When there is harm hidden behind help

In the unforgiving streets of Bangladesh, where mere survival feels like a gamble, the sight of a stray animal triggers something deeply human in many of us -- a pang of sympathy, an ache to help, maybe even a sense of hope that may be even a little bit of kindness could rewrite their brutal reality.

We feed them, we lift them off the streets, and we tell ourselves we've done good. And in many ways, we have. But the uncomfortable truth is, sometimes, we're doing far more harm than good. Not all help is always helpful.

A veterinarian who was administering dewormers to my kittens recently told me something that clung to my conscience like thorns: "The biggest threat to animal welfare in Bangladesh are the overenthusiastic animal welfare activists."

I nodded, because I have heard the same from the founder of the leading animal welfare organisation in Bangladesh.

Now, one might ask: how could the ones who care the most be the ones making it worse? Let me try to explain what I've come to understand.

Many of us mistake handouts for love, and prioritise emotion for sustainability. We throw food at the problem, convinced that a handful of rice or a pack of biscuits is true compassion. We scoop up sick or abandoned animals with no plan beyond the immediate rescue. Many of us even celebrate ourselves online for every feeding, every trembling life pulled off the street, but rarely stay for the hard part -- the quiet, tedious, systemic part that actually changes things on the ground.

What so many well-meaning people fail to understand is that feeding stray animals without addressing their reproduction is like pouring water into a bucket riddled with holes. As their population grows so does the crisis. It only means more brutalised puppies, more starving kittens in this world where most people resent their existence.

It isn't just the feeding frenzy. There's this dangerous new culture of rescue-for-rescue's-sake. There are many who impulsively pick up animals as if only to parade their deed across social media. But when the vet bills stack up or if no one comes forward to adopt, back to the street they go. In fact, that is how I got one of my kittens -- she was about to be thrown back into the streets.

See, what happens when these "rescuers" take such a route is that the animal is abandoned -- often in unfamiliar, hostile environments where their survival odds plummet. What these particular "rescuers" don't understand is being abandoned from a home is worse than never having one in the first place. You cannot introduce an animal to the comfort of a home, and then deprive it. That is cruelty, perhaps masked with virtue. It is certainly not rescue or welfare.

We also tend to see every stray through the narrow lens of helplessness. We look at dogs, cats, all animals, with a sense of pity, as though they are nothing but victims. But the truth is, in their own world stripped of human interference, they are capable beings. They are survivors, hunters, and navigators of their environment. It is only when they collide with human cruelty -- the speeding cars, the poisonings, the unchecked abuse -- that they falter.

They don't need our pity; they need our respect. They need support to survive in a world we have rigged against them. That's where true welfare steps in. We should not see every animal as a helpless creature to rescue, but as a life worthy of dignity, whose only weakness is being caught in the mess we humans created.

We then need to confront an ugly fact: when it comes to stray animal welfare, good intentions are never enough. Love, without planning, long-term commitment, or understanding the root cause, can become its own form of cruelty.

The only humane, effective solution to the stray crisis is population control. We need mass, relentless sterilisation -- of course, initiated and performed by experts.

Along with that, we need vaccination campaigns to curb preventable deaths; animal welfare education to dismantle the stigma that paints stray animals as pests rather than sentient beings; and adoption, but with proper vetting, not as a knee-jerk performance of kindness. Above all though, we need to be honest with ourselves about our own limitations.

The harsh truth is you cannot save them all. And I say that as someone who has tried. I have buried too many kittens, cradled too many broken dogs, seen too many good people burn out under the weight of trying to help in a world that refuses to change overnight.

But what is imperative for us is refuse to be part of the problem disguised as a solution. Feeding, without sterilisation, is a kind of kindness that comes with a heavy price. Rescuing, without a plan, often deepens the suffering. And centring our own sense of goodness over the animal's future? That's not welfare.

So yes, love the strays, feed them if you must. But also make sure to sterilise and vaccinate them. If you cannot, partner with those who can. There are many of us out there who couldn't do it alone but have done wonders in collaboration with proper, informed support.

We must accept that real animal welfare is slow, messy, often invisible work. It should never be about the viral post, the rescue video, or the applause. It should be about making choices that serve the animal first and your conscience second.

Because sometimes, when we think we're saving them, all we're really doing is making ourselves feel better while they suffer, caught in the consequences of our half-baked compassion.

If that truth makes you uncomfortable, let it. Change has never belonged to the comfortable. And if we want a better world for them, we cannot stay comfortable either.