National Parks and Intergenerational (In)Justice

In addition to other environmentally concerning developments, the first 100 days of the Trump administration has also been disastrous for National Parks. Most recently, the administration has rolled back logging safeguards for more than half of US national forests, while the Bureau of Land Management gave permission to an Australian mining company to continue operating an unauthorized mine in the Mojave National Preserve. These actions might seem to fall within the prerogative of government officials. After all, aren’t we, the people, permitted – through our elected representatives – to make use of whatever natural resources we have at our disposal?

But it’s a little more complicated than that.

While the first national park – Yellowstone – was established in 1872, it wasn’t until 1916 that the National Park Service was created. Its stated purpose was to:

“conserve the scenery and the natural and historic objects and the wild life therein and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations.”

It’s the last part of that purpose that creates unique challenges for the management of national parks. It means that when we’re deciding how to best deal with these parks, it’s insufficient to merely consider what is to be gained – or lost – by current residents of the US. We must additionally consider how our actions will affect future people. The management of national parks, then, is an issue of intergenerational justice.

Intergenerational justice is, essentially, the careful consideration of how we should act now so as not to wrong people later. Most of us share the intuition that it’s wrong to harm other people. Unfortunately, a failure of the imagination often makes us blind to the ways in which our actions might harm people in the future – including those who may not yet even exist. Intergenerational justice encourages us to carefully consider such possibilities.

There are many theoretical bases for claims of intergenerational justice. Utilitarians – for example – focus on maximizing the good. On such an approach, short-term gains will rarely be justified if they come at a long-term cost. A utilitarian would, most likely, disapprove of our government racking up massive debt just to improve the welfare of current residents. Why? Because this would shackle future generations with a crippling financial obligation. Alternatively, an application of the “Lockean Proviso” (which I here applied to the Lunar commons) requires that, when we’re dealing with common property we must limit our actions so that anyone who comes after us can deal with those commons in the very same way.

Whichever approach we take to intergenerational justice, they all seem to agree on one thing: it is morally impermissible to leave to the next generation a world of less value than the one we inherited.

But here’s the thing: the world is valuable in all kinds of different ways. Sure, there’s environmental value – the value found in things like national parks and a clear night sky. But value can also be financial, technological, institutional, and cultural. And we might argue that it’s permissible to convert one kind of value into another, providing there’s no loss to the total value of the world. A government could, for example, permissibly expend a portion of its national savings to develop a fairer justice system (trading financial value for institutional value). Alternatively, a government might mill a forest and use the proceeds to establish a foundation for the fine arts (trading environmental value for cultural value).

Maybe that’s precisely what’s going on with our National Parks. While Trump’s policies will  necessarily see a loss in environmental value, this might be offset by gains in value elsewhere. Indeed, one of Trump’s stated reasons for removing logging restrictions is to increase domestic lumber supplies.

But here’s the thing: the permissibility of such an offset necessarily requires that there’s something of equal value to the thing being lost. And that might not always be the case.

Consider an analogy: Suppose that I inherit an antique ring valued at $500. The ring has a storied past, being handed down from one family member to another for many generations. Suppose, however, that instead of bequeathing this ring to the next generation, I opt to sell the ring to a friend for the tidy sum of $1000. I then place the proceeds in a bank account for the enjoyment of those who come after me. Not only have I ensured that there’s been no decrease in financial value of the inheritance – I’ve actually managed to increase it. Nevertheless, it might seem that I’ve still wronged future generations. Why? Because there’s value in the ring that cannot be quantified – and therefore cannot be offset. By selling the ring, I deprive my ancestors of taking part in a rich family history. And no financial gain is capable of offsetting this.

Since 1500, almost one thousand species of plants and animals are known to have gone extinct. Among these was the Moa – a twelve foot tall flightless bird from my homeland of New Zealand. Is there any value – be it financial, technological, institutional, or cultural – that could be added to the world to offset the value lost when these animals disappear? Or is the Moa – like that family heirloom – priceless? We might argue that the same is true of our national parks. There is, quite simply, no equivalent value that could offset the loss suffered if they are decimated by logging or mining. We would be depriving future generations of something that is, quite simply, irreplaceable.