Embracing Great Ape Kinship as the Antidote to the Political Weaponization of Tribalism

In every corner of the world, we are witnessing a troubling resurgence of tribalism. Whether it takes the form of nationalism, racism, religious extremism, or ideological polarization, the pattern is the same: people dividing into “us” and “them.” Once weaponized, this ancient instinct — once useful for group survival — becomes toxic. It blinds us to our shared humanity and fractures the cooperative spirit that made our species thrive.

Yet, perhaps the antidote to this fragmentation lies not in looking further into our differences, but deeper into our shared roots — even beyond the boundaries of our species. To embrace our great ape kinship is to remember where we came from, and to recognize the biological and emotional continuity that binds us to all life.

A Mirror to Ourselves

When I first taught sign language to orangutans in Borneo, I discovered something humbling. These beings — with their calm presence, patience, and depth of feeling — reflected something profoundly human, yet also something profoundly better than human. Orangutans, our red-haired cousins of the forest, exhibit empathy, foresight, and a gentle dignity that contrast sharply with the aggression often found in our own political and social arenas.

Watching them build nests high in the canopy, I often wondered: how can a creature so peaceful and self-contained share 97% of our DNA, while we, the “wise apes,” turn our intelligence toward division and domination? The orangutan does not draw lines of exclusion. Its survival depends on coexistence — with the forest, with other species, and with the rhythms of nature itself.

Tribal Instincts, Political Tools

Our tribal instincts evolved for a reason. They helped small groups of early humans survive in harsh conditions, building trust within the clan. But in the modern era, these same instincts are being manipulated. Political and media forces exploit them — amplifying fear, resentment, and identity-based conflict to consolidate power. The result is a world where belonging is defined not by shared humanity, but by opposition.

And yet, neuroscience and evolutionary biology tell us that cooperation, not competition, was the true driver of our success as a species. Compassion and empathy are not modern inventions — they are ancient survival tools. The problem is that our social and political systems have learned to hijack these instincts, rewarding outrage instead of understanding.

Reclaiming Kinship

To counter this, we must broaden the circle of kinship — to remember that we are not just members of political parties, nations, or tribes. We are members of the family of life. We share the planet with beings who laugh, grieve, love, and care for one another — sometimes with greater grace than we do.

Embracing great ape kinship means acknowledging that orangutans, gorillas, bonobos, and chimpanzees are not “things” or “resources.” They are persons of the forest — sentient, emotional, self-aware beings who remind us of the moral continuum that extends far beyond our species. When we see them as kin rather than curiosities, we begin to dissolve the illusion of separation that fuels tribalism.

It also means applying this awareness to human relations. The same compassion that guides conservation — the belief that every individual life matters — can guide our politics. When we expand empathy beyond the in-group, we erode the psychological foundations of hatred.

From Forest Wisdom to Human Renewal

The orangutan’s life offers a lesson for our time. Solitary but deeply connected, peaceful yet aware, contemplative rather than combative — the orangutan embodies a balance that humanity desperately needs. In their quiet, deliberate movements through the forest canopy lies a model for mindfulness and coexistence.

If we can learn from them — if we can remember our shared lineage — perhaps we can build societies that value connection over conquest, understanding over division, and stewardship over exploitation.

Because in the end, the real battle is not between political parties or tribes. It is between the expansive spirit of kinship and the contracting fear of “otherness.” The future depends on which side of our evolutionary inheritance we choose to nurture.

Let us choose kinship.

Orangutan Caring Week: From Awareness to Action for Our Red Ape Cousins

 

A baby orangutan clings to its mother’s back in the rainforests of Sumatra, peering out with cautious curiosity – a powerful symbol of hope and vulnerability at the heart of Orangutan Caring Week. Every year in November, organizations and wildlife lovers around the world come together to celebrate Orangutan Caring Week, a global event dedicated to saving these critically endangered “persons of the forest” and their vanishing home. What began as a simple awareness campaign decades ago has evolved into a vibrant movement blending education, emotion, and advocacy to secure a future for orangutans. In this post, we delve into the origins and purpose of Orangutan Caring Week, its journey from a small idea to an international event, the activities that inspire action each year, and how each of us can join in to make a difference.

Intelligent vs. Intelligible Communication: Lessons from the Forest

Language is often described as the hallmark of human intelligence. But when I think back to my years among the orangutans in Borneo, I’m reminded that communication—true communication—takes many forms, and not all of them require words.

There’s a quiet power in the gestures, glances, and postures exchanged between beings who share a moment of understanding. Yet not all communication is equal. Some is intelligible—clear and easy to interpret—while some is intelligent, showing thought, awareness, and intent.

Intelligible Communication: Being Understood

Intelligible communication is communication that makes sense. It is the ability to convey meaning in a way that can be received and understood.

When a mother orangutan softly grunts to her infant or when I see two males exchange long calls across the forest, the messages are intelligible to those who share that world. “I’m here.” “Stay away.” “It’s safe.”

Likewise, when a human toddler says, “Want banana,” the meaning is clear. Grammar isn’t required for comprehension—intent and shared context are enough.

Clarity, however, doesn’t always equal depth.

Intelligent Communication: Being Aware

Intelligent communication reveals something more profound: the mind behind the message.

When I taught sign language to ex-captive orangutans, I saw evidence of this intelligence every day. One young female, after failing to get my attention with a gesture, changed her strategy—signing again but more emphatically, her eyes fixed on mine. That was not rote behavior; it was problem-solving.

Intelligent communication shows flexibility, learning, and the capacity to anticipate another’s mind. It’s not just being understood—it’s understanding how to be understood.

The Bridge Between Minds

In our world of nonstop messages, posts, and alerts, we’ve become very good at being intelligible—quick, clear, and loud. But we’re losing our intelligence in communication: the patience to listen, the empathy to adapt, the awareness to choose our words or gestures with care.

Orangutans, on the other hand, remind us what intelligent communication looks like in its purest form—measured, mindful, and meaningful. Their interactions are quiet but deliberate. Each look, touch, or sound carries weight.

Perhaps in learning to recognize the intelligence in their communication, we can rediscover some of our own.

Takeaway

 Intelligible communication is about clarity.

 Intelligent communication is about consciousness.

If we want to connect across species—or even among ourselves—we must strive for both.

From the Archives: A Word Between Friends — Princess & Pola

March 18, 1979 — Guesthouse Living Room, Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting, Central Borneo

It was just after noon when I stepped into the living room of the guesthouse. A calmness hung in the air, that special kind of stillness the forest often offers in the heat of midday.

Pola, a young male orangutan who was part of our sign language project, was sitting contentedly in the corner, lips wrapped tightly around what looked like a crumpled, well-loved spice packet. He wasn’t chewing so much as savoring—drawing out every bit of flavor like it was a delicacy. His eyes were soft, his focus absolute. He was in a state of what I can only describe as spice meditation.

Then Princess entered.

Where Pola was introspective, Princess was always present. Attuned. Intentional.

She quietly approached Pola, leaned in with purpose, and signed “food.”

No reaction.

She signed it again, a little firmer this time—“food,” making sure he could see her hands clearly.

Pola paused. He looked at her. Then, wordlessly, he lifted the spice packet from his mouth and offered it to her—no resistance, no hesitation. She took it gently and moved away, with Pola following a few steps behind, as if curious about what would happen next.

There was no growling. No posturing. No grabbing. Just… a moment of request and a moment of response.

Now, some might ask whether Pola truly understood the sign from Princess. Was it a coincidence? A conditioned response? A social cue?

I think it was more than that.

Princess used sign language with another orangutan. Not for my benefit. Not for a treat. Not as part of a lesson. She initiated communication. She asked. And Pola responded—not by mimicking, not by reacting to a human, but by offering something he clearly valued.

That moment, fleeting as it was, marked something significant: language crossing species lines and turning inward—ape to ape.

It was raw. Unstaged. And profoundly beautiful.

This wasn’t about vocabulary size or syntax. It was about connection. Intent. The beginnings of shared meaning.

And in that simple exchange, over a spice packet no less, Princess and Pola reminded me that communication is not just about words or signs.

It’s about the willingness to listen. And the grace to give.

— Orangutan Dad

From the Archives: When a Knife Became a Comb

August 29, 1979 — Camp Leakey Guesthouse, Tanjung Puting, Central Borneo

Some moments are so ordinary at first glance, they almost slip by. But then they linger in memory like ripe fruit on a vine—sweet, unexpected, and revealing.

It was about 6:30 in the evening. Dinner was over, and Princess, my most curious and clever adopted orangutan daughter, was lounging near the student house. I was with Benny, one of our student assistants. We had been working with Princess on sign language for some time by then, but that night, she taught us a lesson in creativity.

Princess looked up at me and signed, “You comb.” I gently combed her hair with my fingers, and she closed her eyes, clearly enjoying the attention.

Then she spotted something on the ground—a table knife, left behind from dinner.

She picked it up carefully and signed again, “You that comb.” She was offering me the knife… to use as a comb.

I raised an eyebrow. I asked her, in sign, “What’s that?”

She studied it thoughtfully and signed “comb” again, followed by “pen.” She was trying out words she knew to label something new. Her guesses weren’t wrong, just… experimental.

I showed her the correct sign for knife, and she accepted it. But then, with deliberate calm and a look of expectation, she signed once more, “You comb,” and handed me the knife.

I gently scratched the back of her hand with the blunt edge—her version of a brushing motion. Satisfied, she handed it back to me and signed again: “You comb,” holding her head forward this time.

So I did. With the dull edge of a dinner knife, I gently “combed” her hair.

It wasn’t about the knife. It was about function—repurposing one object for another role. Princess wasn’t just mimicking language; she was assigning meaning. She saw a tool, imagined a use, and asked a friend to participate in her vision.

And in doing so, she reminded me that language, like intelligence, is fluid. It adapts. It invents. It connects.

And so does she.

— Orangutan Dad

From the Archives: A Lesson in Sharing — Princess and the Professor’s Son

 

July 17, 1979 — Dining Hall, Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting

It was a warm afternoon at Camp Leakey, and the open-air dining hall buzzed with quiet post-lunch activity. Plates were cleared, the thick air hung like a wool blanket soaked in humidity, and outside the screen windows, the forest hummed its usual symphony. Inside, a different kind of communication was about to unfold—one involving no words, but deep meaning.

Beneath the dining table, young Binti—Dr. Biruté Galdikas’s toddler son—had discovered a treat: a vegetable resembling corn called tabu telur. It was rare and intriguing, wrapped in leaf-like husks and shaped like something to be guarded.

So he did what any little boy might do: he took it under the table to enjoy it in private.

But Princess noticed.

She had been part of our sign language project for some time and was always curious—especially when food was involved. And she was watching Binti closely. She lowered herself beside him, peered under the table, and without hesitation, signed “food” directly to him.

Binti, still too young to sign fluently, understood the intent. But instead of handing over the prized vegetable, he began offering its outer leaves—one by one. A decoy strategy, perhaps.

Princess accepted each leaf graciously, inspecting them, nibbling lightly, then discarding them. They were, after all, inedible. This wasn’t what she’d asked for.

She signed “food” again. This time, she added “nut”—refining her request, showing her awareness that what Binti held was something meaningful. Still, Binti continued to peel back the leaves, offering husks instead of the core.

Then, in one smooth and calculated move, Princess reached over and took the tabu telur from his small hands.

Binti burst into tears.

Underneath that table, there was no parental intervention, no translator, no referee—just a sign-literate orangutan and a human child, negotiating over a prized possession in their own unique ways.

It was one of the rare moments I witnessed where a nonhuman primate used sign language intentionally and independently to communicate with a human peer—not as a show, not for a reward from a trainer, but for real social negotiation.

Princess didn’t just ask. She persisted, modified her communication, and ultimately asserted her agency.

And Binti? He did what any toddler might: he tried to hold on to something he valued. But in that exchange—leaf by leaf—he was also participating in one of the most remarkable cross-species dialogues I’ve ever seen.

A young boy and an orangutan, sharing a moment that was so much more than a snack. It was an early glimpse into how communication bridges not only species, but hearts.

— Orangutan Dad

From the Archives: Princess, the Fruit Connoisseur

 

September 19, 1979 — Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting, Central Borneo

Some mornings stay with you forever—not because of what you taught, but because of what you were taught.

It was just before 8 a.m., and the guesthouse was still blanketed in that gentle stillness that settles in before the forest fully wakes. I had just begun a morning lesson with Princess, my sign-language-savvy orangutan daughter, when she beat me to the first word.

“Hug up,” she signed with quiet insistence.

I smiled and gave her the hug she asked for. Then she signed again, eyes gleaming with mischief: “You that food.”

Ah. So that was the real motivation behind the hug.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a guava. Before I even asked, Princess confidently signed, “sweet fruit.” Correct. I handed it to her. We repeated this little game with a second guava, and she signed the same phrase again—“fruit sweet”—as if reminding me she already knew the answer and was ready for her reward.

That morning turned into a taste-test of tropical produce. An orange became “drink fruit.” A mango? “Sweet fruit.” When I offered her a watermelon slice, she combined her favorite signs into a new phrase: “drink fruit sweet.”

She was inventing compound words—building her own vocabulary using the signs she already knew.

And when I tried to quiz her with something trickier, like the leaf symbol on a hat, she didn’t hesitate. “Leaf,” she signed, correctly and immediately.

But it wasn’t just language. It was preference, curiosity, humor.

She looked into my pocket after I told her it was empty. She discovered a hidden bag of peanuts and signed, “open food.” I opened it. Of course I did.

She wasn’t just communicating. She was thinking. Classifying. Creating new ideas. Asking. Testing. Trusting.

That morning, Princess wasn’t just a student—I was. And what she taught me, through fruit and signing, was this: Communication isn’t about mastering language. It’s about connection.

And when an orangutan tells you she wants “drink fruit sweet,” you listen.

— Orangutan Dad