem are now sending warning signals (Brannen, 2017). Some believe that, by responding to these signals now, policy changes and technological developments can help provide remedies; others caution that some change is already irreversible and only drastic reorganization of global economic and consumption systems can slow down species decline and extinctions (for a discussion, see, for example, Ripple et al., 2017).

This article considers human contributions to the rate of loss of biological diversity, beliefs that science and regulation can control the extent and nature of any consequences (Fukuyama, 2002; Wilson, 1998, 2004), and related efforts to explore the plausibility, viability and implications of reviving extinct species (Wray, 2017). We first provide an overview of the reasons for preserving biological diversity, before turning to an outline of the causes of recent (unprecedented) extinctions. The implications of extinction trends have been explored thoroughly within relevant natural sciences and some areas of the social sciences, but not so far within criminology. This article explores the prospects of species extinction in terms of the merger of conservation and consumerism (for example, ‘conservation tourism’ or ‘sustainable tourism’ – AWF, n.d.; Buckley, 2010), as well as the bases for denial and deferral of action furnished by faith in the new science of ‘de-extinction.’ We conclude by arguing the case for considering ‘extinction’ as a matter of criminological concern, and for why this is not only justifiable but necessary.

The importance of biological diversity and the problem of extinction

Article 2 of the Convention on Biological Diversity (known informally as the ‘Biodiversity Convention’ or ‘CBD’), defines ‘biological diversity’ as ‘the variability among living organisms from all sources including, inter alia, terrestrial, marine and other aquatic ecosystems and the ecological complexes of which they are part: this includes diversity within species, between species and of ecosystems.’ ³ According to Ledec and Goodland (1988: 6), in a still well-cited document:

[B]iological diversity usually refers to three elements: (1) the number of different ecosystems (communities of plants and animals and the environments that sustain them) and their relative frequencies in a country or in the world; (2) the number of species of animals and plants and their relative frequencies; and (3) the genetic variation within each species.

It would seem axiomatic that humans should have an interest in preserving biodiversity without the need for a multilateral treaty but, given the scope and rate of modern extinctions of flora and fauna (Ceballos et al., 2015), a brief overview is in order.

Ledec and Goodland (1988: 8–9) submit that there exist convincing aesthetic, economic, scientific and ethical reasons to preserve biological diversity – all of which rest on the assumption that the extinction of species is ‘completely irreversible’ and that, as such, ‘preserving biological diversity keeps open important options for the future.’

The aesthetic justification is that ‘many wild species of plants and animals are an irreplaceable source of wonder, inspiration, and joy to human beings because of their beauty, intriguing appearance, variety, or fascinating behavior’ (Ledec and Goodland, 1988: 14; see also Kahn, 2018). Indeed, the U.S. Endangered Species Act of 1973 (16 U.S.C. § 1531 et seq.) recognizes explicitly the aesthetic (as well as the educational, historical and recreational) value of flora and fauna – even for those who do not interact directly with such fish, wildlife and plants. In other words, ‘knowing that wild things thrive in faraway places can provide sufficient reason for preservation’ (The Stanford Environmental Law Society, 2001: 4).

The economic justification for preserving biodiversity rests in the belief that many species of wild plants and animals can be conceptualized as ‘undeveloped resources . . . [with] significant economic potential that is currently undiscovered, undervalued, or underutilized’ (Ledec and Goodland, 1988: 9). This resource-oriented view is, of course, familiar: biodiversity underpins agriculture, fishing, forestry and modern food security, as well as necessary products and secondary services (medical, pharmaceutical, tourism). Furthermore, as Kahn (2018) notes, ‘ecosystem services’ represent an economic argument for preserving biodiversity: we benefit ‘because it saves us money (mangroves prevent coastal erosion that we would otherwise have to handle with an expensive engineering project) or because it contains something of value to us, either now or in the future,’ such as, pharmaceutical drugs derived from plants, or the way in which we have relied on horseshoe crabs to ensure the safety of virtually every drug and medical device in use today (see Krisfalusi-Gannon et al., 2018; Zhang, 2018).

The scientific case for preserving biodiversity rests on recognition of unique biochemical, physiological and population characteristics of non-human species and the benefits to humans that follow from increasing our understanding of basic life processes (Ledec and Goodland, 1988: 13–14; The Stanford Environmental Law Society, 2001: 3–4). These benefits exist independent of any potential (or eventual) economic payoff.

Operating from an ethical or moral perspective, some contend that humans should refrain from engaging in unsustainable practices that ‘could lead to the loss of species from peoples’ daily lives, customs and conceptual world, thus leaving a culturally and emotionally poorer world for their children’ (Herbig, 2010: 125). Preservation of biological diversity and protection of the environment for future generations of humans is a common refrain in environmentalism (see, for example, Brisman and South, 2015a, 2018a). In a slightly different vein, another ethical or moral justification for biodiversity preservation begins with the recognition that humans are the one species with the ability to annihilate all other species (intentionally, recklessly, negligently or accidentally) and thus humans not only should exercise restraint with respect to this awesome power but have a duty of stewardship – an obligation not to engage in acts or omissions of ecocide that have significant consequences for biodiversity. The human capacity to create systems of production, operating locally but with global impacts, should demand that humans exercise a serious degree of responsibility to, as White (2013: 12) puts it, ‘ensure that such production methods do not exceed the ecospheric limits of the planet (White 2007).’ Other ethical and moral justifications for preserving biodiversity – ones far less anthropocentric in orientation – rest on the conviction that ‘animals have intrinsic value and that, as such, they should not be conceptualized or treated as economic resources’ (Goyes and Sollund, 2016: 95).

The aforementioned aesthetic, economic, scientific and ethical reasons for ensuring continued biological diversity on Earth reflect a number of different – and sometimes competing – ecophilosophies (see Halsey and White, 1998; White, 2013). The justification that might resonate the most with criminologists, however, is one based on risk in relation to the consequences of extinction (Brisman, 2017). Without biodiversity, the stability, strength and interdependence of ecosystems are weakened and crucial processes of, for example, photosynthesis, water retention and soil nutrition, are threatened (Tilman, 1999). The fundamental risk, therefore, is that the pace of species extinction gathers momentum to the point of endangering the existence of all life. Similar to cases of denial (Cohen, 2001; see also Brisman and South, 2015a, 2015b; Natali, 2010; Wyatt and Brisman, 2017), strategic ignorance (McGoey, 2012) or omission (van Erp and Huisman, 2013), here humans are unwilling to fully comprehend or appreciate what biodiversity loss may mean for the ecosphere and that we may be ‘imperiling our own tenure on this planet’ (Dawson, 2016: 10).

Despite the aesthetic, economic, scientific and ethical justifications for preserving biological diversity – as well as the risks to human and non-human life and the planet as a whole for not doing so – biological diversity is actually being reduced at an unprecedented rate. Admittedly, extinction – the ultimate demise of a species – is actually a routine occurrence in evolutionary terms (Angelici, 2016; Sodhi et al., 2009), but, over tens of thousands of years, the process of evolution and the nature of extinction events have been shaped by the impact of human activities. This significant and adverse influence has been pronounced, such that human-induced extinctions now far exceed natural ones (Hogan, 2014). From the Pleistocene period of exotic animals and mega fauna to today, humanity, as Dawson (2016: 8) contends,

essentially ate its way down the food chain when wiping out biodiversity. Africa, our ancestral home, is virtually alone in harboring some remnants of the Pleistocene biodiversity. . . . [W]e are witnessing the final destruction of the world’s remaining megafauna . . . .

Dawson’s analysis of human impact merits further discussion here. In short, whereas the rate of natural extinction of species has ‘usually been slightly less than the rate of formation of new species through evolutionary processes (Myers 1979)’ (Ledec and Goodland, 1988: 7; emphasis added), it is the activity of humans that has caused an acceleration of extinction, with the possibility that now, ‘[m]ore species of the Earth’s flora and fauna may disappear in the next several decades than were lost in the mass extinction that wiped out whole taxonomic groups of animals, including the dinosaurs, 65 million years ago (Wolf 1987)’ (Ledec and Goodland, 1988: 7-8).

Although humans are not the first species to have brought about the extinction of another species, the scale of their impact is without precedent, over millennia threatening numerous groups of other organisms (Stenøien and Andersen, 2018). The tragedy and shame of this is that humanity is ‘the first [species] to be aware of the implications of [its] actions and to be capable of controlling them’ (Ledec and Goodland, 1988: 8) and yet remains unwilling to act in response to dire forecasts and warnings (Agnew, 2012; Ripple et al., 2017). It is beyond shameful, but perverse and criminal, to transform the process and environmental consequences of the impending extinction of species into an economic opportunity to create a profitable market based on rarity and scarcity – a phenomenon to which we now turn.

Uncontrollable human urges? Conquest, collection, consumption

The financial and cultural value of scarce ‘things’ has been noted widely (see, for example, van Uhm, 2018). In the past – and today – conditions of near-extinction have stimulated unregulated and criminal markets for the rare or exotic (Schneider, 2012; Sellar, 2017). Courchamp and colleagues (2006) note that the ‘human predisposition to place exaggerated value on rarity fuels disproportionate exploitation of rare species, rendering them even rarer and thus more desirable, ultimately leading them into an extinction vortex.’ In some cases – and in addition to rarity and desirability – it is a quality of ‘charisma’ that may make a species particularly popular as an icon of nature and as images (real or artistically-/computer-generated) in cultural products (film and television, toys, clothing, and so on). Yet, as Courchamp and colleagues (2018) suggest, it is precisely such popularity and the widely received presentations of ‘virtual’ populations as apparently thriving that may be helping to create the perception that these species are not at risk of extinction and need no conservation interventions.

Uncontrolled hunting or poaching – as well as the capture of rare animals as pets and the (illegal and legal) trade in animal body parts – are obvious threats to some species’ survival (for examples, see Gettleman, 2017; Nordland, 2018; Nuwer, 2017, 2018a, 2018b; Rivett-Carnac, 2017; Werblow, 2018; Zimmer, 2013). Various other human activities have also contributed indirectly to species decline, including pollution and atmospheric change (Giller, 2018; Pacifici et al., 2017), as well as deliberate and inadvertent allochthonous species introduction, which can become serious competitors or predators for autochthonous species (Keller and Perrings, 2011). In the well-known case of the California condor (Gymnogyps californianus), DDT contributed to eggshell thinning and lower reproductive success (see, for example, Kiff et al., 1979). Other impacts follow from habitation alteration caused by agricultural intensification, deforestation and industrial development (Maxwell et al., 2016; Zimmer, 2013: 33), as well as war and civil unrest (Brisman and South, 2018b; Daskin and Pringle, 2018; Nuwer, 2018b). Such causes and changes may bring about loss of species independently of, or in concert with, one or more other factors, such as competition for space and food. In many such cases, non-human species are then identified or labeled as the source of threats to livestock or crops and are subsequently persecuted – often at a magnitude disproportionate to the actual damage they cause – contributing to further negative impacts upon the equilibrium of ecosystems (Sodhi et al., 2009; see also Brisman et al., 2015).

Essentially, human acts and omissions are directly and indirectly, separately and synergistically, causing extinctions. It is perhaps unsurprising then that one human response is directed not at efforts to prevent extinction but to enable the process of resurrection or de-extinction of species (Dawson, 2016; Zimmer, 2013). In the next section, we consider some of the issues and implications that follow.

Reviving extinct species

For thousands of years, the Pyrenean ibex or bucardo (Capra pyrenaica pyrenaica) – a kind of wild goat – clambered along the mountains between France and Spain. With the advent of hunting with guns, by early 2000 the bucardo was extinct. Three years later, however, a team of French and Spanish scientists, using cells from the world’s last Pyrenean ibex, delivered a 4.5 lb clone (Carlin et al., 2014: 9). The clone died within 10 minutes, but in her short lifespan – the first living birth of an extinct animal – she raised the hopes of some that cloning could help reverse the trend of species dying out due to human activities. What had heretofore been fantasy (think Jurassic Park) had edged into the world of scientific possibility. Admittedly, resurrecting dinosaurs is still out of reach. As Zimmer (2013: 33) explains, ‘[i]n reality the only species we can hope to revive now are those that died within the past few tens of thousands of years and left behind remains that harbor intact cells or, at the very least, enough ancient DNA to reconstruct the creature’s genome.’ Thus, natural rates of decay will preclude our ability to retrieve the full genome of the Tyrannosaurus rex, which disappeared roughly 65 million years ago. But the species that we may be able to revive are those that vanished during – and, as noted above, because of – humanity’s ascension to world domination.

Whether we can resurrect extinct species—and how we might do so or which methods we might use—remain important scientific questions for wildlife biologists and geneticists. Should we do so—or why we might bring back extinct species—are ethical questions that have relevance for criminology. In order to understand why this may be the case, it is necessary to consider some of the arguments for and against de-extinction.

Some contend that humans have a moral obligation to resurrect species that we drove to extinction. Defending themselves against claims that reviving a species that no longer exists demonstrates ‘humanity’s lack of humility’ (Carlin et al., 2014: 6) and is akin to ‘playing God,’ proponents of de-extinction contend that ‘we played God when we exterminated these animals’ (Zimmer, 2013: 33, quoting Professor Michael Archer, a paleontologist at the University of New South Wales).

Other supporters of de-extinction point to the concrete benefits of reviving extinct species, such as those animals that performed key services to their ecosystems. For example, the Siberia of 12,000 years ago was a landscape of grassy steppe, rather than moss-dominated tundra. Mammoths and other large herbivores maintained the grassland by breaking up the soil and fertilizing it with their manure. When these large grazing animals disappeared, moss took over, transforming the grassland into less productive tundra (Zimmer, 2013: 33), leading to efforts to revive these proboscideans. Similarly, efforts to bring back the auroch (an ancient breed of land herbivore, a keystone herbivore vital for European biodiversity prior to its extinction in 1627, and an ancestor of all cattle) through a process known as ‘breeding back’ or ‘back-breeding’ – a form of artificial selection involving the deliberate selective breeding of domestic non-human animals in an effort to produce a breed with a phenotype that resembles its ‘wild’ ancestor – have been undertaken in an effort to ‘rewild’ parts of Europe (Graham, 2017; Monks, 2017).

Some opponents of de-extinction object on the grounds that cloned animals are at risk of mortality because of genetic defects, and thus such processes and procedures may be cruel or painful. For example, the scientists involved in the revival of the Pyrenean ibex made numerous attempts prior to the fetus that survived to term, and the newborn burcado clone struggled to breathe before dying (Zimmer, 2013: 33). This, of course, raises a series of additional issues. As Carlin and colleagues (2014: 17) emphasize,

the ultimate objective of de-extinction efforts is not to produce laboratory curiosities, but to restore lost species to independent existence in nature. No de-extinction proponent has yet admitted a desire to produce mammoths solely for zoos or Carolina parakeets solely as pets. Rather, the aim of these efforts is to create, release, and reestablish self-sustaining breeding populations in the wild.

If a species became extinct hundreds or thousands of years ago, much of its original habitat may have been destroyed by human activity and development, its food supply may have disappeared, and its former habitat – what is left of it, if any – may have new occupants. The reintroduction of a species will, in turn, have consequences for this changed environment and these may not be easy to predict. The disappearance of a species from an ecosystem usually leads to negative alterations in the food chain of which it is a part, and there is no guarantee that reintroducing a formerly extinct species would not disrupt the integrity of a present ecosystem: an existing food chain would not simply ‘make room’ for a species that had disappeared and returned. In such a situation, without an environment to put re-created species back into, the whole exercise might create a new class of endangered species – or worse, a new list of extinct species – owing to the incompatibility of the re-created/reintroduced ones with the current ecosystem(s).

Other opponents express concern that ‘the ability to revive dead species may undercut conservation efforts for still-living species that are endangered or threatened, detracting from the perceived need to protect them if they are reliably replaceable’ (Carlin et al., 2014: 6). As Professor John Wiens, an evolutionary biologist, remarks, ‘There is clearly a terrible urgency to saving threatened species and habitats. As far as I can see, there is little urgency for bringing back extinct ones. Why invest millions of dollars in bringing a handful of species back from the dead, when there are millions still waiting to be discovered, described and protected?’ (quoted in Zimmer, 2013: 40). Or, as Paul Ferraro, Bloomberg Distinguished Professor of Water and Environmental Economics at Johns Hopkins University, puts it, ‘[t]he fact is that when you spend resources on one species, you by definition are not spending them on another’ (quoted in Kahn, 2018). Although advocates of de-extinction reply that the technologies of cloning and genomic engineering for reviving species could be helpful for preserving endangered ones, especially those that do not breed easily in captivity, there remains the untouched matter regarding why certain species have become endangered in the first place. In other words, do de-extinction projects serve as a ‘distraction’ – reducing the impetus to address the root causes and underlying problems endangering a species – or do they constitute a form of ‘salvation’ (Zimmer, 2013: 41)?

This brings us back to the question raised above regarding why we might attempt to revive extinct species. From a scientific perspective, it is obvious that studying living species is likely to be more illuminating than studying those that are extinct. The commercial attraction lies with the willingness of consumers (collectors, pet-owners) to pay high prices for resurrected species, with price sensitivity regulated if the technology is also controlled, creating availability but maintaining scarcity. Other questions to confront include whether we would revive extinct species solely for the purpose of oppressing or ‘enslaving’ them (to use Sollund’s language, 2013b, 2017)? For consumption as food by humans (Carlin et al., 2014: 44–5, n163)? As game on ranches for wealthy trophy hunters to engage in ‘canned hunting’ or ‘captive hunting’ (Fernandez, 2017)? What might de-extinction mean, then, given our current ecocidal practices of consumerism and consumption?

Conclusion

A few years ago, at a conference panel on wildlife trafficking, one audience member posed the following question to the two panelists, who had each presented a paper on the illegal wildlife trade: ‘How do you decide which species to choose to study?’ The presenters responded with rather similar answers.

The first presenter expressed a personal dedication to parrots because she had, at one point in time, kept parrots as pets, prior to realizing that this was essentially a form of ‘slavery,’ in her words. She was careful to add, however, that in designing her research, she did not privilege one species over others, for to do so would constitute speciesism – human devaluation and prejudicial treatment of non-human species, as well as human perception of non-human animals as less worthy of concern, compassion or justice (see, for example, Beirne, 1995, 1997, 1999, 2009, 2014; Cazaux, 1999; Sollund, 2011). There is a high demand for parrots and many species of them are heavily trafficked (see Goyes and Sollund, 2016; Guzman et al., 2007; Pires and Clarke, 2011), she added, and they kept appearing in her data. Thus, it was the study of the wildlife trade as a whole, rather than a special affinity for a specific species, that led her to focus on parrots.

The second presenter also offered a data-driven response. She explained that her intention had been to study enforcement responses to the illegal trade in wildlife without concentrating on any species in particular; attention to the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES), the multilateral treaty, was her guiding framework. When conducting interviews with customs officials, police and wildlife authorities in Uganda, however, she observed that her respondents kept referring to the ivory trade even when she posed questions about trade in wildlife more generally. Because her respondents had more experiences seizing ivory, the second presenter focused on elephants. Like the first presenter, the second presenter ‘followed [her] data,’ which, she acknowledged, meant neglecting other species that have been the subject of both legal and illegal trade in Uganda.

Both presenters’ answers reflected a biocentric ecophilosophical orientation – a belief that all species have intrinsic value and equivalent moral worth (see Halsey and White, 1998). Criminology on the whole, however, tends to be anthropocentric in its approach and orientation, ‘emphasiz[ing] the biological, mental and moral superiority of humans over all other living and non-living entities,’ and viewing non-human nature ‘instrumentally – as something to be appropriated, processed, consumed and disposed of in a manner which best suits the immediate interests of human beings’ (Halsey and White, 1998: 349; emphases in original). This myopic, self-absorbed dismissal or denial of the deterioration and despoliation of the planet will eventually confront us with the ultimate challenge – how to avoid our own extinction (Stephens, 2018).

In their essay on ‘Criminology, War and Environmental Despoliation,’ O’Sullivan and Walters (2016: 79) offer the following observation:

Over 30 years ago, Harding (1983: 81) challenged the criminological community to move beyond their traditional fields of study and to branch into issues of global concern. Harding called for us to leave ‘mini-criminology’ behind and to tackle the question of: ‘What can criminology and criminologists do to decrease the chances of the extinction of mankind and the destruction of the planet?’ This challenge is even more pertinent today.

All but the most ardent misanthropic biocentrists would argue that humanity is worth saving. This article has attempted to suggest that the question of how to decrease the chance of the extinction of mankind without causing the extinction of numerous non-human animal species and the destruction of the planet is the issue of the future. As the 2016 Living Planet Report concludes, ‘Given our current trajectory toward the unacceptable conditions that are predicted for the Anthropocene, there is a clear challenge for humanity to learn how to operate within the environmental limits of our planet and to maintain or restore resilience of ecosystems’ (WWF, 2016: 5). Froestad and colleagues (2015) argue that we need to identify a ‘safe and just space for humanity’ (see also Raworth, 2012: 7), but humans are part of a complex ecosystem of interdependence with other species. The principle of equilibrium is vital and humans bear responsibility for extinctions, but the development and use of technologies of de-extinction require scrutiny and caution (Brisman and South, 2017, 2018c; Natali, 2015). If we are to avoid extinction there must be safety, justice and space – not just for us, but for all species.