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Hissing roaches recognize familiar touch
KIM HONEY
PUBLISHED APRIL 30, 2002
(IF YOU CAN ACCESS IT ONLINE, THE ARTICLE IS FOUND HERE:
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The giant hissing cockroach is not a creature most people would want to encounter in
the dark, let alone pick up and stroke its polished, mahogany-coloured back.
After just a few petting sessions, a University of Guelph researcher has demonstrated
beyond a doubt that the rodent-sized roaches, which come from the island of
Madagascar, not only get used to humans, but can tell them apart.
Psychology professor Hank Davis enlisted student Emily Heslop to handle the horned
arthropods for two minutes a day. Within a few sessions, all but two stopped their
defensive behaviour when she picked them up.
(The two holdouts were “damaged goods,” according to Prof. Davis: One had a broken
leg and the other had both antennae broken.)
When Ms. Heslop prevailed upon one of her roommates to act as the new handler, the
cockroaches were infuriated by the unfamiliar pheromones.
“They actually spit on her hand, and it was quite a lot of liquid,” said Ms. Heslop, a
native of Caledon East, Ont., who had never seen a cockroach before she signed on to
Prof. Davis’s experiment. “It just seemed very dramatic.”
Prof. Davis has been conducting the same experiment in more than a dozen species of
animals since publishing The Inevitable Bond: Examining Scientist-Animal
Interactions in 1992 with Diane Balfour.
In it, they argued that the close relationship scientists develop with research animals
allows the creatures to get to know them and to anticipate what is going to happen to
them. If an animal associates a certain researcher with a painful shock, for example, it
will start preparing, psychologically and metabolically, for what is about to befall it.
“That’s Pavlovian conditioning,” Prof. Davis said. “In a sense, you become a walking
metronome, or a walking buzzer, or a walking bell.”
The implications for research are profound, and Prof. Davis has now proved everything
from penguins to llamas to chickens to bees can differentiate between individual
humans.
“The two-word message is: Know it. Because things will turn up in your research that
might be a little puzzling to you. And they’re not as puzzling if you realize: ‘This guy
knows me. This guy also knows, when I pick him up, x, y, and z are going to happen to
him.’ ”
It’s not surprising that social animals such as bees can differentiate between a worker
and a drone, since their survival depends on it. Prof. Davis doesn’t ascribe any
anthropomorphic significance to the fact that cockroaches can tell his scent from Ms.
Heslop’s. He said the handlers were just tapping into the animal’s ability to tell one
roach from another.
Prof. Davis admitted that he and Ms. Heslop are not “bug people,” and both were
creeped out when they first turned over one of the paper egg cartons in a 20-gallon
aquarium and saw hundreds of cockroaches skitter away. A collective hiss, not unlike
that of a cat encountering a dog, emanated from inside.
“The first visit, we both just stood there taking some very deep breaths,” he said. “It was
not easy. I’m sure we both had thoughts: ‘My God, am I going to be able to do this?’ ”
The professor and the student are now over their fear of roaches, something Prof. Davis
figured is an evolutionary remnant from the days when our ancestors actually had
something to fear from insects.
In fact, he would take one home as a pet, if he could, and some people do, according to
the Pet Arthropod page (www.key-net.net/users/swb/pet–arthropod).
By the end of the Guelph experiment, which required Ms. Heslop to visit her hairylegged subjects for two minutes a day, the cockroaches may have preferred her company
to that of her roommate, but she had her favourites, too.
“Basically, it was the nice ones,” she said, laughing.
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Cultural Studies Review
volume 22 number 1 March 2016
http://epress.lib.uts.edu.au/journals/index.php/csrj/index
pp. 196–242
© Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel 2016  
 
Do Fish Resist?1
DINESH JOSEPH WADIWEL
UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY
 
 
In   2010   the   UK-­‐based   organisation,   Fishcount.org.uk,   released   a   pioneering   report  
which  attempted  to  estimate  the  number  of  wild  sea  animals  killed  each  year  as  part  
of   commercial   fishing.   Data   has   been   available   from   national   and   international  
organisations   on   commercial   fishing   quantities;   however,   most   of   these   previous  
measures,   such   as   those   maintained   by   the   UN   Food   and   Agriculture   Organisation,  
refer   to   sea   animals   produced   for   food   by   weight   rather   than   number,   thus   veiling  
from   public   perception   the   actual   number   of   sea   animals   which   are   used   by  
humans.2   Based   on   their   own   research,   Fishcount.org.uk   and   the   report’s   lead  
author,  Alison  Mood,  proposed  a  sobering  statistic:  that  between  0.97  and  2.7  trillion  
wild   fish   are   slaughtered   every   year   through   commercial   fishing.3   In   a   follow   up  
report,   Mood   and   Phil   Brooke   attempted   to   also   estimate   the   number   of   fish   killed  
annually   through   fish   farming   (or   aquaculture):   their   estimate   in   2012   was   that   this  
was  of  the  order  of  37  to  120  billion  per  year.4  (To  put  these  figures  in  perspective,  
the   UN   Food   and   Agriculture   Organisation   data   indicates   that   in   2010,   63   billion  
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Cultural Studies Review 2016. © 2016 Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel. This is an Open Access article distributed under
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Citation: Cultural Studies Review (CSR) 2016, 22, 4363, http://dx.doi.org/10.5130/csr.v21i1.4363
land  animals  were  slaughtered  for  human  consumption,  a  figure  that  is  likely  to  be  
close   to   70   billion   for   the   year   just   past.)5   These   figures   do   not   include   the  
potentially   large   numbers   of   fish   caught   globally   through   recreational   fishing  
practices.6  
We  know  that  the  global  use  of  sea  animals  for  food  is  set  to  increase.  World  per  
capita   fish   consumption   has   more   or   less   doubled   in   the   last   fifty   years   (from   9.9  
kilgrams  to19.2  kilograms  per  person  per  year),  meaning  that  not  only  are  more  fish  
being   killed   to   feed   a   larger   human   population   across   the   globe,   but   on   average  
humans   are   eating   more   fish   per   person   than   ever   before.7   Concern   around  
industrial   wild   fish   capture,   particularly   the   effects   of   this   exponential   increase   in  
human  utilisation,  has  also  been  the  focus  of  environmental  concern.  The  UN  Food  
and   Agriculture   Organisation   claims   that   in   2011   some   ‘28.8   percent   of   fish   stocks  
were   estimated   as   fished   at   a   biologically   unsustainable   level’.8   It   is   little   wonder  
that   Nobel   Prize   winner   Paul   Crutzen,   in   proposing   the   geological   time   period   of   the  
‘Anthropocene’,  singled  out  mechanised  fishing  as  one  example  of  a  significant  area  
of  planetary  scale  human  impact.  Crutzen  noted  in  2002  that  ‘fisheries  remove  more  
than   25%   of   the   primary   production   in   upwelling   ocean   regions   and   35%   in   the  
temperate   continental   shelf’.9   Human   wild   fish   capture   certainly   accounts   for   the  
largest   proportion   of   all   fish   caught   globally;   however,   industrialised   fishing   is  
shifting  from  the  use  of  mechanised  predation  towards  intensive  fish  farming  in  the  
context   of   aquaculture.   Following   an   explosion   in   the   use   of   aquaculture   since   the  
1990s  (at  a  growth  rate  of  around  9.5  per  cent  per  year),  farmed  fish  now  account  
for  a  sizeable  proportion  of  all  fish  killed  for  human  use,  standing  at  around  42  per  
cent  of  all  fish  slaughtered.10  Today  fish  farming  has  overtaken  beef  farming  globally  
as   a   source   of   animal   protein.11   Aquaculture—factory   farms   for   fish—looks   to   be  
positioned  as  an  essential  element  within  global  food  supply.  
The   welfare   picture   in   the   context   of   industrialised   fishing   is   frightening.12  
Despite  the  huge  scale  of  the  industry,  there  is  little  evidence  that  significant  welfare  
precautions  are  taken  in  fishing  practices  to  reduce  the  suffering  fish  experience  as  
part   of   their   use   by   humans.   There   are   a   number   of   publicly   documented   welfare  
concerns  surrounding  recreational  and  industrial  fishing  practices,  including  around  
line  fishing,  net  fishing  and  the  trauma  associated  with  the  capture  and  transport  of  
live  fish.13  However,  arguably,  the  mode  of  slaughter  used  to  kill  fish  in  most  fishing  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
197
industry   practices   offers   us   the   most   telling   insight   into   the   poverty   of   current   basic  
welfare   protections   available   to   fish   that   are   used   by   humans.   By   far   the   most  
prevalent  means  of  slaughter  by  the  fishing  industry  is  death  by  asphyxiation,  where  
fish   are   left   in   the   open   air   to   die   slowly   as   their   bodies   are   deprived   of   oxygen.   Fish  
usually  take  a  long  time  to  die  this  way,  and  studies  have  shown  that  the  period  until  
stunning—that  is,  the  period  during  which  fish  suffer  before  they  are  unconscious—
is   considerable.   Rainbow   trout   take   some   fifteen   minutes   before   they   are   stunned;  
sea  bream  twenty-­‐five  minutes  and  sea  bass  sixty  minutes.14  The  prevalent  practice  
of  placing  live  fish  on  an  ice  slurry  is  no  better;  indeed  is  likely  to  further  prolong  the  
time  before  fish  are  effectively  stunned.  Studies  have  shown  that  trout  take  between  
twenty-­‐eight   and   198   minutes   to   be   stunned   using   this   method;   salmon   sixty  
minutes,   and   sea   bream   twenty   to   forty   minutes.15   Many   fish   are   subject   to   live  
gutting  as  part  of  the  slaughter  process.  Some  fish  continue  to  live  during  and  after  
being  gutted;  one  study  indicates  that  stunning  times  vary  between  twenty-­‐five  and  
sixty  minutes  for  gutted  fish.16  The  use  of  carbon  dioxide  to  stun  fish  may  speed  up  
stunning   periods.   But   this   may   also   lead   to   a   ‘quick   and   violent   reaction,   such   as  
repeated  swimming  around,  attempts  to  escape  from  the  tub  and  abnormal  activity  
before  stunning’.17  In  some  cases,  sea  animals  may  take  a  relatively  long  time  to  be  
stunned   using   carbon   dioxide;   for   example   109   minutes   for   eels.18   Many   fish   are  
indirectly  killed  or  injured  by  nets,  hooks  or  other  fish  before  they  land  on  board  a  
ship   (something   I   discuss   below).   However,   many   forms   of   suffering   are   directly,  
intentionally,   imposed   on   fish   as   part   of   the   killing   process,   often   as   a   means   to  
produce   a   desired   marketable   commodity   at   the   end   of   the   process   (that   is,   fish  
meat).   One   example   is   cutting   fish   across   the   gills   and   returning   them   alive   to   the  
water.   This   uses   the   beating   heart   of   the   fish   while   it   is   still   alive   to   flush   blood   from  
its  body,  supposedly  to  produce  a  desirable  effect  on  fish  meat  in  terms  of  taste  and  
appearance.   In   the   case   of   eels,   it   is   common   practice   to   place   them   in   a   saltwater  
bath   to   ‘deslime   them’—a   process   to   which   eels   are   aversive—before   being  
eviscerated  alive.  The  whole  ordeal  takes  some  twenty  minutes.19  
These  visceral  horrors  are  part  and  parcel  of  fishing  and  fishing  industries,  but  
the   advocacy   challenge   for   pro-­‐animal   activists,   scholars   and   workers   remains  
daunting.   While   legal   protections   are   offered   to   many   land   animals   routinely   used  
for  food,  the  same  protections  are  not  available  for  fish.20  In  part,  this  situation  is  a  
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result   of   a   lack   of   agreement   that   fish   are   capable   of   suffering,   or   at   least   that   this  
suffering   matters.   There   is   some   recognition   that   land   animals   used   for   food,  
experiments  and  recreation  can  suffer  at  human  hands,  and  this  shapes  welfare  laws  
and   regulation   aimed   at   minimising   this   suffering.21   This   in   turn   shapes   the  
advocacy   arguments   made   by   animal   advocates   on   behalf   of   land   animals,   which  
usually  involve  balancing  animal  suffering  against  human  utility.22  In  the  case  of  fish,  
there  is  no  universal  acceptance  that  fish  suffer,  which  in  turn  shapes  the  advocacy  
task.   Advocates   are   forced   to   argue   first   that   fish   do   indeed   suffer   (since   this   is  
contentious),   and   then,   subsequently,   argue   for   minimal   (and   often   very   minimal)  
welfare  measures  to  be  adopted  to  mitigate  the  intense  volume  of  this  suffering.23    
This   situation—where   advocates   must   argue   that   fish   feel   pain   since   this  
knowledge   is   not   taken   for   granted—is   at   least   in   part   a   result   of   the   uncertain  
science   on   fish   suffering.   There   are   many   scientific   studies   which   have   shown   that  
some   fish   do   feel   pain   and   that   this   has   significant   welfare   implications.   In   2003,   for  
example,   Lynne   Sneddon   and   her   colleagues   performed   experiments   on   rainbow  
trout.  They  observed  aversive  behaviours  to  potentially  painful  experiences  and  also  
observed  that  administering  morphine  to  the  fish  significantly  reduced  pain-­‐related  
behaviours.24   These   studies,   and   the   problems   they   raise,   were   further   expanded  
upon   by   one   of   Sneddon’s   co-­‐researchers,   Victoria   Braithwaite,   in   her   2010   book   Do  
Fish   Feel   Pain?25   Against   this   view,   other   scientists   have   consistently   argued,  
perhaps  as  an  echo  of  the  view  that  is  attributed  to  Descrates’  that  animals  are  mere  
automata   (bête-­‐machine),   that   fish   do   not   experience   suffering,   only   reaction   to  
stimuli.26   Notably   James   D.   Rose   and   his   fellow   researchers   in   2012   contested   the  
view  that  fish  could  experience  pain  in  the  way  humans  do.  The  researchers  argued:  
even   if   fishes   were   conscious,   it   is   unwarranted   to   assume   that   they  
possess   a   human-­‐like   capacity   for   pain.   Overall,   the   behavioural   and  
neurobiological   evidence   reviewed   shows   fish   responses   to   nociceptive  
stimuli  are  limited  and  fishes  are  unlikely  to  experience  pain.27    
The   uncertainty   within   the   scientific   community   over   whether   fish   feel   pain,  
combined  with  a  public  attachment  to  the  maintenance  of  existing  fishing  practices,  
produces   a   somewhat   perverse   silence   in   relation   to   fish   welfare.   The   lack   of  
consistent  agreement  on  the  question  of  fish  suffering  leads  to  inaction.  It  limits  the  
capacity   of   policy   makers   to   take   decisive   steps   towards   mitigating   fish   suffering.   As  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
199
Celeste  Black  puts  it:  ‘the  absence  of  a  consensus  on  the  basic  issue  of  fish  suffering  
may  be  used  as  grounds  to  exclude  fish  from  the  reach  of  animal  welfare  laws’.28  For  
animal  advocates,  I  would  argue  that  there  is  now  a  tactical  quandary  over  how  we  
might   respond   to   the   massive   human   violence   directed   against   fish.   We   know  
already   that   the   global   expansion   of   human   utilisation   of   land   animals   for   food  
represents   an   extraordinary   ethical   and   political   challenge.   The   reality   of   growing  
human   use   of   animals,   the   expansion   of   industrialised   reproduction,   containment  
and   slaughter,   combined   with   limited   will   from   decision   makers—indeed   most  
humans—to   mitigate   their   use   of   animals,   means   prospects   of   change   in   favour   of  
land   animals   remains   slim.   As   Sue   Donaldson   and   Will   Kymlicka   have   frankly   noted:  
‘for  the  foreseeable  future,  we  can  expect  more  and  more  animals  every  year  to  be  
bred,   confined,   tortured,   exploited,   and   killed   to   satisfy   human   desires’.29   For   sea  
animals  the  situation  looks  even  more  grim:  the  growing  world  per  capita  appetite  
for   fish,   the   exponential   expansion   of   industrial   aquaculture,   and   limited   public  
agreement   on   the   question   of   fish   suffering,   all   suggest   that   fish   welfare   will  
continue  to  be  a  low  priority  in  the  face  of  a  massive  restructuring  of  global  human  
consumption  towards  fish-­‐based  protein.  
It   is   with   this   in   mind   that   in   this   article   I   now   abandon   the   question   of   fish  
suffering—at  least  directly—and  focus  instead  on  understanding  the  potential  of  the  
question  ‘do  fish  resist?’  My  interest  in  resistance  is  that  it  offers  a  different  model  
for   considering   political   agency.   If   we   award   moral   recognition   to   animals   on   the  
basis  of  their  sentience,  then  we  argue  that  moral  worth  depends  upon  some  innate  
capacity   related   to   sentience   (for   example   the   ability   to   feel   pain,   or   to   experience  
emotions).   Classic   pro-­‐animal   approaches   have   tried   to   demonstrate   innate  
capability   in   order   to   ‘ground’   a   claim   for   moral   recognition.   For   example   Peter  
Singer’s   foundational   text,   Animal   Liberation,   uses   a   utilitarian   approach   to   suffering  
as   a   basis   to   weigh   the   moral   claims   of   animals;   Tom   Regan’s   The   Case   for   Animal  
Rights   instead   argues   that   animals,   in   so   far   as   they   are   ‘subjects   of   a   life’,   have   an  
intrinsic   moral   worth;   and   Martha   Nussbaum   applies   the   capabilities   approach   to  
animals   to   argue   that   animals   have   their   own   needs   for   flourishing   that   we   must  
recognise.30  Against  these  approaches,  my  interest  in  resistance  is  that  it  describes  a  
form  of  political  agency  that  need  not  be  grounded  in  an  innate  capability  or  worth.  
If   we   think   about   resistance—for   example,   human   political   mobilisation   against   a  
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totalitarian   dictator—we   are   not   initially   concerned   with   recognising   the   moral  
worth   of   those   who   resist;   we   are   instead   interested   in   how   those   who   resist   are  
involved  in  relationships  of  power.  This  understanding  of  resistance  draws  explicitly  
from  the  tradition  established  by  Foucault  in  understanding  resistance  as  always  in  
relation  to  power  (although,  as  I  discuss  in  this  article,  there  is  scope  to  build  further  
on   this   understanding);   power   describes   the   existence   of   contestation.31   For  
Foucault  power  involves:    
mobile  and  transitory  points  of  resistance,  producing  cleavages  in  a  society  
that   shift   about,   fracturing   unities   and   effecting   regroupings,   furrowing  
across   individuals   themselves,   cutting   them   up   and   remoulding   them,  
marking  off  irreducible  regions  in  them,  in  their  bodies  and  minds.32  
Foucault’s   view   of   power   as   a   frictional   tussle   of   forces   allows   resistive   elements  
within  relations  of  power  to  be  understood  as  engaging  ‘agentially’  within  relations  
of  power  without  having  to  demonstrate  that  those  who  resist  possess  capabilities  
worthy  of  moral  recognition  (language,  reason,  capability  for  suffering  and  so  on).33  
Keeping  the  dynamics  of  power  in  the  frame,  in  some  respects  it  is  simply  enough  to  
understand   that   if   there   is   power,   there   must   be   resistance.   Focusing   on   relations   of  
power   and   their   resistance   also   allows   us   to   ask   whether   these   relationships   of  
power   are   ‘just’   relations,   particularly   where   these   relations   are   violent.   Thus,   when  
we  think  about  political  resistance  to  authority,  we  frequently  ask  if  the  resistance  is  
justified,   and   how   those   who   protest   are   responding   with   respect   to   power.  
Thinking  about  resistance  opens  question  of  social  justice,  perhaps  without  needing  
to  think  about  whether  those  who  resist  have  an  innate  individual  capacity  that  we  
must  ethically  recognise  (such  as  the  capacity  to  suffer).  
My   aim   in   this   article   is   to   explore   whether   conceptualising   fish   resistance  
offers   some   opportunities   to   reframe   human   violence   towards   sea   animals,   and  
whether   it   offers   different   tools   for   advocacy.   I   use   the   term   ‘fish’   extraordinarily  
loosely  here  to  describe  ‘sea  animals’.  Others  have  elsewhere  discussed  the  technical  
difficulties   in   deciding   between   categories   of   sea   animals—aquatic   mammals,  
vertebrates   and   aquatic   invertebrate—and   whether   these   different   animals   are  
owed   differential   welfare   consideration.34   In   keeping   with   my   broad   conceptual  
questions,   I   will   suspend   discussion   of   taxonomic   classification   of   sea   animals,   and  
whether   these   variations   suggest   differences   in   how   we   might   understand  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
201
resistance.   But   my   primary   focus   is   on   fish   that   are   the   object   of   industrialised  
fishing.   I   do   not   draw   from   observational   studies   of   fish   to   ‘prove’   that   fish   resist  
through   observed   normatively   defined   behaviours.   As   I   discuss   in   the   following  
section,   part   of   my   challenge   is   to   tackle   fish   resistance   as   an   ‘epistemological  
problem’;  that  is,  a  problem  of  how  we  frame  human  knowledge  of  fish,  and  how  this  
shapes   what   we   can   know   and   think   is   possible.   In   the   second   part   of   the   article,   I  
examine  existing  discussions  of  resistance  within  animal  studies.  I  look  particularly  
at  the  ‘autonomous’  model  of  resistance  as  one  that  is  promising  for  understanding  
fish.  Finally,  I  apply  this  autonomous  model  of  resistance  to  examining  three  fishing  
technologies:  the  hook,  purse  seine,  and  aquaculture.  I  argue  that  these  technologies,  
their  existence,  have  been  formed  against  the  creative  resistance  of  fish,  highlighting  
that   fish   do   resist   and   opening   a   different   way   to   conceptualise   the   resistance   of  
animals.  
—EPISTEMOLOGIES OF FISH RESISTANCE: ‘THE FISH ACTUALLY WANTED TO DIE’
In   order   to   understand   fish   resistance,   it   seems   worth   attending   to   the   question   of  
‘epistemology’  and  then,  the  concept  of  ‘epistemic  violence’.35  In  some  respects  the  
question   ‘do   fish   resist?’   can   only   be   answered   by   deliberating   on   the   question   of  
epistemologies;  of  what  we  ‘know’  and  how  what  we  ‘know’  frames  what  is  possible.  
I   will   treat   ‘epistemology’   here   as   suggesting   a   system   of   knowledge   or   truth:   it   is  
within   the   confines   of   a   system   of   truth   that   we   may   verify   whether   statements   may  
be   true   or   false,   and   a   system   of   truth   renders   the   way   in   which   we   see   and  
understand  the  world.  One  example  of  an  epistemology  is  the  system  of  knowledge  
that   has   been   built   around   the   scientific   method,   which   has   relied   upon   making  
systematic  and  repeated  observations  of  the  world  and  phenomena,  and  based  upon  
these   observations   has   theorised   what   might   be   true.   A   related   consideration   for  
epistemology   is   the   way   we   frame   a   particular   issue,   how   this   frame   simultaneously  
situates  actors,  and  how  this  frame  enables  what  is  possible  and  impossible  within  
any  given  context.    
This   understanding   of   epistemology,   which   gives   preference   to   understanding  
the  contours,  dynamics  and  effects  of  what  we  know  as  true,  rather  than  seeking  to  
verify   what   is   in   itself   ‘true’,   is   shaped   by   an   explicitly   Foucauldian   outlook,   which  
comprehends   epistemology   as   constituted   by   contesting   social   and   political  
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processes.36   Foucault’s   method   provides   a   way   to   understand   and   reframe   the  
‘scientific’   method   of   progressively   completing   the   documentation   of   what   is   true  
through   empirical   observation   (for   example,   through   experimentation   to  
conclusively   determine   if   fish   feel   pain),   by   allowing   us   to   instead   understand  
knowledge  as  determining  what  is  possible,  including  what  is  possible  to  think:  
I   am   not   concerned   …   to   describe   the   progress   of   knowledge   towards   an  
objectivity   in   which   today’s   science   can   finally   be   recognized;   what   I   am  
trying   to   bring   to   light   is   the   epistemological   field,   the   episteme   in   which  
knowledge,   envisaged   apart   from   all   criteria   having   reference   to   its  
rational  value  or  to  its  objective  forms,  grounds  its  positivity  and  thereby  
manifests  a  history  which  is  not  that  of  its  growing  perfection,  but  rather  
that  of  its  conditions  of  possibility.37  
Here   the   focus   of   Foucault’s   approach   is   not   to   evaluate   knowledge,   or   the   history   of  
knowledge,   by   understanding   its   potential   ‘proximity’   to   an   objective   truth.   On   the  
contrary,   of   more   interest   to   Foucault   is   understanding   how   a   regime   of   truth  
conditions  possibility,  and  in  turn  how  this  inflects  relations  of  power.    
This  approach  is  incredibly  useful  for  unpacking  human  relations  of  power  with  
fish.  As  I  have  discussed  above,  one  of  the  tensions  when  considering  whether  fish  
that   are   utilised   by   humans   are   owed   welfare   is   the   current   scientific   debate   over  
whether  fish  suffer.  It  is  important  to  consider  the  epistemological  framing  here.  The  
fact  that  fish  suffering  is  in  question,  the  fact  that  we  need  scientists  to  answer  this  
question   before   we—humans—decide   to   take   action,   demonstrates   a   problem   of  
framing,   where   it   is   impossible   to   imagine   offering   welfare   to   fish—or   indeed   stop  
fishing—until  verification  arrives  that  fish  do  indeed  suffer.    
Perhaps   of   more   concern   is   that   this   framing   creates   apparently   rational  
positions,   which   are   in   some   respects   easily   rendered   as   irrational,   and   certainly  
unjustifiable,   at   least   when   examined   using   a   different   perspective   on   ‘truth’.   At  
present  humans  kill  trillions  of  fish;  many  of  these  fish  are  hunted  and  slaughtered  
(or   bred,   intensively   contained   and   slaughtered)   with   minimal   (or   no)   welfare  
precautions  taken.  Humans  apparently  feel  able  to  continue  their  practices  because  
no   science   has   consistently   verified   whether   fish   suffer.   There   is   insufficient  
evidence   to   support   change,   and   change   is   costly.38   On   the   other   hand,   we   could  
equally   argue   that   we   should   not   use   fish   until   we   are   clear   on   the   science   of   fish  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
203
suffering.  Given  the  gravity  of  the  volume  of  potential  suffering  that  we  may  impose  
on  trillions  of  fish  through  our  use  of  them,  the  ‘rational  position’  could  easily  be  that  
we  should  not  harm  fish,  or  alternatively  offer  maximal  welfare  to  fish,  until  such  a  
time   comes   when   we   have   confirmed   evidence,   one   way   or   other,   on   the   question   of  
whether   fish   suffer.   Certainly   some   of   the   minimal   welfare   precautions   that   have  
been   adopted   with   respect   to   fish   have   occurred   through   this   kind   of   cautious  
‘benefit   of   the   doubt’   approach,   but   these   same   precautious   have   been   strongly  
criticised,  precisely  because,  as  I  have  said,  fish  suffering  has  been  framed  in  a  way  
that  assumes  we  can  continue  using  fish  the  way  we  do  until  somebody  proves  that  
we  should  not.39  
I   do   not   raise   all   of   this   to   call   into   question   the   scientific   method   and   its  
capacity  to  answer  the  pressing  question:  ‘Do  fish  feel  pain?’  I  raise  it  rather  to  stress  
that   the   epistemology   of   fish   suffering   is   shaped   by   a   vast   human   investment—
monetary,   infrastructural,   dietary,   institutional—in   precisely   making   fish   suffer,   and  
this   has   in   turn   shaped   the   high   stakes   of   how   we   see   fish   and   the   meaning   of   the  
question   ‘do   fish   feel   pain?’   The   fact   that   we   utilise   fish   on   a   monstrous   scale,   and   in  
such   a   way   that   they   are   likely   to   suffer   if   they   have   a   capacity   to   suffer,   and   that   we  
do  so  without  reliable  science  to  confirm  that  fish  do  not  suffer  at  our  hands,  tells  us  
something  about  the  relationship  of  our  system  of  truth  to  power,  and  the  way  this  
frames   problems   and   determines   subject   positions.   Instead   of   asking   ‘do   fish   feel  
pain?,’  a  different  order  of  question  might  be:  ‘How  can  we  use  fish  the  way  we  do,  
on  the  scale  we  do,  when  we  are  still  not  certain  that  they  do  not  suffer?’40  Fish  and  
fishing  remind  us  that  violence  itself  is  shaped  by  our  systems  of  knowledge,  and  as  
such  many  of  these  questions  are  essentially  epistemic  in  nature.   Violence,  as  it  is  
rendered  within  the  public  space  and  by  the  politics  of  suffering,  can  only  be  
made   visible   within   the   context   of   available   knowledge   systems.41   It   is   only  
possible   to   see   violence   towards   animals   when   we   conceptualise   this   as  
possible.42   The   relative   silence   around   the   fishing   practices,   the   large   global  
and   industrial   scale   of   this   endeavour   and   the   reliance   on   the   scientific  
project   to   verify   fish   suffering,   all   perhaps   indicate   that   we   fundamentally  
lack   the   knowledge   systems   to   imagine   fish   as   subjects   of   violence,   or  
understand  fishing  as  a  system  of  concentrated  violence  against  sea  animals.    
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In  a  well  known  essay  called  ‘Can  the  Subaltern  Speak?,’  Gayatri  Chakravorty  
Spivak   describes   what   she   calls   ‘epistemic   violence’   as   a   way   to   understand   the  
capacity   of   systems   of   truth   to   silence   particular   subjects,   and   render   visible   and  
invisible   particular   forms   of   truth   and   possibility.43   Spivak   offers   the   case   study   of  
ritual  widow  burning  in  India,  sati,  the  practice  that  was  subject  to  legal  regulation  
by   the   British   as   part   of   their   colonising   mission   in   India,   and   then   subject   to  
response   from   Indian   traditionalists   claiming   the   practice   as   a   ‘custom’.44   Spivak  
draws  attention  to  the  way  in  which  a  system  of  truth  shaped  the  narratives  of  these  
two  voices  of  the  coloniser  and  the  colonised,  in  such  a  way  as  to  silence  the  voices  
of  Indian  women:    
The   Hindu   widow   ascends   the   pyre   of   the   dead   husband   and   immolates  
herself  upon  it.  This  is  widow  sacrifice.  (The  conventional  transcription  of  
the  Sanskrit  word  for  the  widow  would  be  sati.  The  early  colonial  British  
transcribed   it   suttee.)   The   rite   was   not   practiced   universally   and   was   not  
caste-­‐   or   class-­‐fixed.   The   abolition   of   this   rite   by   the   British   has   been  
generally  understood  as  a  case  of  ‘White  men  saving  brown  women  from  
brown   men’.   White   women—from   the   nineteenth-­‐century   British  
Missionary   Registers   to   Mary   Daly—have   not   produced   an   alternative  
understanding.   Against   this   is   the   Indian   nativist   argument,   a   parody   of  
nostalgia  for  lost  origins:  ‘The  women  actually  wanted  to  die.’45  
The   quotation   from   Spivak   is,   I   believe,   of   very   strong   relevance   to   animal   studies  
generally,   the   challenge   of   understanding   anthropocentricism,   and   the   problem   of  
how   violence   renders   its   subject.   It   partly   serves   as   a   reminder   that   the   ethical  
problem   of   animal   suffering   as   we   currently   frame   it   has   its   limits   and   creates   a  
logical   structure   that   is   difficult   to   escape.   The   politics   of   suffering—the   insistence  
on  determining  if  fish  feel  pain  and  shaping  social  and  political  responses  only  to  the  
answer   to   this   question—generates   its   own   politics   and   its   own   subjectivities   which  
become   irrefutable.   If   pro-­‐animal   advocates   explain   that   we   want   to   save   animals  
from  suffering,  or  reduce  the  suffering  of  animals  through  welfare  practices—if  this  
is   the   only   frame   we   have   at   our   disposal—then   we   run   the   risk   of   being   trapped  
within   this   truth,   and   more   importantly,   the   animals   we   are   trying   to   ‘save’   being  
trapped  by  this  truth.  This  does  not  mean  that  we  should  not  respond  to  violence,  or  
that   existing   responses   have   no   value;   on   the   contrary,   work   by   scholars   and  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
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activists  to  highlight  this  suffering  has  been  immensely  successful  in  shaping  public  
perceptions.  However,  even  valuable  responses  participate  in  systems  of  truth  that  
generate   their   own   violence.   Speaking   of   the   value   of   the   discourse   of   rights   for  
women,   Wendy   Brown   acknowledges   the   bittersweet   attachment   we   can   have   to  
some   emancipatory   discourses,   which   both   create   relief   from   suffering   yet,  
simultaneously,  create  the  terms  for  continuing  domination:    
if   violence   is   upon   you,   almost   any   means   of   reducing   it   is   of   value.   The  
problem   surfaces   in   the   question   of   when   and   whether   rights   for   women  
are  formulated  in  such  a  way  as  to  enable  the  escape  of  the  subordinated  
from   the   site   of   that   violation,   and   when   and   whether   they   build   a   fence  
around   us   at   that   site,   regulating   rather   than   challenging   the   conditions  
within.46  
Arguably   animal   advocates   face   this   same   dilemma   with   respect   to   improved  
welfare   protections   for   animals   aimed   at   reducing   suffering.   On   one   hand,   at   least  
with  respect  to  land  animals  used  for  food,  there  have  been  tangible  improvements  
in   the   conditions   of   containment   and   slaughter.   However,   a   number   of   critics   have  
pointed  out  that  a  reduction  in  suffering  has  not  been  accompanied  by  a  reduction  in  
use;  on  the  contrary  there  has  been  an  exponential  global  increase  in  the  scale  and  
intensity  of  animal  utilisation  for  food.47  As  Deirdre  Bourke  suggests,  ‘animal  welfare  
legislation  is  often  used  not  just  to  protect  animals  but  also  to  regulate,  and  indeed  
facilitate,   the   ongoing   use   of   animals’.48   Recent   ‘thought   experiments’   on   the  
possibility  of  bioengineering  livestock  to  not  feel  pain,  only  seem  to  further  highlight  
the   problem   related   to   political   and   ethical   claims   that   are   solely   based   on   the  
reduction   of   animal   suffering   as   a   goal.49   Just   as   Spivak   might   suggest   there   is   an  
epistemic   violence   in   imagining   that   the   solution—the   only   solution—that   Indian  
women  wanted  to  the  ritual  practice  of  sati  was  to  be  saved  by  British  colonisers,  we  
might  similarly  ask  if  the  only  solution  available  to  the  problem  of  large-­‐scale  human  
utilisation  of  animals  is  to  reduce  or  avoid  suffering  (to  ‘save’  animals  who  suffer).    
But   it   is   the   final   sentence   of   that   short   quote   from   Spivak   above   that   most  
intrigues  me,  and  is  relevant  to  both  the  epistemological  problem  of  how  we  imagine  
what   animals   might   want,   and   the   significant   challenge   in   imagining   that   animals  
may   not   want   to   be   used   for   human   benefit.   Spivak   describes   the   conservative  
Indian  response  defending  ritual  widow  sacrifice  with  the  short,  ironic  phrase:  ‘“The  
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women   actually   wanted   to   die”.’   In   observing   that   an   ‘Indian   nativist’   defence   of  sati  
effectively   participated   in   reproducing   the   absurd   logic   that   women   wanted   to   die,  
Spivak  mocks  a  patriarchal  institutional  practice  that  silences  women  in  such  a  way  
that  the  only  explanation  for  why  women  would  consent  to  take  part  in  the  custom  
is  the  preference  of  death  over  life.  The  phrase  ‘the  women  actually  wanted  to  die’  is  
perfectly   useable   as   a   tool   to   understand   the   material   and   epistemic   violence  
humans   exert   against   animals,   precisely   because   our   epistemic   framing   of   animals,  
and   the   monstrous   systems   of   violence   towards   animals   that   exist   all   around   us,  
appear  to  rely  on  a  logic  that  ‘the  animals  actually  want  to  die’  for  our  benefit  and  
pleasures.   Defenders   of   animal   use   explicitly   endorse   this   messaging   when   they  
argue,   for   example,   that   animals   used   by   humans   enjoy   a   better   life   than   they   would  
if  they  were  not  used  by  humans.50  We  find  this  logic  powerfully  present  in  at  least  
some  fishing  practices,  where  fish  are,  as  the  official  nomenclature  used  by  the  UN  
Food   and   Agriculture   Organisation   states,   simply   ‘harvested’   for   human   use   from  
oceans,  seas  and  rivers.51  In  these  cases  we  are  presented  with  the  idea  of  fish  giving  
themselves  passively  to  us  to  be  used,  with  no  particular  preference  as  the  whether  
they   continue   living   or   meet   the   end   of   life   at   our   hands:   ‘the   fish   actually   wanted   to  
die.’   Epistemic   violence   renders   fish   as   uninterested   in   their   own   lives.   However,   we  
can   see   that   the   statement—‘the   fish   actually   wanted   to   die’—is   absurd,   precisely  
because  it  implies  that  fish  lack  any  resistance  to  being  used  for  our  benefit  and,  like  
the  fishing  fantasy  of  fish  throwing  themselves  onto  the  decks  of  boats,  would  prefer  
to   die   at   our   hands   (or   at   least,   have   no   preference   whether   they   die   or   not   at   our  
hands).  As  I  shall  discuss  later,  it  is  precisely  because  of  the  possibility  of  offering  a  
different   framing,   indeed   the   need   to   continually   explore   new   framings,   that   it   is  
important  to  conceptualise  the  possibility  that  animals,  including  sea  animals,  resist  
human  utilisation  and  that  they  prefer  not  to  be  used,  indeed  they  prefer  not  to  die.52    
—CONCEPTUALISING ANIMAL RESISTANCE
There   has   been   some   interesting   scholarly   work   within   animal   studies   on   the  
question  of  animal  resistance.  Perhaps  most  prominent  is  the  work  of  Jason  Hribal,  
which  documents,  through  historical  case  studies,  examples  of  animals  breaking  free  
from   human   control—breaking   down   fences,   escaping   abattoirs,   tussling   with  
human   controllers,   maiming   those   who   stand   in   their   way.53   Hribal’s   method   is   to  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
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use   historical   information   to   construct   narratives   of   animal   resistance.   For   example,  
and  relevant  to  my  focus  here  on  sea  animals,  Hribal  narrates  the  successive  acts  of  
resistance   by   one   of   the   orcas   at   Sea   World,   Tilikum   (resistance   that   has   since  
featured   in   the   documentary   BlackFish).54   In   these   cases,   animal   resistance   is  
conceptualised   as   comprising   intentional   acts   of   insubordination   against   human  
domination.   In   some   respects   we   have   the   resources   to   understand   this   sort   of  
resistance  by  ‘big  fish’  because  it  is  part  of  the  Western  cultural  imaginary.  Herman  
Melville’s   Moby   Dick,   for   example,   was   a   similar   story   of   a   tussle   between   Captain  
Ahab   and   a   white   whale,   a   story   effectively   of   domination   and   resistance.55   Similarly  
Ernest  Hemingway’s  The  Old  Man  and  the  Sea  enacts  a  narrative  of  human  violence  
and  animal  resistance  that  resonates  with  a  view  of  animal  resistance  as   reflecting  
an  intentional  tussle  against  human  domination.56  In  both  cases,  it  is  clear  that  the  
animal   would   prefer   not   to   die.   I   note   that   to   an   extent   recreational   fishing  
practices—that   is,   fishing   for   ‘sport’   where   the   intention   is   to   catch  fish   for   pleasure  
rather   than   food—rely   on   a   conceptualisation   of   animal   resistance   to   fuel   human  
pleasure.   It   is   precisely   because   fish   resist   in   these   cases   that   recreational   fishing  
becomes   a   ‘sport’;   since   the   supposed   pleasure   and   art   of   these   fishing   practices  
relies   upon   the   capture   of   an   animal   who   eludes   the   recreational   fisher,   and   will  
struggle   against   the   line   when   hooked   (more   on   the   hook   itself   below).57   The  
practice   in   recreational   fishing   of   ‘playing’   the   fish   once   they   are   hooked—
prolonging   the   period   of   time   that   the   fish   is   on   the   hook   so   that   they   swim  
themselves   to   exhaustion   trying   get   away—illustrates   the   extent   to   which   fish  
resistance,   or   at   least   one   understanding   of   fish   resistance,   as   comprising   acts   of  
insubordination   against   human   domination,   is   conceptually   an   important  
component  of  fishing.58    
Against  the  above  conceptualisation  of  fish  resistance,  some  may  argue  that  fish  
cannot  reasonably  be  said  to  ‘resist’  human  domination  in  an  intentional  or  ‘agential’  
way.   Indeed,   at   least   two   arguments   could   be   made   here   against   the   above  
conceptualisation   of   resistance.   One   view   might   be   that   there   is   no   ‘scientific  
evidence’   to   suggest   that   fish,   as   intentional   agents,   work   against   human  
domination;  that  is,  fish  lack  the  reasoning  (or  other  agential)  capacity  to  choose  to  
resist   or   subordinate   human   domination,   and   any   visible   evidence   of   what   might  
look  like  resistance  (for  example,  fish  struggling  at  the  end  of  a  fishing  line)  reflects  
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‘instinctive’  rather  than  ‘rational’  behaviour  (this  is,  as  I  discussed  above,  a  version  
of   Descartes’   animals-­‐as-­‐automatons   view).   It   is   certainly   beyond   the   scope   of   this  
article   to   advance   an   empirically   grounded   argument   for   fish   agency   in   relation   to  
resistance  based  upon  observational  or  similar  studies,  and,  as  discussed  above,  the  
epistemological   problem   of   framing   and   conceptualising   fish   resistance   might  
prevent   the   possibility   of   actually   ‘proving’   (through   observational   studies   or  
otherwise)   that   fish   ‘resist’   in   this   way.   If   mainstay   scientific   empirical   approaches  
cannot   confirm   the   possibility   of   fish   agency   and   cognition,   then   it   becomes  
impossible   to   mount   an   empirically   sound   case   that   fish   act   in   intentional   ways   to  
resist  human  domination,  and  we  are  condemned  therefore,  just  as  we  are  with  the  
question  of  fish  suffering,  to  wait  for  science  to  prove  one  way  or  another  that  fish,  
or  at  least  most  fish,  might  be  able  to  resist.  One  solution  for  this  is  to  rethink  how  
we  frame  agency  and  its  alignment  with  intentionality,  as  in  Agnieszka  Kowalczyk’s  
suggestion   that   ‘acts   of   resisting   exploitation   performed   by   non   human   bodies   do  
not  necessarily  have  to  be  thoughtful  …  to  be  recognized  as  significant’.59  But  as  I  will  
discuss   below,   we   do   not   need   to   prove   that   fish   exercise   what   we   normatively  
might   construct   as   ‘agency’   to   understand   that   they   resist   human   domination;   this  
depends  on  the  conceptual  model  of  resistance  we  use.  
There   is   a   second,   and   I   would   suggest   more   sophisticated,   version   of   the  
argument  that  animals,  and  hence  fish,  cannot  be  said  to  resist  human  domination.  
This  argument  suggests  we  have  such  intense  systems  of  violence  and  containment  
applying  to  animals,  that  it  is  literally  not  possible  for  animals  to  resist  in  the  sense  
of  engaging  in  meaningful  power  relations.  This  view  argues  that  since  these  forms  
of   domination   seem   overwhelmingly   one-­‐sided   and   oriented   to   remove   any  
possibility   of   escape,   then   there   is   no   possibility   of   interaction   or   response.   This   is  
the  view  put  forward  by  Clare  Palmer  in  an  early  example  of  a  discussion  of  animal  
resistance.60   Within   the   context   of   this   discussion,   Palmer   follows   a   Foucauldian  
approach  to  argue  that  resistance  is  not  possible  for  animals  caught  within  intensive  
systems   of   domination.   ‘There   is   no   relationship   …   All   spontaneity   and   almost   all  
communication   is   removed   from   our   brutal   encounter.   Thus   it   cannot   be   a   power  
relationship.’61   Resistance,   in   this   view,   is   only   possible   where   entities   subject   to  
violence   have   some   means   of   response   or   reaction   to   engage   with   relations   of  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
209
power.  Where  there  is  no  perceived  freedom  to  move  by  the  victim  of  violence,  there  
is  no  possibility  of  power.    
Against   the   view   put   forward   by   Palmer,   I   would   suggest   that   it   is   possible   to  
imagine  resistance  if  we  focus  on  the  instrumentation  of  violence  used  to  dominate  
animals,  and  the  way  in  which  these  apparatuses  effectively  work  against  the  active  
resistance  of  animals,  even  if,  from  the  outside,  these  relations  appear  to  involve  no  
contest  or  be  unilaterally  one-­‐sided  in  character.  In  an  important  essay,  Tim  Ingold  
reminds  us  that  violence  always  aims  to  put  down  and  contest  resistance.62  Indeed,  
the   technologies   of   violence   would   not   be   used   if   the   objects   of   violence   were   not  
autonomous  or  had  not  evaded  capture  and  utilisation  in  the  first  place:    
Consider   the   slave-­‐driver,   whip   in   hand,   compelling   his   slave   to   toil  
through   the   brute   infliction   of   severe   pain.   Clearly   the   autonomy   of   the  
slave  in  this  situation  to  act  according  to  his  own  volition  is  very  seriously  
curtailed.   Does   this   mean   that   the   slave   responds   in   a   purely   mechanical  
way   to   the   stroke   of   the   whip?   Far   from   it.   For   when   we   speak   of   the  
application   of   force   in   this   kind   of   situation,   we   impute   to   the   recipient  
powers   of   resistance—powers   which   the   infliction   of   pain   is   specifically  
intended  to  break  down.  That  is  to  say,  the  use  of  force  is  predicated  on  the  
assumption  that  the  slave  is  a  being  with  the  capacity  to  act  and  suffer,  and  
in  that  sense  a  person.  And  when  we  say  that  the  master  causes  the  slave  to  
work,  the  causation  is  personal,  not  mechanical:  it  lies  in  the  social  relation  
between  master  and  slave,  which  is  clearly  one  of  domination.  In  fact,  the  
original   connotation   of   ‘force’   was   precisely   that   of   action   intentionally  
directed  against  the  resistance  of  another  sentient  being.63  
This   understanding   of   resistance   treats   instruments   of   violence,   and   their  
technological   development,   as   intimately   related   to   the   forms   of   resistance   that   they  
encounter   in   their   target.   Here,   the   resisting   body   generates   the   need   for   the  
instrument   of   violence,   and   technological   refinement   in   the   instrumentation   of  
violence   corresponds   with   the   continuing   creativity   and   innovation   of   those   who  
resist.    
This   view   of   resistance   as   generated   by,   and   working   intimately   against,  
systems  of  production  correlates  with  what  I  would  describe  as  an  ‘autonomous’  or  
operaist  model  of  resistance.  In  understanding  this  model  of  resistance,  I  have  been  
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influenced   by   both   the   Italian   Marxist   operaist   tendency,   and   by   the   more   recent  
work  of  Fahim  Amir,  who  explores  operaism  as  way  to  explain  animal  subordination  
in  systems  of  production.64  In  this  view,  systems  of  production  and  exchange,  such  
as   capitalism,  suck   the   productive   capacities   and   creativity   of   the   bodies   that   labour  
within   these   systems.   This   is   essentially   a   parasitic   relation,   where   resistance   is  
captured   and   redeployed   through   systems   of   subordination.65   Here,   even   extreme  
forms  of  domination  that  appear  to  lack  any  movement  or  resistance  are  in  fact  the  
product   of   active   forms   of   creative   resistance   by   those   who   are   subordinated;   a  
resistance   that   is   subsequently   coopted   in   the   process   of   domination.   Thus,   the  
means  used  to  restrain  and  intensively  dominate  animals  are  themselves  a  product  
of   the   active   forms   of   resistance   employed   by   animals   towards   human  
instrumentalisation.   This   autonomous   or   operaist   model   of   resistance   dynamically  
re-­‐understands  the  way  production  occurs  so  that  systems  of  domination  must  keep  
pace   with   new   forms   of   resistance   to   extract   productivity   (this   is   part   of   the   process  
of   ‘subsumption’   inherent   to   production).66   For   example,   as   Michael   Hardt   and  
Antonio   Negri   have   argued,   the   novel   flexibilities   in   workplaces   that   characterise  
post-­‐Fordist   production   (flexible   work   hours,   work   from   home   arrangements,  
teleworking   and   so   on)   are   the   result   of   capitalism   adapting   to   the   resistance   of  
workers   to   Fordist   modes   of   disciplined   production.   It   is   because   workers   actively  
dropped   out   of   labour   through   absenteeism,   through   cultural   experimentation,  
through   everyday   sabotage,   that   capitalism   needed   to   adapt   and   re-­‐mould   work  
itself   to   maintain   productivity.67   Here   resistance   is   always   present,   but   it   only  
becomes  apparent  where  there  is  organised  confrontation;  without  this  there  is  an  
apparently   seamless   view   of   production,   where   those   who   are   subject   to   intense  
forms   of   domination   and   discipline   appear   to   be   working   cohesively   with   the  
production  apparatus.  As  Mario  Tronti  observes:  
Workers’   struggles   determine   the   course   of   capitalist   development;   but  
capitalist   development   will   use   those   struggles   for   its   own   ends   if   no  
organized   revolutionary   process   opens   up,   capable   of   changing   that  
balance   of   forces.   It   is   easy   to   see   this   in   the   case   of   social   struggles   in  
which   the   entire   systemic   apparatus   of   domination   repositions   itself,  
reforms,  democratizes  and  stabilizes  itself  anew.68  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
211
We   might   apply   this   autonomist   view   of   resistance   to   understanding   the  
relationship   between   emerging   technological   and   production   processes   and  
confrontation   in   the   context   of   animal   containment,   breeding   and   slaughter.   One  
example  of  this  is  the  curved  corrals  used  in  slaughterhouses.69  The  introduction  of  
curves   into   the   chutes   or   races   that   led   cattle   towards   death   minimised   the  
possibility  of  an  animal  responding  to  the  chute  by  balking  and  backing  up.70  In  so  
far   as   the   curves   work   to   smooth   the   process   of   slaughter   and   work   with   (rather  
than   against)   animal   movement,   these   curved   corrals   directly   respond   to,   and  
‘lubricate’   animal   resistance.71   I   should   be   clear   here   that   this   cooption   of   resistance  
need  not  lead  to  outcomes  that  increase  the  suffering  of  animals;  quite  the  reverse.  
Working  to  counter  resistance  in  this  sense  can  work  to  promote  enhanced  welfare  
outcomes;   the   curved   corals   arguably   reduce   the   suffering   of   animals   before   death  
(suffering   at   least   with   respect   to   stress,   and   the   cognition   and   anticipation   of   the  
death  to  come).  However,  the  curves  also  function  to  manage  resistance  and  enable  
the   smooth   process   of   slaughter,   maximising   the   efficacy   of   human   utilisation.  
Bodies   shape   productive   processes,   while   production   shapes   bodies;   in   this   sense  
the   ‘agency’   of   animals   (as   at   least   as   resistive   agents)   is   generated   as   a   political  
subjectivity.   Hardt   and   Negri   state:   ‘The   great   industrial   and   financial   powers   thus  
produce   not   only   commodities   but   also   subjectivities.   They   produce   agentic  
subjectivities   within   the   biopolitical   context:   they   produce   needs,   social   relations,  
bodies,  and  minds-­‐which  is  to  say,  they  produce  producers.’72    
In   some   respects,   thinking   about   resistance   in   this   way   is   a   different   sort   of  
‘relational   approach’   to   thinking   about   how   we   engage   with   animals.   ‘Relational  
approaches’  are  currently  enjoying  much  interest  within  the  field  of  human  animal  
studies,  through  a  range  of  perspectives  such  as  those  offered  by  Clare  Palmer,  John  
Law  (discussed  below),  Donna  Haraway  and  Elspeth  Probyn.73  At  least  some  of  these  
approaches   quite   explicitly   question   ‘dualistic’   accounts   of   human   animal  
relations—such  as  animal  rights  accounts  which  emphasise  one-­‐sided  domination  of  
animals   by   humans—by   focusing   upon   forms   of   shared   relationality   and   working,  
where   animals   and   humans   ‘co-­‐shape’   each   other   and   might   derive   mutual   benefit  
from   their   relationships.74   The   view   I   advance   here   differs   from   these   approaches   in  
so  far  as  I  argue  that  conflict  is  the  starting  point  for  thinking  about  relationality:  we  
are  in  relation  with  animals,  but  this  is  a  relation  essentially  of  hostility.  As  I  argue  in  
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the   conclusion   below,   this   conflict   need   not   be   thought   of   as   a   dead   end,   but   can  
comprise   a   potential   beginning   for   different   (and   hopefully   less   violent)  
relationalities.  
—THREE TECHNOLOGIES: HOOK, PURSE SEINE, AQUACULTURE
Building   on   this   conceptualisation   of   resistance,   I   would   like   to   offer   three   examples  
of  how  we  might  conceptualise  fish  resistance,  through  a  focus  on  three  technologies  
used  to  capture,  utilise  and  slaughter  fish:  the  hook,  the  purse  seine  and  aquaculture.  
This  identification  of  technologies  conforms  to  the  autonomous  or  operaist  view  of  
resistance   I   have   described   above.   All   these   examples   are   framed   by   the  
understanding   that   these   technologies   aim   precisely   to   counter   and   put   down  
resistance;  as  such,  the  technology  itself  tells  us  something  about  the  active  politics  
of   restraint   and   resistance   involved   in   fishing   practices,   without   having   to  
demonstrate  that  fish  display  normatively  defined  intentionality  and  agency.  
Hook
The   hook   is   possibly   one   of   the   oldest   human   technological   innovations   for   the  
capture  of  animal  life.75  This  technological  development  allowed  sea  animals,  which  
otherwise  evade  capture,  to  be  hunted  just  as  land-­‐based  animals  were  also  hunted.  
Describing  evidence  of  100,000-­‐year-­‐old  human  remains  at  the  Klasies  River  Mouth  
caves  in  Africa,  Richard  Klein  and  Blake  Edgar  observe  that  it  is  probable  that  these  
people  avoided  confrontation  and  risky  hunting  practices:    
the   people   tended   to   avoid   confrontations   with   the   more   common—and  
more   dangerous—buffalo   to   pursue   a   more   docile   and   less   common  
antelope,   the   eland.   Both   buffalo   and   eland   are   very   large   animals,   but  
buffalo  stand  and  resist  potential  predators,  while  eland  panic  and  flee  at  
signs  of  danger.76    
They  also  suggest  there  is  little  evidence  of  fishing  among  these  people  who  dwelled  
near   the   water,   reflecting   a   ‘difference   of   technology’   compared   to   later   humans.  
Fish  resist  differently  to  buffalo:  they  evade  capture,  they  are  elusive.  It  is  only  when  
fishing  gear  is  developed  that  it  becomes  feasible  to  counter  this  resistance:    
only   the   more   recent   sites   contain   probable   fishing   gear   like   grooved  
stones  for  weighting  nets  or  lines  and  carefully  shaped  toothpick-­‐size  bone  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
213
splinters  that  could  have  been  baited  and  tied  to  lines  like  hooks.  In  short,  
only   the   more   recent   people   undeniably   possessed   the   technology   for  
fishing.77    
In   this   sense   the   hook   is   one   of   the   technological   innovations   which   shifted   the  
nature  of  human  hunting  practice,  and  opened  the  sea  as  a  ‘commons’  for  the  human  
pursuit   of   animal   based   food.78   Forbes   magazine   recently   listed   the   hook   as   one   of  
the  twenty  most  important  tools  invented.79    
The   hook   would   not   be   necessary   if   fish   allowed   themselves   to   be   passively  
‘harvested’.   On   the   contrary,   it   is   precisely   because   fish   elude   human   capture   that  
the  hook  was  devised.  The  fish  hook  is  an  ingenious  capture  and  kill  device.80  It  is  a  
sharp  point  with  a  bend  in  it,  which  can  be  affixed  to  a  line,  allowing  its  operator  to  
work   at   a   distance.   The   bend   is   crucial,   in   so   far   as   the   hook   aims   to   not   merely  
impale   its   recipient,   but   to   snag   the   body   of   the   fish   to   the   hook,   allowing   it   to   be  
drawn   in   by   a   line.   The   hook   frequently   works   with   a   lure   or   bait.   In   these   cases,   the  
hook   is   a   stealth  device;  it   aims   to  deceive   an   animal   who  would  evade  capture   by  
other   means.   The   hook   was   thus   fundamentally   conceived   to   work   against   fish  
resistance  to  capture.  Elaine  Scarry,  in  her  classic  study  of  torture,   The  Body  in  Pain,  
points  out  that  the  most  ingenious  torture  devices  use  the  body  of  the  victim  against  
itself.81   The   fish   hook   is   no   different.   When   it   finds   sinuous   flesh   with   which   to  
impale   itself   on   and   bind   itself   to,   the   body   of   the   fish   is   effectively   turned   against  
the  self;  the  fish  will  struggle  against  its  own  mouth  (or  elsewhere—the  gut,  the  eye)  
which   has   been   caught   by   the   hook,   sometimes   deepening   the   hold   of   the   hook   on  
the  flesh.82  The  technical  innovation  of  the  barb  in  the  hook—a  counter  facing  spur  
near   the   point—heightened   the   capacity   of   the   hook   as   a   technology   to   refuse  
resistance.   The   barb   makes   it   more   difficult   for   a   fish   to   free   themself   once   impaled;  
freedom  from  the  hook  is  only  possible  through  further  laceration.  
The   discussions   that   are   presently   occurring   within   the   recreational—‘catch  
and   release’—fishing   community   on   whether   barbless   hooks   should   be   used   on  
ethical   (and   sustainability)   grounds   are   interesting   in   this   regard.83   Recreational  
fishing,  as  I  have  stated,  derives  its  supposed  pleasure  from  the  resistance  of  fish  to  
capture.   Recreational   fishing   is   not   interested   in   merely   impaling   fish,   but   the   whole  
process   of   drawing   in   a   struggling   fish,   and   then,   if   the   animal   survives,   setting   it  
free.   The   barb   in   the   hook   offers   an   additional   safeguard   against   the   fish   slipping  
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away  once  impaled;  however,  it  risks  further  injury  or  death  to  the  fish,  particularly  
if  the  fish  is  impaled  in  the  gut,  working  against  the  stated  aim  of  recreational  fishing  
to  merely  catch  and  return  fish  as  sport.  In  some  respects  it  should  be  no  surprise  
that   hook   development   can   work   to   maximise   resistance   to   enhance   the   ‘sport’   of  
fishing.   For   example,   ‘circle   hooks’   incorporate   a   wider   curve   to   more   efficiently  
facilitate  sport  fishing;  this  ‘unique  hook  shape  causes  the  hook  to  slide  toward  the  
point  of  resistance  and  embed  itself  in  the  jaw  or  in  the  corner  of  the  fish’s  mouth.  
The  actual  curved  shape  of  the  hook  keeps  the  hook  from  catching  in  the  gut  cavity  
or   throat.’84   The   Florida   Sea   Grant   research   circular   I   quote   from   here   goes   on   to  
explain  that  ‘fish  hooked  in  the  corner  of  the  mouth  or  jaw  tend  to  fight  better  than  
fish  that  are  hooked  in  the  gut.’85  Here,  resistance  itself,  maximising  the  intensity  of  
resistance,  making  it  persist,  is  the  objective  of  productive  activity,  its  raison  d’être.  
On  one  hand  recreational  fishing  tells  us  a  lot  about  the  sorry  state  of  fish  welfare,  
and   the   limited   impact   welfare   considerations   or   the   possibility   of   fish   suffering  
have   upon   some   fishing   practices.   On   the   other   hand,   though,   it   tells   us   something  
about   the   investment   recreational   fishing   has   in   fish   resistance,   since   this   practice   is  
only   deemed   productively   pleasurable   (for   the   fisherperson)   if   the   fish   remains  
bound   to   the   line   until   the   fisherperson   releases   it,   even   if   this   process   of   struggle  
and  resistance  leads  to  the  unplanned  death  of  the  fish  itself.    
Purse seine
The   net   is   another   innovation   in   fish   capture   and,   like   the   hook,   it   has   a   long   history  
of  human  use.86  The  net  is  a  discriminating  capture  device,  at  least  in  some  respects:  
the  use  of  rope  or  twine  in  a  mesh  pattern  allows  water  and  small  creatures  to  move  
through   the   device,   while   ensnaring   larger   target   fish.   In   relation   to   mechanised  
fishing,  there  has  been  a  great  degree  of  focus  on  the  environmental  impacts  of  net-­‐
based   fishing,   particularly   trawling   (where   a   net   is   pulled   through   the   water   at  
speed)  and  the  lack  of  discrimination  in  net  fishing  with  respect  to  particular  ‘high  
value   megafauna’   who   are   caught   as   ‘by-­‐catch’   (such   as   dolphins).87   Like   the   hook,  
the   net   is   a   technological   innovation   designed   to   capture   animals   that   would  
otherwise  evade  capture.  As  I  have  stated,  net  fishing  is  an  old  technique  of  human  
hunting;   today,   industrialisation   has   mechanised   this   practice   of   predation   to  
massively   increase   its   efficiency.   Trawl   netting,   for   example,   frequently   uses  
Dinesh Joseph Wadiwel—Do Fish Resist?  
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motorised  speed  and  net  breadth  and  depth  to  run  down  groups  of  fish  in  the  water;  
fish  will  swim  themselves  to  exhaustion  before  they  finally  surrender  to  the  net.88    
An   example   of   a   net   that   is   commonly   used   within   industrialised   wild   fish  
capture,  and  a  technology  that  works  to  counter  the  resistance  of  fish,  is  the  purse  
seine.89   The   purse   seine   is   like   a   large   drawstring   bag.   A   large   net—which   can   be   up  
to   a   kilometre   long   and   two   hundred   metres   deep—is   threaded   over   an   area,   and  
then  pulled  inwards  to  trap  the  animals  within.  This  method  is  very  different  from  
trawl   fishing.   Rather   than   using   sheer   speed   to   capture   fish,   the   purse   seine   uses  
stealth  to  encircle  them.  Decoys  can  be  part  and  parcel  of  the  fishing  operations;  for  
example,  floating  objects,  or  ‘fish  aggregating  devices’  (FADs),  which  attract  fish,  can  
be  used  to  congregate  fish  before  the  purse  seine  is  used.90  The  net  technology  can  
work   to   selectively   target   species:   ‘the   geometry   of   the   net   during   the   set   is   also  
significant   for   understanding   the   vertical   dimension   of   the   operation,   and   the  
volume   enclosed,   which   may   determine   which   schools   and   individuals   are  
captured’.91  
This  sort  of  industrial-­‐scale  net  fishing  can  generate  immense  welfare  concerns.  
For   example,   when   the   net   is   drawn   in,   many   fish   will   die   as   they   are   crushed   by  
other   fish   on   top   of   them.   Here,   fish   resistance   can   be   used   directly   to   facilitate  
human   intention.   As   the   net   is   drawn   in,   fish   will   thrash   and   struggle.   The   closing  
encircling  space  means  that  fish  will  come  into  violent  contact  with  other  fish,  and  
many   fish   will   injure   or   kill   themselves   in   this   process.92   One   practice   in   industrial  
purse   seine   fishing   is   to   progressively   close   the   net   and   allow   fish   to   struggle   and  
injure   each   other   as   the   compression   by   the   net   increases   (this   is   why   blood   will  
surface   on   the   water   as   the   net   constricts).93   A   pump   or   a   ‘brailer’   (a   smaller  
scooping  net)  is  then  used  to  extract  fish  nearer  the  surface,  many  of  whom  may  be  
injured  or  already  dead.  Once  these  fish  are  pumped  or  brailed  onto  the  ship,  the  net  
is   tightened   further,   and   the   process   begins   again.   Fish   resistance,   against   the  
prospect  of  their  own  death,  is  here  subsumed  and  utilised  as  a  means  to  facilitate  
human  productivity  in  wild  fish  capture.  
Purse   seine   fishing   is   another   example   of   how   we   might   conceptualise   fish  
resistance   in   relation   to   technological   innovation.   The   purse   seine,   like   the   hook   is  
an   ancient   technology.   But   it   is   used   with   contemporary   technologies:   helicopters  
used   to   search   out   fish   schools,   mechanised   sea   transport   including   speed   boats  
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designed   to   string   the   encircled   area,   the   Puretic   Power   Block   which   is   capable   of  
hauling   large   nets   in   to   the   boat,   the   pump   which   can   smoothly   extract   fish   from   the  
water  directly  to  ice  slurries  below  deck.94  These  technologies  are  accompanied  by  
techniques   which   are   refined   year   after   year   to   more   efficiently   capture   fish;   for  
example,   the   use   of   floating   devices,   or   the   use   of   the   compression   and   pump  
technique   I   have   already   described.   These   techniques   and   technologies   all   aim   to  
counter   resistance;   their   promise   of   improved   efficiency   relates   to   their   ability   to  
capture  entities  that  evade  and  resist  capture.  
Aquaculture
Commercial  wild  fishing  is  in  some  respects  a  form  of  hunting.95  It  operates  today  as  
a   peculiar   industrial   form   of   mechanised   predation.   In   this   respect,   commercial  
fishing   is   unlike   any   other   large-­‐scale   form   of   animal   utilisation   for   food   by   humans.  
Industrialised   ‘farm’-­‐based   domestication   dominates   the   production   of   land   animals  
for  human  consumption,  but  mechanised  hunting  of  ‘wild  fish’  remains  the  main  way  
most   of   the   globe   obtains   fish   for   food.   In   so   far   as   fish   numbers   in   the   wild …