During my last visit to the zoo, I encountered a zookeeper who asked me to refrain from taking pictures, explaining that the behind-the-scenes areas weren’t visually appealing. I understood the reasoning—metal bars and stark concrete don't make for great images.

Apologizing, I tucked my phone away and watched as the zookeeper conducted a mock health check on a gorilla for the benefit of several students, including myself. We stood in a small, warm space, facing a 400-pound gorilla in a cage.

I longed for him to acknowledge my presence, yet whenever he did, I hoped he would look away. The gorilla followed the zookeeper's cues, lifting his arms and turning around, as she poked him with a popsicle stick, rehearsing the routine he would need for actual health assessments.

This close encounter with another ape was unprecedented for me; I could have reached out to touch him, felt the warmth of his breath, and sensed the weight of his gaze shifting across the room. It was this kind of experience that draws us to zoos—we seek a connection to the exotic, a chance to encounter animals we typically only dream about, yearning for a taste of the wilderness amidst our urban existence.

Zoos claim to provide an escape from our man-made surroundings. They cleverly disguise barren environments with artificial rocks, exotic plants, and decor that mimics tropical locales, creating an illusion of nature.

However, the stark reality is that the gorillas' living conditions behind the scenes are vastly different from their public display. The concrete walls are replaced by naturalistic settings, but the essence remains the same: these animals exist for our entertainment, not their comfort. In the wild, gorillas roam expansive territories, yet in captivity, they are confined to spaces reminiscent of hotel lobbies. Their natural behaviors are stifled; instead of thriving in dense forests, they are exposed to the relentless scrutiny of zoo visitors.

Our assignment that day was to observe and note the gorillas' behavior through an exhibit window, supposedly to prepare us for future research. Our professor suggested we look for various activities, yet for hours, I witnessed the animals merely sitting and pacing. I could have gathered the same data by observing my own reflection in the glass.

Zoos are not constructed for the animals' benefit, but rather for human enjoyment; the environment is curated for the audience, not the actors. Wild gorillas thrive in sprawling habitats, yet their captive counterparts are reduced to monotonous lives in cramped enclosures. Animals that naturally prefer seclusion are compelled to live in public view, stripped of their freedom and subjected to predictability.

Life in a zoo equates to a life of confinement—a grim reality faced by all its inhabitants. For instance, lions and tigers reside in spaces drastically smaller than their natural ranges, while cheetahs and polar bears face even more egregious limitations. The comparison is stark: keeping a polar bear in a zoo, regardless of the exhibit's size, is akin to forcing a dog to live in a car trunk.

The psychological burden of captivity manifests in various ways. The lack of stimulation, the constant gaze of onlookers, and the drudgery of repetitive routines take a severe toll on the mental health of zoo animals. This desolation often leads to "zoochosis," a term that encompasses a range of psychological disorders stemming from life in confinement.

Animals exhibit distressing behaviors such as pacing, swaying, and self-harm. In extreme cases, they may pull out their own fur or inflict injuries upon themselves—behaviors rarely observed in the wild. Many zoo inhabitants are medicated with psychotropic drugs to alleviate symptoms of their mental struggles, with some zoos admitting to using medications like Zoloft and Xanax on their gorillas.

Supporters of zoos argue that captivity provides a better existence than what these animals would face in the wild, citing the security of food, water, and shelter. Yet, this argument falters when considering that a life devoid of choice and freedom cannot be equated with a humane existence. The complexities of survival in the wild, while challenging, are what evolution has equipped these animals to navigate.

As I observed a female gorilla walking the same short distance repeatedly, I wished for her to be free in the wild. Our guide recounted a story of a gorilla who had escaped, evading capture and finding his way to the city streets. She found it amusing, laughing as she relayed the tale.

As a child, I held onto the belief that one day, all zoo animals would be liberated. This unfounded hope lingered into adulthood, despite the recognition of the inequities inherent in the zoo experience. We often let ourselves believe in the zoo’s supposed role in conservation, envisioning it as a sanctuary for endangered species. In truth, 83% of zoo animals are neither endangered nor threatened, and the few that are rarely get the chance to return to the wild.

The notion that zoos contribute to conservation is misleading. Less than 3% of the budget for accredited zoos goes to conservation efforts, with many facilities doing nothing at all to support wildlife preservation. If you believe your admission fees contribute to preventing extinction, you might be disillusioned to find that only a fraction of your ticket price supports genuine conservation work.

When confronted with these realities, zoo defenders often claim that the educational value of zoos justifies their existence. However, studies indicate that many children leave the zoo with misconceptions about the animals rather than factual knowledge. During my visit, I noticed children making loud noises and tapping on the glass, rather than engaging with educational material.

As I concluded my training and prepared to leave, I glanced at the exhibit map and realized I had overlooked many of my favorite animals. The familiar scent of hay and animal waste filled the air, evoking nostalgic memories. It felt as if I were trying to breathe life into forgotten childhood toys.

Standing before the final exhibit, I saw ostriches confined behind a wall of wires. I realized that everything I could see from my vantage point was all they would ever know. I turned away, leaving them behind, recognizing that it was time for society to reevaluate its relationship with zoos and consider the implications of keeping wildlife in captivity.