When Compassion Outlasts Conflict — How Jane Goodall Changed How I See the Wild

On October 1, the world lost Jane Goodall. She died at the age of 91 while on a speaking tour in California. The news hit me harder than I expected. It felt as though a light had gone out, and yet what she left behind was not darkness but a glow — memory, possibility, a reminder of what she had taught the world about how to see, and how to care.

Sculpture of Jane Goodall and David Greybeard (CC)

Whenever I think of Goodall, another name always comes to mind: Diane Fossey. (Somehow, I rarely think about the third member of the “Trimates”, Birute Galdikas, who worked with orangutans.) The two women are often linked in my imagination, not only because both worked with great apes and became global figures in conservation, but because they embodied such contrasting ways of being in the wild. Fossey, who spent her life with gorillas in Rwanda, is remembered as fierce, combative, obsessive. She could be confrontational to the point of violence — stories still circulate of her flogging the genitals of captured poachers. Goodall, in her quiet work at Gombe, was the opposite: compassionate, patient, holistic in her vision. Both left behind legacies that helped safeguard the species they loved. But as I think about what the world needs now, I feel that Goodall’s way matters more for our times.

The two women had much in common. Both were outsiders in science, without traditional credentials when they began. Both chose to live not as detached observers but in deep, long-term relationship with their subjects. Both endured isolation, physical danger, and professional scepticism. Yet their instincts diverged. Fossey saw her work as a battle. Her loyalty to gorillas meant a permanent conflict with humans, especially those she saw as threats. She resisted tourism, denounced governments, fought poachers, and kept her circle tightly guarded. Her passion was undeniable, but it also polarized and made enemies. Goodall, meanwhile, approached the forest with curiosity rather than suspicion. She listened more than she imposed, and in time she extended that listening from chimpanzees to the communities around them, to educators, to young people, to the world at large. She was not only a scientist but a bridge-builder.

That difference changed how I see the wild. Goodall’s research revealed that chimpanzees are not the instinct-driven automatons many assumed. They grieve, they reconcile, they invent, they teach. They are not “things” but personalities. That insight has always stayed with me: the wild is not an anonymous backdrop to human life; it is a web of relationships. The forest is not just habitat, it is memory, kinship, hope. To understand it requires more than protection; it requires humility, patience, and empathy.

In today’s world of climate crises, biodiversity collapse, and deep social divides, the question of how we act on behalf of what we love has only grown sharper. Fossey’s way — confrontation, resistance, even aggression — was effective in a particular moment. Her fire forced the world to pay attention to the plight of gorillas. But the challenges we face now are not isolated battles. They are systemic, interwoven with economics, politics, education, and justice. Fighting alone will not get us far. Confrontation without compassion tends to harden the lines between “us” and “them.” It alienates the very communities whose cooperation is essential. It may stop a bulldozer for a day but it does not create the conditions for a forest to flourish in the long run.

Goodall’s way feels harder but more enduring. She believed in connection rather than separation, in giving people a stake in conservation rather than excluding them. She understood that to protect forests and species, one must also address poverty, education, and human dignity. She spoke not in the language of fear or guilt, but of hope — a stubborn, insistent hope that small actions accumulate, that change spreads when it is rooted in care. She refused to give in to despair even when the data were grim, because despair paralyzes. Hope, even when fragile, mobilizes.

I do not want to dismiss Fossey. Her rage was born of love, and her courage was extraordinary. Sometimes confrontation is necessary, and history does not change without those willing to break the silence. In my mind, Fossey remains the spark — the one who forces urgency upon us. But Goodall is the steady flame. She kept burning through decades, through seasons of doubt, through the slow and often frustrating work of advocacy. And it is that steady flame, not the spark alone, that carries us forward.

As I sit with the news of Goodall’s death, I feel both sadness and responsibility. She is gone, but her way of seeing must remain with us. To honour her is not to repeat her words but to live differently: to listen more than we lecture, to build relationships instead of walls, to keep faith when change feels impossibly slow. Above all, to remember that conservation is not just about protecting “nature” as something separate from us. It is about recognizing that we are part of the same living fabric, and our future is bound to it.

Diane Fossey taught us how to fight for what we love. Jane Goodall taught us how to live with what we love. And in this fragile century, I believe it is the second lesson — the lesson of patience, empathy, and connection — that may prove to be the braver task.