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The push and pull between empathizing with animals while also eating them creates a cognitive dissonance that can cause us to ignore how they’re treated on industrial farms, or outright deny their sentience, intelligence, and capacity to suffer.

The meat paradox is also the subject and title of a new book by Rob Percival, head of food policy at the Soil Association, a UK-based nonprofit that advocates for organic farming practices, higher animal welfare, and lower meat consumption.

I wanted to speak to Percival because he is a walking embodiment of the meat paradox. He spends his days campaigning against industrialized animal agriculture while insisting animals should still play a role in our farming and food system, albeit a much smaller and more humane one.

Percival is quite sympathetic to the vegan cause, going so far as to call animal slaughter “murder,” but isn’t a vegan himself and doesn’t hesitate to criticize the vegan movement’s eccentricities and exaggerations. And he’s gravely worried about what will happen to the world if humanity can’t figure out how to resolve the meat paradox. The West’s meat-heavy diet is a major accelerant to the climate crisis that shows little sign of slowing, and that diet is already being exported to the rest of the world.

So in an effort to unravel the meat paradox, Percival talked to farmers, anthropologists, psychologists, and activists to better understand humanity’s messy, complicated, and millennia-deep relationship to the animals we hunt and farm for food.

The meat paradox in ourselves

Percival found that the meat paradox isn’t just a product of modern-day industrialized animal farming, but a psychological struggle that goes back to our earliest ancestors. Those animal carvings and cave paintings made tens of thousands of years ago? They may be more than mere caveman doodles.

“It’s partly speculative, but the case has been made by various scholars that these provide evidence of a ritual response to animal consumption which may well have been rooted in those dissonant emotions, that conflicted ethical sense,” Percival said. “There’s a profound moral dilemma posed by the killing and consumption of animal persons.”

But the meat paradox has intensified in the modern age. One of the founding studies of the meat paradox literature, Percival told me, was the one published by Loughnan, Haslam, and Bastian in 2010. They gave questionnaires to two groups, and while the subjects filled in answers, one group was given cashews to snack on while the other group was given beef jerky. The surveys asked participants to rate the sentience and intelligence of cows and their moral concern for a variety of animals, such as dogs, chickens, and chimpanzees.

The participants who ate the beef jerky rated cows less sentient and less mindful — and extended their circle of moral concern to fewer animals — than the group that ate the cashews.

“The act of thinking about a cow’s mental capabilities while eating a cow had created these dissonant emotions beneath the surface, which had skewed their perception in really important ways,” Percival said.

Even exposure to strict vegetarians or vegans can elicit a “heightened commitment to pro-meat justifications,” Percival says about one study. This might explain why we see per capita meat consumption rise in tandem with rates of veganism and vegetarianism.

One of the funnier and more telling passages of the book details a meeting Percival had with Charles Way, the head of food quality assurance for KFC in the UK and Ireland. After Way tells Percival how proud he is of KFC’s animal welfare standards, Percival asks Way, “If you knew that you were going to be reborn as a chicken, would you really prefer to be born onto a farm in KFC’s supply chain, more than on any other farm in the UK?”

Way asserts the company’s standards are above the industry norm (which isn’t saying much), but then says it wouldn’t make a difference, “so no.” Percival tries again: “If you knew that you were going to be reborn as a chicken, do you think you would eat less chicken?”

By Percival’s telling, Way simply doesn’t reply.

When confronted with these dissonant emotions through reports on the harsh reality of factory farming, we try to deny them, dissociating the meat on our plate from the animal that produced it, and in doing so, denying animals of their sentience and intelligence.

We make myths to justify our relationship with animals, too. One of the more popular ones is the “ancient contract,” which goes something like this: Animals give us their meat, and in exchange, we give them domestication and thus an opportunity to evolutionarily succeed. This concept was coined by science writer Stephen Budiansky in 1989 and has been touted by food writers Michael Pollan and Barry Estabrook, as well as iconic animal welfare scientist Temple Grandin.

Pollan and Estabrook don’t condone modern-day industrial animal farming, and Estabrook says it’s a violation of this ancient contract. However, “there is a glaring deceit at the heart of our ancient contract,” Percival writes: “No individual animal has consented to the terms of the deal.”

We also use language to obscure; one study found that replacing “slaughtering” or “killing” with “harvesting” reduced dissonance, and that replacing “beef” and “pork” on restaurant menus with “cow” and “pig” generated more empathy for animals. Adding a photo of an animal next to the dish further elevated empathy, while also making vegetarian dishes more appealing to study participants.

Percival says the meat paradox can be found across cultures and time periods, and that “there is no culture in which plant foods are problematic in the same way.”

The meat paradox in our institutions

The meat paradox is just as active in our institutions as in ourselves.

Percival’s book opens with a tour of the Natural History Museum of London, where exhibits tell the story of animals’ habitat loss and the effects of climate change on wildlife. But then when you visit the museum’s restaurant, “you might be served food which directly contributed to all those crises,” Percival said. (Meat production is a leading cause of habitat loss, as large swaths of forest are cleared to grow soy and other crops to feed farmed animals.)

Eventually, the museum changed up its menu — offering plant-based dishes, higher-welfare meat, and organic foods — after a pressure campaign from Percival.

That story had a happy ending, but I worry the meat paradox will only harden in ourselves and in our institutions as meat becomes more grist for the culture war, as when some Republicans freaked out over a made-up story that the Green New Deal would result in a “burger ban.” To overcome that, Percival argues, we need to stake out a middle ground in the meat debate.

“We need progressive farmers and omnivores to be trying to defuse the tensions with vegans and animal activists, and we need the vegans who say, ‘Okay, step one is let’s phase out the industrial systems and focus on higher animal welfare,’” he told me. “And if you can get a large enough demographic to claim that middle ground, then we might see some progress.”

The middle ground is a hard place to be in an increasingly polarized world. But there are signs of progress: Whenever voters are given the choice to ban cages for hens or pigs, they vote yes, and plant-based meat has gone mainstream in recent years.

And since more bold regulation, like a meat tax, would be politically toxic right now, the change has to start with us.

“I’m not of the view that individuals can fix all this on their own or that it’s the sole responsibility of consumers to fix the food system,” Percival said. “But at the same time, I am of the view that our own choices are influential. They help set social norms. And you need that sort of mass mobilization before political change becomes viable, before you can force businesses to change.”

And to get there, we first need to reflect upon the meat paradox within ourselves, which would allow us, he said, to “see our sort of complicity and entanglements in all this and understand what it might mean to begin to disentangle ourselves.”

Changing how we eat is one of the most effective actions we can take for the climate, but it’s also one of the most personal, as evidenced by the deep- seated influence of the meat paradox. But freeing ourselves from its dissonance really could help us claw our way out of some of the crises we find ourselves in — if we’re willing to confront it.

A mother and baby elephant seal at Año Nuevo, a beach in Northern California.

 Getty Images/iStockphoto

Elephant seals at Año Nuevo State Park in California.

Using an epoxy adhesive, Beltran and Allison Payne, a doctoral researcher at UCSC, will glue recording devices onto three female seals at Año Nuevo Reserve in Northern California. (Females have a much higher survival rate and reliably head out to sea right after weaning their pups.) Beltran is building on research led by UCSC’s Dan Costa, who heads a project to monitor local seals that dates back to the 1960s.

Then they’ll wait. The seals will make it about a quarter of the way to Japan before turning back, in a trip that takes roughly 75 days. The device will record about 40 days of audio before the batteries run out, while other tags measure things like location, depth, and water temperature, leaving the scientists with lots of clues to what’s happening in a largely unknown stretch of ocean.

Uncovering mysteries of the deep

When the animals return, scientists will meet them on the beach and retrieve the devices before sending the seals on their way. (The devices don’t harm the seals or change their behavior, Beltran said.) Then they’ll run the audio through computer algorithms that separate out the unique sounds made by each species. A humpback whale can sound a bit like a whining puppy crossed with Chewbacca, for example, while orcas often sound like a metal detector gone haywire.

Payne will be listening closely for the echolocating clicks of beaked whales. This group of toothy marine animals, often gray or black and white, have eluded scientists for decades. “We know almost nothing about them,” she told Vox.

Beaked whales make up more than a quarter of living cetaceans (a group that includes dolphins, porpoises, and whales), but scientists don’t know where they go in the ocean or what they do, she said. They spend most of their time deep underwater and rarely surface for air, Payne added. There are more than 20 species of beaked whales, and much of what we know about them comes from carcasses that occasionally wash up on shore.

 Getty Images/iStockphoto

A Cuvier’s beaked whale in the Bay of Biscay, in the northeast Atlantic Ocean.

It’s hard to protect a species you don’t understand, Payne said. For example, researchers think that noise from shipping traffic harms beaked whales, but scientists can’t say for sure — because they simply don’t know what these animals are doing.

Researchers also hope to build an auditory archive of the ocean over years to understand how marine communities are changing, especially as the planet heats up. How, for example, is the giant patch of warm water in the Pacific Ocean, dubbed “the blob,” affecting marine communities? “The elephant seals can help us collect information where we have little to no data,” Klinck told Vox.

For now, Beltran and her team are just trying to prove that it can work. If it does, she hopes to scale it up and start collecting sounds in all kinds of marine environments — not just far offshore, but near the coast and even under Arctic ice. Perhaps in the future, legions of elephant seals will unwittingly survey the ocean in the name of science.

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