We've destroyed half of Earth's vegetation since agriculture began.
At the University of Melbourne, a five-million-dollar donation has reignited one of conservation science's most enduring tensions: whether the power to resurrect extinct species like the thylacine represents a genuine path forward for biodiversity, or whether it seduces us away from the harder, quieter work of protecting what still remains. Since the first cloned bucardo drew breath and died in 2009, de-extinction has moved from myth to marginal possibility — yet the world these animals would return to is not the one they left. The question is not only whether we can bring them back, but whether doing so serves life, or merely the idea of it.
- A $5 million pledge to resurrect the Tasmanian tiger has electrified geneticists while alarming conservation biologists who see finite resources being pulled toward the spectacular and away from the urgent.
- The technical barriers are staggering — a single resurrected animal is a curiosity, not a species; viable populations require thousands of individuals, engineered genetic diversity, and intact ecosystems that barely exist anymore.
- Critics warn that modeling already suggests redirecting conservation funding toward de-extinction could produce a net loss of biodiversity, making a headline-grabbing project a quiet catastrophe for living species.
- Even if a thylacine walked again, it would face ranchers, climate shifts, novel diseases, and a landscape half-destroyed by agriculture — the same forces that erased it and continue erasing others.
- The deeper disruption is ethical: who holds the power to choose which species are resurrected, and will Indigenous communities and affected ecosystems have any say in decisions driven by wealthy donors and institutions?
When a five-million-dollar donation arrived at the University of Melbourne to fund thylacine de-extinction research, it carried the weight of a dream many scientists had quietly nursed for decades. Advances in genome mapping and knowledge gleaned from the thylacine's living relative, the numbat, have made the prospect feel newly plausible. But the announcement reopened a familiar fault line in conservation science — one that separates technological ambition from strategic necessity.
De-extinction has been building toward this moment for fifty years. The San Diego Frozen Zoo began preserving genetic material in the early 1970s. Dolly the sheep was cloned in 1996. In 2008, a mouse frozen for sixteen years was brought back to life. Then in 2009, researchers cloned a bucardo — a subspecies of Pyrenean ibex extinct since 2000 — from preserved tissue. The animal died within minutes, but the symbolic threshold had been crossed.
The obstacles that remain, however, are not merely technical. One or two resurrected animals cannot constitute a species. Survival in the wild demands hundreds or thousands of individuals, engineered genetic diversity, functioning microbiomes, and suitable habitat — all in vanishingly short supply. Most reintroductions of threatened species fail even under careful management. And the world a thylacine would return to is not the one it left: half of Earth's vegetation is gone, nearly two-thirds of land has been altered, and a million species currently face extinction.
Conservation biologists argue the five million dollars could instead protect entire ecosystems, fund breeding programs for species still alive, or remove invasive threats. Modeling suggests that pulling limited resources toward de-extinction may actually deepen biodiversity loss overall. Prevention, they insist, remains cheaper and more effective than resurrection.
Beyond strategy lie harder questions of ethics and power. Who decides which species are worth bringing back? Will Indigenous peoples have meaningful input, or will institutions and wealthy donors make those choices unilaterally? What does it mean for an animal to be born into a world it never evolved to inhabit? As genetic science advances and funding continues to flow, de-extinction will persist — but even its most dazzling achievements are unlikely to slow the extinctions unfolding right now, among species that could still be saved.
A five-million-dollar gift arrived at the University of Melbourne with a tantalizing promise: the chance to bring back the thylacine, the Tasmanian tiger that vanished from the wild in 1936. Advances in mapping the animal's genome, paired with knowledge gained from studying its living relative the numbat, have made the prospect feel suddenly achievable. For an ecologist, the idea of witnessing a living specimen of an extinct species carries undeniable appeal. But the announcement triggered a familiar tension in conservation science—one that pits technological possibility against practical necessity.
De-extinction as a concept is not new. The San Diego Frozen Zoo, established in the early 1970s, began preserving blood, DNA, tissue, and reproductive material from endangered species with the vague hope that future generations might resurrect them. The idea entered popular imagination through Jurassic Park in 1993, then gained scientific credibility in 1996 when researchers cloned Dolly the sheep. A watershed moment came in 2008: scientists successfully cloned a mouse that had been frozen for sixteen years at minus twenty degrees Celsius. If frozen tissue could produce a living animal, perhaps entire species could be recovered from the dead.
The first concrete proof arrived in 2009. Researchers cloned a bucardo, a subspecies of Pyrenean ibex that had been extinct since 2000, using preserved tissue. The newborn died within minutes. But the symbolic barrier had fallen. De-extinction was no longer theoretical.
Yet the technical hurdles remain formidable, and they are far from the only obstacles. Creating one or two animals solves nothing. A viable population requires hundreds, possibly thousands of individuals to have any realistic chance of surviving in the wild. Genetic diversity would need to be engineered in—a process barely attempted beyond a handful of crop species. Most reintroductions of threatened animals fail anyway, even when populations are carefully managed. The resurrected species would also lack the specialized microbiomes that many animals depend on for survival, and could introduce novel diseases to ecosystems or become vectors for pathogens themselves.
Then there is the matter of where these animals would live. Humans have destroyed half of Earth's vegetation since agriculture began. We have fundamentally altered nearly two-thirds of the planet's land surface. About one million plant and animal species now face extinction. The total number of wild vertebrates has plummeted by two-thirds since the 1970s. Space for large predators is scarce and contested. If a thylacine were released in Australia, would ranchers accept it, or would they shoot it to extinction as they did the first time? Lions, bears, tigers, jaguars, and dingoes face relentless persecution worldwide because they threaten human interests. Climate has shifted too. A mammoth that thrived in Siberia twenty thousand years ago would face a radically different environment today.
The core argument against de-extinction is economic and strategic. The five million dollars committed to the thylacine project represents a fraction of what genuine de-extinction would require. Conservation biologists contend that the same resources could purchase land to protect entire ecosystems, remove invasive species, restore damaged habitats, and fund breeding programs for species still clinging to existence. Modeling suggests that diverting limited conservation funding toward de-extinction could actually result in net biodiversity loss. Prevention, the argument goes, is cheaper and more effective than resurrection.
There are also questions of power and ethics. Who decides which species deserve resurrection? Will Indigenous peoples have a voice in those decisions, or will wealthy nations and institutions impose their choices? What of animal welfare—both in the laboratories where de-extinction occurs and in the lives of creatures born into a world they never evolved to inhabit?
As technology advances, de-extinction will likely continue. Funding will flow. The pursuit will persist as long as there are people willing to pay for it. But even the most remarkable breakthroughs in genetic science are unlikely to address the catastrophic loss of biodiversity happening right now, in real time, among species that still exist and could still be saved.
Citações Notáveis
Prevention is better than cure; we should put all our efforts into avoiding extinction in the first place.— Conservation biologists and ecologists cited in the analysis
Even the most amazing technological advances are unlikely to help the catastrophic worldwide loss of biodiversity.— Corey J. A. Bradshaw, Matthew Flinders Professor of Global Ecology
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does the five-million-dollar donation feel like a distraction to you?
Because it's money that could have bought habitat, removed invasive species, or funded breeding programs for animals that are alive right now and still saveable. We're not short on technological ambition. We're short on land, resources, and political will to protect what we haven't lost yet.
But couldn't de-extinction be one tool among many? Why not let it happen if someone wants to fund it?
Because resources aren't infinite, and conservation budgets are already stretched thin. The real risk isn't the technology itself—it's the false comfort it creates. If we believe we can fix extinction later, we become less urgent about preventing it now.
What about the practical problems? Surely those are the real barrier.
They are substantial. You'd need hundreds or thousands of individuals, not one or two. You'd need to engineer genetic diversity. You'd need habitat that no longer exists in its original form. And you'd need to solve the human problem—the fact that we killed these species before, and we'd likely kill them again.
The thylacine was hunted to extinction. Would ranchers really accept it coming back?
Almost certainly not. Predators are persecuted everywhere—lions, bears, jaguars, dingoes. The thylacine was killed because it threatened livestock. That conflict hasn't gone away. We've just gotten better at destroying habitat instead.
What about the climate question? The world has changed since these animals lived.
Exactly. A mammoth from twenty thousand years ago faced a completely different Siberia than exists today. We can't simply thaw out an extinct species and expect it to thrive in a world that no longer resembles the one it evolved for.
So you're saying it's impossible?
I'm saying it's unlikely to help. Even if we solve every technical problem, we still haven't solved the fundamental one: we've destroyed the world these animals lived in. Resurrecting them doesn't change that.