Did our ancestors really know better than we do?

The argument seems simple, almost irrefutable. If those who once lived alongside wolves sought to eradicate them, it’s because they must have had good reasons. And since our ancestors knew the mountains, livestock farming, and the harshness of life better than we do, why should we question their decisions today?

The historical reality, however, is much more complex. Perhaps the first mistake is to ask our ancestors to answer a question that is ours to ask.

“Our ancestors were not in our shoes.”

Decisions Made in a Different Reality

Rural populations in past centuries lived in a context radically different from our own. Agriculture played a central role, livelihoods were precarious, social protections were nonexistent, scientific knowledge was very limited, and the loss of even a few animals could have far-reaching consequences for a family.

Wildlife itself thrived in a different environment. Several species of ungulates that are abundant today had declined sharply or disappeared from certain regions. In the 19th century, poverty and famine drove people to hunt, causing deer and ibex to vanish from Valais. Their populations have since recovered, largely due to conservation and management measures and, for certain species, reintroduction programs. It should also be noted that the landscapes, forest use, agricultural practices, availability of food resources, and human presence were in no way comparable to those of today.

The wolf could therefore have posed direct competition to populations whose survival depended largely on their domestic animals (for meat, wool, etc.). Understanding these historical facts does not mean idealizing that era or condemning those who lived through it. It simply means viewing their decisions within the context of the conditions they faced at the time. Since then, the economic and social role of livestock farming has also undergone profound changes. Globalization of trade, imports, agricultural policies, direct payments, and shifts in consumption have altered the conditions under which mountain agriculture is practiced. Comparing subsistence livestock farming of past centuries with that of today therefore requires, once again, taking the context into account.

Our ancestors had neither modern biology, nor behavioral ecology, nor genetic monitoring, nor camera traps, nor GPS collars, nor our current understanding of ecosystems. They acted based on their observations and experiences, but also within a cultural framework shaped by the beliefs and fears specific to their time. Certain cultural beliefs thus led to owls being nailed to the doors of houses to ward off “evil” or contributed to the persecution of the bearded vulture, which was once accused—even in its name and reputation—of carrying off lambs or even young children. These examples remind us just how much the perception of a species can be influenced not only by knowledge, but also—and above all—by the beliefs and cultural representations specific to a given era.

What our ancestors decided and did over the past centuries was therefore perfectly human, in keeping with their era and their knowledge at the time. But that did not make them infallible.

“Our ancestors had eradicated the wolf from an ecosystem that had itself been profoundly transformed by humans.”

The past is not a user’s manual

For a long time, humanity destroyed wetlands because they were considered unsanitary, eliminated predators deemed harmful, overexploited certain species, or profoundly altered ecosystems without being able to anticipate all the consequences of these decisions.

Some ancient practices were remarkably well-suited to their environment. Others have proven harmful in hindsight and as our knowledge has evolved. This is precisely how progress works: each generation inherits the experience of previous ones, but also the opportunity to correct their mistakes. Respecting our ancestors, therefore, does not mean replicating their choices exactly; it also means understanding why they made them. And we must accept that every generation will bring discoveries and successes, but also errors and knowledge that will need to be corrected or supplemented as future advances unfold.

We must also distinguish between the relevance of a decision within its specific context and its universal relevance. A response to a challenge in the 19th century might have been understandable—or even necessary—in the eyes of the people affected, without necessarily constituting a suitable solution for the 21st century. Knowledge evolves, as do landscapes, ecosystems, economic needs, technical capabilities, legislation, and societal expectations.

History, moreover, offers us an advantage that those who made these decisions did not have: the benefit of hindsight. Today, we can observe their short-, medium-, and long-term consequences, including those that their authors could neither know nor anticipate. This privilege should encourage us not to judge the past with a sense of superiority, but to study it with greater precision. For inheriting the experience of our ancestors does not mean merely inheriting what they did. It also means inheriting what they learned, what worked, what failed, and the sometimes unexpected consequences of their choices.

Applying an old solution simply because it has been used before would ultimately amount to turning history into a recipe. But history is not a catalog of ready-made answers: it is a source of knowledge that helps inform decisions in the present. And our own choices will one day need to be examined with the same caution: some of today’s certainties will likely be confirmed, while others will be corrected or abandoned as our understanding advances. We are no more infallible than those who came before us.

“Every era thus has its own knowledge, but also its blind spots—including our own.”

Can we compare the wolves of the past with those of today?

The same caution is needed when discussing wolf attacks on humans. To say that wolves have never attacked humans would be historically inaccurate. Attacks have occurred, and some are documented (see sources and links at the bottom of the page). But using events that occurred several centuries ago to directly assess the current risk in today’s society poses a major methodological problem.

Under what circumstances did these attacks occur? Were the animals infected with rabies, a fatal neurological disease capable of causing profound behavioral changes? Were they definitely wolves? How abundant was wild prey? To what extent were children exposed—children who were sometimes tasked at a very young age with tending herds or performing chores far from their homes? What were the health and dietary conditions of the populations? Were people living through a period of war, famine, or epidemic? How were events recorded and verified, given the lack of medical knowledge and the absence of autopsies?

These questions are not meant to deny historical facts. They are meant precisely to help us understand them. Comparing two events solely because a wolf is involved means overlooking the many factors that could explain what happened. And this caution also applies when we compare contemporary situations across countries. An interaction observed in one region of the world cannot automatically be applied to Switzerland (and vice versa) without considering human density, habitats, food resources, feeding practices, waste management, hunting, livestock farming, or even the behavior of the animals in question.

“In science, context is never a detail.”

The mountains of our ancestors are no longer ours

There is another contradiction when we invoke the past to define what the mountains should be like today. Our ancestors did not live in the 21st-century Alps. They knew nothing of electric mountain bikes, trail running, today’s ski lifts, modern road networks, or apps that allow us to quickly reach places that were once difficult to access. Nor were they familiar with tourist and recreational activity that now spans virtually all four seasons.

Switzerland had a population of approximately 2.4 million in 1850. Today, it has 9 million, meaning its population has nearly quadrupled. The ways we travel, the time we devote to leisure, and our ability to access natural areas have changed profoundly. Within the same territory, agriculture, livestock farming, tourism, hiking, mountain biking, trail running, skiing, photography, paragliding, hunting, domestic dogs, human infrastructure, and wildlife must now coexist.

It therefore makes little sense to mechanically apply the solutions of a 19th-century rural society to this reality. The problems have changed because society itself has changed. Similarly, invoking the decisions of our ancestors to resolve a contemporary conflict over land use is like comparing situations with profoundly different parameters.

“Comparing different eras is essential; directly applying one era’s context to another is methodologically incorrect.”

The Trap of a Romanticized Past

Yet we have a strange tendency to look back with nostalgia. “Back then,” people are said to have respected nature more. They are said to have been closer to animals, more supportive of one another, braver, more self-reliant, and endowed with a common sense that our modern society has lost. While some of these claims may contain a grain of truth, our collective representation of the past can also, at times, be highly selective.

It readily preserves images of unspoiled landscapes, traditional skills, village solidarity, and a certain closeness to the land. It more readily forgets poverty, infant mortality, famines, persecution, inequality, certain forms of violence, the extreme harshness of labor, and even environmental destruction—the consequences of which we are sometimes still paying for today.

This is a deeply human mechanism: we reconstruct the past as much as we remember it. This selectivity becomes problematic when history ceases to be used for understanding and begins to serve as an argument from authority. “That’s how our ancestors did it” does not prove that they were right, that their decisions were always wise, just, or beneficial. And “we know better today” does not mean that our generation makes no mistakes—quite the contrary.

“We infer the motivations and relevance of a choice based on its outcome, without reconstructing the full range of possibilities and constraints of that era.”

History as a tool, not a weapon

The debate over the wolf suffers particularly from this selective use of the past. Those who wish to eliminate the wolf will point out that our ancestors exterminated it. Those who wish to defend its presence, conversely, might be tempted to romanticize an ancient coexistence between humans and the wild—one that was often far more conflict-ridden than we imagine.

Both approaches pose the same danger: seeking confirmation in history of what we already believed. Yet history is far more interesting when it forces us to question our certainties. This process of questioning is essential when studying living organisms: knowledge advances, ecosystems evolve, and biological phenomena often result from the interaction of multiple factors.

Our ancestors possessed extraordinary empirical knowledge. We have much to learn from their understanding of the land, the seasons, and agricultural constraints. But today we have access to other knowledge that was unavailable to them. Pitting these against one another therefore makes little sense; rather, we should combine these forms of knowledge, taking into account not only the past but also the insights gained since then. And the knowledge that will follow tomorrow...

“History enlightens us when it feeds our thinking; it blinds us when it serves only to reinforce our convictions.”

What if that were the real lesson?

Perhaps we should finally stop asking what our ancestors would have done in our place. They were not in our place; they responded to the problems of their time with their own knowledge, values, and resources. It is up to us to respond to those of our own time.

Today, we have access to a wealth of scientific knowledge, high-performance monitoring tools, new technologies, means of protecting herds, institutions, legislation, and a much more nuanced understanding of how ecosystems function. We have also created new challenges: increasing human pressure, habitat fragmentation, the proliferation of recreational activities, land development, and conflicts over land use.

Our responsibility, therefore, is not to decide whether our ancestors were “right” or “wrong.” It is to understand why they made certain choices, what the consequences were, what we can learn from both their successes and their failures or mistakes, and what solutions are appropriate in our own context, in 2026.

“Learning from history does not mean repeating it.”
 

Article: Team Mission Loup
Photo: Mission Loup
Cover: illustration (wolf killed in Eischoll, Valais, in 1860)