How to imagine collaboratively

We are the problem, not the animals.

Jessie Hamada’s phone screen displays a tiny green sea turtle fighting inches-tall waves. “That’s one of my favorite shots,” she says, collecting her phone from me. “I want a tattoo of a turtle, but my mom says I have to wait until I’m eighteen.” Her eyes shift to a woman at the next table, her mother Amy, who smiles and quips, “We’ll see how you feel in a few years.”

Her brow furrows as she rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mom.”

We are meeting in a cozy neighborhood cafe set in a forested suburb of Portland, Oregon. Jessie is drinking a vanilla latte; I've opted for my regular cold brew. Amy—my sister's friend—and I have interacted on and off for the last 15 years or so, and it was with no small surprise I learned that Jessie is acutely passionate about animal welfare. Her fondness permeates into her fashion choices. She's wearing several bracelets from animal rights organizations, a hemp scarf, and a pair of eco-friendly Allbirds sneakers.

My aim today is to get a sense of what makes animal rights activists tick, particularly those in Gen Z. While Jessie may not represent her entire generation, her insights can serve as a case study of broader themes I've been examining. An incredible amount of evidence describes the quantity and quality of social media users' engagement with environmental issues. The democratization of content creation has afforded opportunities to catalyze global conversations about controversial issues like Marius, Cecil, and Harambe. Naturally, the ensuing question is whether everyone should participate at any time.

The ease with which users can share content across digital platforms and geographic and ideological boundaries implies greater awareness of wildlife-related plights. By perpetuating content on TikTok, Jessie has influenced her friends to march in local protests and sparked discussions throughout her school community. Animal rights organizations have joined activists like Jessie in capitalizing on dreaded social media algorithms to push agendas on palm oil and orangutans, greyhound racing, and countless other campaigns. Extinction—or, at least, the perceived threat of it—is now incentivized on social media and manifests through competing narratives of charismatic species.⁴ By using emotionally charged storytelling, animal organizations attempt to garner attention and donations.

When prompted about her favorite wild animals, Jessie's eyes light up and she begins counting species on her fingers. "I love lions, elephants, pandas, polar bears, dolphins, and rhinos the most. And sea turtles, obviously," she adds, gesturing to her phone and inadvertently proving the effects of emotionally resonant wildlife narratives on public perception. Interestingly, most of her list reflects some of the 20 most charismatic species for Western audiences.⁵ “The natural world is just so amazing. We are the problem, not the animals.”⁶

As gray clouds gather overhead, our conversation has come to a natural close. Amy graciously settles the bill, and she and Jessie depart. I reflect on our conversation and ponder the direction of my upcoming documentary. Inspired by Jessie's passion, I consider selecting a keystone species—a charismatic animal that represents the delicate relationship between humans and nature. Something to which the film audience will instantly feel emotionally drawn.

Elephants. The world's largest population of African elephants is in Botswana, and I have a plethora of contacts in that country. With the naive idea that it should be easy to film there, I eventually fly there, met up with Jono, and offer him the first scenario in our experiment:

Our livelihoods depend on them.

I'm seated in a clinical reception area. In addition to the fluorescent lighting overhead, intense sunlight streams through expansive windows. Lining three walls are well-worn leather seats, likely repurposed from Sir Seretse Khama International Airport in Gaborone, Botswana's capital, contributing an unexpected sense of casual formality. A portrait of President Mokgweetsi Masisi watches over the space—a common sight in government buildings across the country.

Today, I'm here at the headquarters of the Botswana Tourism Organisation (BTO) to meet with Albertinah Kabelo. We have been emailing back and forth for a few weeks, and as Albertinah appars, her warm smile sets the tone for the rest of the morning. "Mattheu!" she exclaims, using the Setswana equivalent of my name. "A pleasure to finally meet you." Without skipping a beat, she guides me to her office. Her agile enthusiasm belies her round frame; she's the first person I have met who I would describe as jolly. Her office bookshelf displays personal belongings beside stacks of folders labeled with fiscal years.

The BTO is a parastatal within the Ministry of Environment, Natural Resources Conservation, and Tourism (MENT). While MENT is responsible for protecting and deriving value from natural and cultural resources, sustainably utilizing the resources, and empowering an environmentally conscious nation, the BTO markets Botswana as a tourism destination and promotes investment in the tourism sector.⁷ Albertinah's insights into the intimate balance between conservation and tourism are invaluable as we dive into the intricacies of Botswana's approach to sustainable development.

Raised in a family deeply linked to the country's natural resources, Albertinah's childhood shaped her understanding of Botswana's relationship with its environment. "I was raised with four brothers and sisters," she tells me, "and my father worked in Orapa." Botswana's economy relied heavily on diamond mining for two decades post-independence, and Orapa was its hub. By the 1980s, however, the government acknowledged a need to maintain healthy ecosystems and, by extension, wildlife.⁸ As her father extracted from the land, Albertinah's mother tenderly cared for the family's animals. Albertinah wants to pass those ideals on to her children, emphasizing the balance between national prosperity and environmental stewardship.

Perhaps her love isn't misplaced. As we discuss Botswana's Vision 2036—a blueprint for transforming the country into a high-income state by 2036 "and sets out a compelling vision of what [the] future will look like"⁹—Albertinah's optimism is palpable. Botswana's vicennial vision is underpinned by such international agreements as Agenda 2030 on Sustainable Development and the 2015 Paris Agreement on Climate Change, the regional Africa Agenda 2036, and a variety of national plans and frameworks.

Albertinah recognizes the challenges of aligning conservation and economic goals, particularly in Botswana where wildlife conservation is both a national priority and a controversial issue. "It's confusing, even for us!" she admits, her trademark grin returning. She leans back in her chair with a guttural laugh. "Thank God it's not my responsibility to understand it. All I know is I believe in our animals, and our livelihoods depend on them."

Our conversation turns to community engagement, an anchor of Botswana's conservation strategy. Albertinah highlights the importance of empowering Batswana—that is, more than one Motswana—to participate in resource management. Indeed, community-based natural resource management (CBNRM) schemes have emerged in the last quarter-century in step with indications that Botswana may decentralize decision-making about natural resources. However, there are cultural obstacles the government must address to persuade communities¹⁰ to integrate into Vision 2036, such as widespread resentment among black citizens about the "economically privileged position of the white minority,"¹¹ particularly in the tourism industry.

With our discussion drawing to a close, Albertinah deposits me in the lobby with one last insight. "If we as Batswana want to continue to conserve our resources, we need to engage the communities. Their participation will result in resource management projects, employment opportunities, and improved income to households. Once they benefit from the resources, that will motivate them to conserve them."¹²

Countless questions continue to swirl in my mind. How can cultural divides be bridged to promote eco-tourism in rural communities? How can conservation efforts benefit all Batswana? And, of course, how do we navigate the challenges posed by declines in iconic species? I begin pondering how I might shape the information Albertinah shared into a concise scenario to pose to Jono. After all, embedding the scenario in realism is vital for plausibility purposes, and it must be future-focused just as is Vision 2036.

Ultimately, I decide on incorporating citizen science in a scenario eight years from now:

In two minutes, the only way they earn money is gone.

Ketshoseng (“Kets”) Modise walks me past his fence, the pattern of barbed lines periodically interrupted by one-foot-square pieces of corrugated aluminum. A rusty bucket and metal pipe lean against one of the wooden posts. We watch a pair of donkeys amble by, their ears flapping in the warm breeze. Inside the modest half-acre lot, a traditional mud-brick structure stands beneath a conical thatched roof. Kets's young granddaughters peer curiously at me from a nearby window. Nearby, a small paddock holds seven or eight goats, while a dozen crop rows line the rear of the property. I'm no botanist, but it looks like motshikiri, Botswana's national grass.

Thin and wearing his signature straw hat, Kets guides me to a couple plastic chairs. I soon learn he and his family move here temporarily from town for three months each year to tend to the farm. "And to keep the predators and elephants away," he adds. Human-wildlife conflict is common throughout Botswana,¹³ and that’s no less true here on the northern edge of the Okavango Delta. The biggest nuisances are the elephants. "Several people in the community have had their crops trampled. In two minutes, the only way they earn money is gone."

Despite government guidelines for compensation in cases involving lost livestock and crops, the bureaucratic hurdles can leave farmers like Kets feeling shortchanged. In a successful filing, the farmer is often compensated only a percentage of the loss. And while the government pays out 70,000 pula (US$5100) in case of human death to elephants to cover funeral costs and loss of income, there is little emotional compensation for a dead relative, as Kets knows only too well. "He had four children," he tells me about his deceased cousin. "Two girls and two boys and us as the family, and now he's gone. All the things he used to do are gone with him."¹⁴

As I listen to Kets, I can't help but puzzle over the complexities of coexistence between humans and wildlife. Would I stand idly by as an elephant comes to ransack my fields? As it confronts my family? No, I'd do whatever it takes to keep it at bay—bang on a rusty bucket with a metal pipe to scare it off, string chili peppers around my property, or even shoot it if there's no other option. It will do humanity well to consider the options because, in various ways, we are putting ourselves in the line of fire. We’re urbanizing natural environments, effectively inviting wildlife to come into contact with us on our residential streets. Climate change and associated water shortages in places like the Okavango Delta means animals and humans will drift toward and compete for water resources. And, of course, the likelihood of human-animal interaction—if not outright conflict—grows with the increasing human population.

Nature, for its part, is fighting back, if human-elephant conflict in Botswana is any indication. As harvest season coincides with the migration of 15,000 elephants in the north, the consequences for rural families are severe. A single elephant can strip a family's food source for an entire year.¹⁵ It's little wonder then that poaching becomes a temptation when government support falls short." They care more about animals than they do about the people," Kets remarks with a steely glare.

His words echo a sentiment shared by many farmers and people in other professions. While things like climate change are beyond immediate control, there's an expectation that the government should possess sufficient wisdom and resources to mitigate human-elephant conflict.¹⁶ Solutions range from continued cooperation in the Kavango-Zambezi Transfrontier Conservation Area (KAZA) to innovative strategies like redistributing percentages of its 130,000 elephants¹⁷ to other countries—though perhaps not like its recent threat to Germany.

For Kets, this issue hits close to home: his son serves in the aviation wing of the Botswana Defence Force (BDF). Though his remit has changed over the years, he once was part of an anti-poaching campaign with a long-running objective of protecting the country's natural resources. The BDF was instrumental in the 1970s and 1980s as Botswana struggled for independence. The military, therefore, is largely perceived as a positive entity among Batswana, and anti-poaching efforts are largely viewed as useful for keeping troops focused when other deployments are few. Kets's son enjoyed his time in anti-poaching, not because of its mandate but because it was the only time he saw combat.

After a typical meal of seswaa and pap, I stuff myself into my rental car and drive nearly an hour in outward silence. I'm attempting to piece together a scenario for Jono that serves as the film's rising action, implying the raising of stakes and heightening of emotions. Here, I pause. Am I dictating the scenarios too strongly? I hold disproportionate power as the man with a movie camera, but in my film I intend to hand over directing power to Jono for portions of the film. I reflect on Arnstein's ladder of participation,¹⁸ an oft-cited framework to increasing citizen empowerment. From bottom to top, the rungs of this hypothetical ladder are manipulation, therapy, informing, consultation, placation, partnership, delegated power, and citizen control. As the film's director, I'm offering Jono delegated power by bestowing on him decision-making authority¹⁹ and autonomy in developing his alter-ego sequences. As the film's storyteller—who shapes the final story—I must offer placation because, ultimately, the film tells a story that I shape from what I capture. Jono is tokenistic in this context because his involvement demonstrates the film’s purpose: to incorporate stakeholder imagination in decision-making.

All that is to say I decide to simplify the next scenario for him: