A Global Look at Right-Wing Hostility Toward Animals

Across the world, animals are becoming collateral damage in a political culture that celebrates dominance over empathy. The pattern is disturbingly clear: whenever right-wing politics ascends, compassion for non-human beings descends. What varies is not the outcome, but only the scale.

India: Where Stray Lives Are Treated as Disposable

In India, the tension between development, majoritarian politics, and animal welfare has reached a breaking point. The Supreme Court’s recent verdict actually moves toward culling stray animals because shelters are just not equipped here to host the sheer volume of animals. This reveals how fragile and conditional compassion can be. Cows may be sacralised for cultural reasons, but street dogs, cats, and countless other beings exist in a legislative vacuum. This is not to say, by clear evidence, that cows are treated better. They are not.

Animal activists routinely face harassment, threats, and even physical assault. Their work is dismissed as “anti-development”, “elitist”, or oddly, “anti-national”. The message is chillingly clear: empathy outside the ideological script is unwelcome.

The contradiction at the heart of Indian politics could not be starker. A civilisation that once spoke of ahimsa now debates how best to eliminate the creatures who live alongside us. Animal rights, as a legal concept, barely exist. Welfare boards and NGOs operate with fewer protections than the animals they’re trying to save.

United States: The Trumpian Assault on Conservation

Across the ocean, the United States has witnessed its own war on the natural world under Donald Trump. His administration rolled back dozens of environmental and conservation policies, opening protected lands—including the Arctic—to oil drilling and mining. Wolves, bears, and endangered species lost protections painstakingly built over decades.

More than policy, though, it was the disdain embedded in the rhetoric that revealed the shift. Trump mocked Greta Thunberg, a child demanding climate responsibility, not because he misunderstood the science but because empathy itself threatened his worldview.

Right-wing populism thrives on the performance of strength, and in that performance, the planet and its creatures become expendable props.

A Global Pattern: Strength Without Stewardship

Globally, right-wing governments—from Brazil under Bolsonaro to parts of Eastern Europe—share a familiar pattern:

Environmental protections weakened in favour of extractive industries. Wildlife treated as a nuisance when it interrupts development. Animal advocates vilified as radicals or enemies of progress. Traditional practices defended uncritically, even when inherently cruel.

The ideology is not built on stewardship but on supremacy—of humans over animals, of industry over ecology, of political identity over compassion.

What makes this pattern dangerous is its universality. Whether it is a street dog in Delhi, a wolf in Alaska, or a rainforest species in Brazil, the message is uniform: if a life cannot vote, pay taxes, or further political symbolism, it can be discarded.

Why Right-Wing Politics So Often Collides with Animal Welfare

Several threads connect these global examples:

Hyper-nationalism reframes empathy as weakness. Development-first agendas ignore ecological and ethical costs. Cultural absolutism defends cruelty when it is traditional. Anti-activist sentiment treats compassion-driven movements as political threats. Masculinity politics turns care into a liability.

These attitudes create a world where the voiceless remain unheard, and those who speak on their behalf are targeted.

The Cost of This Indifference

When animal lives are treated as disposable, societies lose far more than biodiversity—they lose moral clarity. The willingness to mistreat animals normalises brutality. It makes violence thinkable, then permissible, and finally, invisible.

A society that cannot protect its weakest beings eventually struggles to protect its own people.

Choosing Empathy in an Unempathetic Age

Not every right-wing individual hates animals. But the ideological machinery that dominates right-wing politics today prioritises power, extraction, and cultural symbolism over care. In that machinery, animals simply do not count.

The task for the rest of us is urgent. We must insist on laws that recognise animals as sentient beings, not nuisances. We must support activists who put their bodies on the line where institutions fail. And we must remember a simple truth: a civilisation is not judged by the slogans of its leaders, but by how it treats those who have no voice.

If the world continues on this path of sanctioned cruelty, it is not only animals who will be lost—our own humanity will erode with them.

Ghosts Over Trolls

My relationship with the online world didn’t begin with grand ambitions. It began, quite simply, with fun. Facebook since 2007, insta, Snapchat since 2012. 

In 2015, i had about 10k followers on insta and I found myself on Musical.ly — that strange, playful little app where people lip-synced, danced, and made short sketches without worrying about who was watching. It was light, it was silly, and it made me happy.

Around 2018 came TikTok, and suddenly those little videos of mine grew into something bigger. I found a rhythm, a voice, a community — and before I knew it, there were tens of thousands of people following along. 

Somewhere in that same period, someone I loved introduced me to League of Legends. The graphics were fantastic, the characters intoxicating, and the gameplay chaotic in the best way. But the chat? The chat was a battlefield of its own. Vitriol, insults, casual abuse… the kind of ugliness that makes you switch to “versus AI” permanently. I loved the game; I just couldn’t stand the people in it.

By 2020, League itself faded out of my life — and TikTok was banned in India. Almost overnight, I lost a space where I’d been creative, confident, and oddly free. The pandemic arrived like a dark tide. Grief hit. Heartbreak hit. And lockdown pushed all of us into our screens, whether we were ready or not.

Instagram, which I’d casually used since 2012, suddenly became my living room. Reels launched around June 2020, and with TikTok gone, I poured myself into Instagram. I spoke about my identity, my sexuality, my mental health, my history — the things that had shaped me. I went live for hours; sometimes ten, sometimes twelve. I made friends across continents. I healed in front of strangers who somehow didn’t feel like strangers at all.

But then the trolls arrived.

They always do. First they ruined Twitter, then they seeped into Instagram, and now they’re infesting Threads as well. What I endured in school — the taunts, the mockery, the homophobia — began repeating itself in digital form. The cruelty of social media became impossible to ignore. 

And the videos… that was the final blow.

Animals suffering. Forests burning. Humans being monstrous to the planet and to each other.

It crushes something inside me every time I see it. I can last about half an hour on Instagram now before my heart feels scraped raw.

So I began to step away. Slowly. Quietly.

And then came the turning point: late 2023. I bought myself a PS5. A gift, a distraction, a lifeline — I’m still not sure. All I knew was that my mind needed a quieter place to exist.

I entered the world of Hogwarts Legacy first — a universe I had known since my twenties and thirties. The nostalgia soothed me, even though I’ve had to firmly separate the art from the artist. Then Assassin’s Creed Odyssey opened up an entirely different dimension. I roamed through ancient Greece with Kassandra — the Pantheon, the Colosseum, the cradle of the Olympics. Places I had only seen in books were suddenly alive around me. It was a form of time travel I had not known was possible.

And then Ghost of Tsushima arrived — and that, truly, changed everything.

To gallop across fields of purple flowers. To stand beneath ginkgo trees shedding gold. To write haiku beside quiet waters. To sink into a digital hot spring and breathe, slowly, deeply, finally.

These moments — pixelated though they may be — brought me peace that the real world has not offered for a long time.

Gaming, for me, is not escapism.

It is refuge.

A sanctuary from noise, cruelty, and the relentless sadness of what we humans are doing to the planet I love so fiercely.

I don’t know why holding a controller quietens my overthinking mind. But it does. And so I return to these worlds often. Worlds filled with beauty, meaning, and silence.

And perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps that is everything.

Peter

I have Peter Pan tattooed on my arm. Let me tell you why he means so much to me, and what he really stands for — not just in stories, but in the way writers and thinkers understand childhood itself.

When I was young, I didn’t get the soft, safe childhood that many children do. Life pushed me to grow up quickly, to understand things too early, and to protect myself in ways a child shouldn’t have to. But somewhere inside me, there was still a tiny spark that refused to die — a spark of imagination, wonder, humour, hope. That little spark kept me alive, and in many ways, Peter Pan represents that part of me.

Most people think Peter Pan is just a boy who refuses to grow up. But his name comes from the ancient Greek god Pan — the wild spirit of nature.

Pan wasn’t gentle or civilised. He was half-human, half-goat, with horns, hooves, and an erect phallus, which represented nature’s raw life-force. He was joyful and frightening, beautiful and wild, playful and powerful. He stood for the part of the world that adults try to tame but never truly can.

E. M. Forster wrote a story called The Story of a Panic, where Pan appears not as a monster but as a force of pure, natural joy. The adults in the story are terrified of him because they’ve forgotten what it feels like to be free. But the boy who feels Pan’s presence becomes alive in a way the grown-ups can’t understand.

Peter Pan is exactly that kind of spirit.

He is childhood in its raw, untamed form — full of imagination, wildness, fearlessness, and joy. The kind of childhood that today’s world has almost forgotten.

And that brings me to another writer: William Blake.

Blake wrote two famous collections of poems — Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience.

In the Songs of Innocence, he spoke about childhood as a sacred, magical time — a world full of wonder, trust, and imagination.

In the Songs of Experience, he showed how the world crushes that innocence — with fear, cruelty, knowledge that comes too early, and responsibilities a child shouldn’t carry.

Even in Blake’s time, adults worried that children were losing innocence too quickly.

Today, it’s even worse. Children know everything too soon — violence, death, betrayals, cruelty, adult worries long before they’re ready. There’s no time to dream. No time to play. No time to believe in magic.

And that is why Peter Pan matters to me.

Peter represents the child inside us who refuses to let the world take away its light.

He stands for the part of the human spirit Blake called “innocence” — not naïve, not foolish, but open-hearted and imaginative. The part that trusts, loves, laughs, and sees beauty.

In today’s world, people sometimes say Peter Pan is selfish or uncaring. They judge him by adult standards. They make Hook the hero and turn Peter into the villain. But that’s not how J. M. Barrie wrote him. Barrie loved Peter because Peter lived outside time, outside rules, outside the heaviness of adulthood. He wasn’t meant to behave like a grown-up — he was meant to represent the one thing adults can’t fully control: the spirit of childhood.

Peter forgets not because he is cruel, but because he lives in the eternal now.

He doesn’t understand time because no one ever protected him long enough to teach him.

He isn’t irresponsible — he is free.

And freedom, real freedom, scares adults who have forgotten how to dream.

That’s why I don’t agree with people who villainise Peter today. They see him from the perspective of experience, but forget the value of innocence.

Peter Pan is not a warning about immaturity.

He’s a reminder that even when life is difficult, we must protect the small, bright, imaginative part of ourselves.

The part that still believes in flying.

The part that still wants to explore forests and seas.

The part that hasn’t given up.

So when you see this tattoo, know that it isn’t about refusing to be an adult.

It’s about holding on to wonder.

Holding on to joy.

Holding on to innocence in a world that tries to steal it too fast.

It’s about remembering that the wild spark inside us — like Pan, like Peter, like Blake’s innocent child — deserves to live.

And that spark is what kept me alive.