Species Encounters, Cultural Difference, and the Ethics of Becoming-With
In When Species Meet, Donna Haraway writes about training dogs—not as an exercise in control, but as a mutual, embodied encounter. For her, training is not domination but a form of communication, a way of tuning oneself to another being with care, patience, and attentiveness. This is not an easy partnership. It involves risk, friction, failure, and reciprocity. It is, in Haraway’s words, “a practice of becoming-with”—a process by which both species are transformed in the act of learning to live together.
This insight offers a powerful way to rethink one of the most controversial aspects of elephant tourism in Southeast Asia: elephant training.
In the West, training elephants—especially young ones—is often associated with violence. Videos of brutal “crushing” rituals have circulated widely, and animal rights campaigns frequently argue that any form of elephant training is inherently abusive. But these representations flatten a diverse and complex field of practice into a single narrative of harm. They do not ask how people and elephants meet, live, and learn together in contexts vastly different from those in which Western animal ethics have developed.
Ethnographic accounts, such as Alexander M. Greene’s study of Karen communities in Northern Thailand, tell another story. Among the Karen and many Lao communities, elephants are not livestock or objects of display. They are companions, kin, and co-workers—beings who live alongside humans for decades. For the first three to five years of life, baby elephants stay with their mothers, learning through bodily proximity and emotional attachment. During this period, human interaction is gentle, affectionate, and playful.
When elephants reach a certain age—usually between three and five—they begin to show more independence. It is at this point that training begins. But what outsiders often fail to understand is that for the Karen, this process is not merely technical. It is sacred.
Training is initiated by spiritually recognized elders, not just anyone. Rituals are performed, guardian spirits are invoked, and offerings are made. The young elephant is placed in a wooden corral—not to be punished, but to begin a difficult and sensitive transition: forming new bonds with the human caretakers who will be part of its life for years to come.
Like Haraway’s dogs, these elephants must learn to interpret human signals, voices, and gestures. But just as importantly, humans must learn to read the elephant—its moods, reactions, fears, and needs. Mahouts spend days sleeping beside the young elephant, singing, feeding, soothing. There are struggles and setbacks. But over time, trust develops. Commands are taught. A shared language emerges. Eventually, the elephant rejoins its community—both elephant and human—transformed by this process.
This is not a story of domination, but of becoming-with. Just as Haraway argues that training a dog can be an ethical encounter across species lines, elephant training in its best forms is an act of relational care—an effort to forge communication, respect, and shared life. The moral difference lies not in whether training exists, but in how it is done, and with what ethical commitments.
De-centering Western Norms
Western observers, accustomed to dogs as domestic companions, often extend their moral expectations across species and cultures. But what Haraway’s own work reveals is that even dog training—a familiar, intimate practice in Western societies—is a form of power. The ethical challenge is not to eliminate power, but to navigate it with humility, responsiveness, and mutual transformation.
To reject elephant training wholesale, especially without understanding the cultural and spiritual significance it holds in Southeast Asia, risks reproducing a kind of ethical imperialism. It imposes a one-size-fits-all framework of morality based on assumptions rooted in Western histories—histories that often erase or ignore the deep knowledge systems of other societies.
Training, like care, is culturally shaped. It arises from particular cosmologies, economic conditions, and multispecies entanglements. In Laos and Thailand, elephants are not wild symbols to be admired from afar. They are integrated into the lifeworlds of people—living in villages, remembered in stories, honored in rituals. The training that enables this coexistence is not inherently abuse. It is, at its best, a gesture of welcome into a shared world.
Toward a Relational Ethics of Elephant Training
To rethink elephant training ethically, we must begin by asking different questions. Not: Is training wrong? But: What kinds of relationships does it produce? What care structures support it? How is the elephant’s voice—or silence—attended to? Who defines cruelty, and from where?
Haraway teaches us that species meet not in purity, but in the mud, mess, and friction of contact zones. The encounter between human and elephant is always political, always situated. It deserves analysis that is careful, relational, and open to learning from others.
If we are to truly “stay with the trouble,” as Haraway encourages, then we must make room for ethical practices that do not mirror our own. We must listen, not judge. We must learn how others train, care, and become-with—not as a form of dominance, but as a living tradition shaped by centuries of experience. In doing so, we might find not only new ways of thinking about elephants, but about ourselves.
