"Useless Creatures"

Question

by Richard Conniff

Improbably, wildlife conservationists now also often hear the call of the useful. Along with a large contingent of eco-finance bureaucrats, they try to save threatened habitats by reminding nearby communities of all the benefits they derive from keeping these habitats intact. Forests, meadows and marshes prevent floods, supply clean water, provide habitat for species that pollinate crops, put oxygen into the atmosphere and take carbon out, and otherwise make themselves useful. In some cases, conservation groups or other interested parties actually put down cash for these ecosystem services—paying countries, for instance, to maintain forests as a form of carbon sequestration. The argument, in essence, is that we can persuade people to save nature by making it possible for them to sell it. They can take nature to the bank, or at least to the local grocery. They can monetize it. (The new revised version of Genesis now says, “God made the wild animals according to their kinds, and he said, ‘Let them be fungible.’ ”)

I understand the logic, or at least the desperation, that drives conservationists to this horrible idea. It may seem like the only way to keep what’s left of the natural world from being plowed under by unstoppable human expansion and by our insatiable appetite for what appears to be useful. But usefulness is precisely the argument other people put forward to justify destroying or displacing wildlife, and they generally bring a larger and more persuasive kind of green to the argument. Nothing you can say about 100 acres in the New Jersey Meadowlands will ever add up for a politician who thinks a new shopping mall will mean more jobs for local voters (and contributions to his campaign war chest). Nothing you can say about the value of rhinos for ecotourism in South Africa will ever matter to a wildlife trafficker who can sell their horns for $30,000 a pound in Vietnam.

Answer 1

In "Useless Creatures," Richard Conniff critiques the trend among conservationists to justify wildlife and habitat preservation based primarily on their economic value and usefulness to humans. The essay highlights a poignant irony: while conservation efforts aim to preserve ecosystems by emphasizing their various benefits—such as flood prevention, clean water supply, and carbon sequestration—the very concept of usefulness can be exploited to justify environmental destruction.

Conniff points out that the same arguments made to promote conservation can also be manipulated by those with a profit motive, like developers or traffickers, who prioritize economic gain over ecological integrity. For instance, politicians may favor the construction of shopping malls over preserving natural habitats because of the immediate jobs and economic benefits they promise, often ignoring the long-term environmental costs. Similarly, wildlife traffickers who sell rhino horns for exorbitant prices in black markets disregard the ecological importance of the species.

By framing nature as something that must "be useful" to humans, Conniff argues that conservationists risk reducing the intrinsic value of wildlife and ecosystems to mere economic terms, further endangering them. He suggests that this approach is not only misguided but may ultimately fail to protect the very natural resources we depend on, as it clashes with a more destructive form of economic exploitation. The essay calls for a reconsideration of conservation ethics, urging a recognition of the inherent worth of wildlife beyond its utility.