I spent years going to zoos in order to document the ongoing suffering of animals behind their walls. Here’s what I’d like you to know.
Hero image credit: Julie Cappiello
Growing up in New York, my childhood was filled with trips to zoos and aquariums. The Bronx Zoo was a regular destination, where my friends and I would tire ourselves out racing from one exhibit to the next. Looking back now, I realize that excitement came at a cost—not to me, but to the animals trapped behind those glass walls and fences.
I don’t remember much from those childhood zoo visits, but years later, a friend needed to visit the Bronx Zoo for an Anthropology class paper, and my experiences of “happy zoo days” were gone when I saw the reality of zoos. We spent hours observing the gorillas—our close relatives—and I found myself struck by just how monotonous their lives seemed. I was bored watching them—and I had the privilege of leaving whenever I wanted. Those gorillas didn’t have that choice. They were stuck there, unable to escape from fellow gorillas they may not get along with, or from annoying infants constantly buzzing around with nowhere for the older individuals to retreat.
We moved on to other exhibits, and that’s when I met Tundra, a polar bear who stole my heart. Tundra spent his days pacing back and forth, repeatedly pressing his nose against the doors of his enclosure. That behavior, known as stereotyping, was a clear sign of distress—a heartbreaking loop that had become his entire existence outside of sleeping. It was late fall when I first saw him, but still uncomfortably warm in New York. Tundra wouldn’t have chosen to be there—no cold-loving animal would willingly endure sweltering heat.
Tundra the polar bear in his enclosure in November 2009. Photo Credit: Julie Cappiello
Over the years, I returned to the Bronx Zoo to document Tundra. Summers were brutal, with temperatures soaring into the 90s. And yet there he was, still pacing between those same doors, a restless predator in an artificial world. When he wasn’t pacing, he was panting heavily, seemingly looking for a way to exit his exhibit to go back to where he sleeps each night, or lying listlessly on the dark rocks in his exhibit. Very rarely did I observe Tundra in his small pool, which wasn’t temperature-controlled to be cold, the very least he deserved.
Tundra was born in captivity, but that didn’t erase his wild instincts. In the Arctic, he would have roamed vast landscapes, swam in icy waters, and hunted for food. His days should have been filled with mental and physical challenges—not confined to a lonely, repetitive routine in a concrete box.
Tundra’s suffering eventually captured public attention when a video went viral of a child sadly pointing out how miserable he seemed during a week-long heatwave. The video showed Tundra sprawled on the dark rocks of his barren enclosure, enduring temperatures no polar bear should have to face. But Tundra’s tragic story was not unique.
Gus, a polar bear housed at the Central Park Zoo faced a similar fate. His distress was so profound that the Wildlife Conservation Society, which manages the zoo, hired a therapist to try to help him. Gus became known as the “depressed polar bear.” Ultimately, he was euthanized in the summer of 2013 at 27 years old—a heartbreaking end for an animal who spent his life in an environment utterly unsuitable for his needs. Meanwhile, just a borough away, Tundra continued to suffer.
Tundra was euthanized in 2017 at 26 years old following a decline in health, but he deserves to be remembered. Like Tilikum, I think of Tundra and how he suffered for decades constantly. He has been one of the most influential animals in my life and has continued to be a major reason why I have spent more than 15 years in the animal rights movement fighting for the protection of animals.
He has been the driving force behind my learning about how zoos operate—from using hot wire in their enclosures to “keep structures intact” (a.k.a. “pretty” for visitors) to how zoos often put primates on islands, surrounded by water, in order to prevent escapes. (Most primates, apart from humans, cannot swim, so if they end up in the water around their island enclosure, they drown.) He is why I have continued to fight the existence of zoos and their misleading conservation claims.
Zoos often claim conservation as their justification for keeping animals captive, but evidence for this is thin. Animals bred in captivity are rarely reintroduced to the wild, and when successful reintroductions do happen, it's often the result of dedicated nonprofit organizations or government initiatives—not zoos. The recovery of the California condor is a powerful example of conservation driven outside the walls of these for-profit institutions, as the zoos involved in protecting the California condor relied heavily on the US Fish & Wildlife Service and nonprofits to be successful.
The reality is, zoos are relics of the past—outdated models that prioritize ticket sales and visitor entertainment over an animal’s wellbeing. We can no longer justify confining animals in the name of conservation while robbing them of the rich, dynamic lives they deserve. Protecting wild populations is crucial, but zoos are not the answer. There are far more effective, ethical ways to support wildlife without forcing individual animals to endure a life of confinement, such as Wildlife Heritage Areas. It's time we embrace those alternatives—and finally leave zoos behind where they belong: in the past.