- Primatologist and conservationist Jane Goodall died on October 1st, 2025 at the age of 91.
- Over the years, Mongabay staff and contributors have conducted numerous interviews with Goodall.
- The following is a recap of her ideas and reflections, organized by theme.
- A list of the interviews and other pieces appears at the end.
Over the years, Mongabay staff and contributors have conducted numerous interviews with Jane Goodall. The following is a recap of her ideas and reflections, organized by theme. A list of the interviews and other pieces appears at the end.
When Jane Goodall died on October 1st at the age of 91, the tributes were immediate and global. Presidents recalled her counsel, children spoke of her visits to their classrooms, and conservationists remembered how she made them feel less alone in the struggle to save wild places. For many, she was a scientist who revolutionized primatology. For others, an advocate who insisted on the dignity of animals. For still more, a cultural icon who embodied the possibility of grace in an age of crisis.
But to those who knew her, she was also someone who could crouch to a child’s level, pull up a video of rats doing tricks on YouTube, and exclaim with delight, “Aren’t they marvelous?” That moment captures something essential: she never lost her capacity for wonder.
Over more than six decades, Goodall carried a message that was consistent, clear, and insistent: humanity’s fate is bound to the fate of the natural world, and hope is not an indulgence but a duty.
Her legacy cannot be reduced to one discovery or one campaign. She was a scientist who redefined animals, a thinker who refused the split between reason and reverence, a pragmatist who weighed tools and compromises, and a mentor who invested her credibility in the young.
Above all, she was a messenger of hope. Not the easy hope of slogans, but the disciplined hope of someone who had watched forests regrow, seen children rise to challenges, and insisted that individual acts could aggregate into movements.
Gombe and the revolution in science
Goodall arrived on the shores of Lake Tanganyika in 1960 with no university degree and little formal scientific training. What she carried instead was patience. For hours she would sit quietly in the forest, watching. What she saw in the chimpanzees of Gombe changed science.
The first breakthrough came from an individual she named David Greybeard, who stripped leaves from a twig to fish termites from their mound. Tool use had been thought to distinguish humans. When she reported what she had witnessed, her mentor Louis Leakey sent a telegram that has since become legend: “Now we must redefine ‘tool,’ redefine ‘man,’ or accept chimpanzees as human.”
She unsettled orthodoxy further by describing chimps as affectionate, quarrelsome, or anxious. At the time, animals were to be numbered, not named, and never credited with “emotions” or “personalities.” Goodall disregarded that code.
What had once been derided as anthropomorphism is now accepted as ethological fact. Long-term studies across species confirm that animals experience grief, joy, and even rudimentary moral emotions. By insisting on reporting what she saw, Goodall opened that door.
The implications extended beyond biology. By demonstrating that chimpanzees had inner lives, she blurred the categorical wall that placed humans above other animals. Her work became foundational not only for primatology, but for animal welfare and environmental ethics.
The young woman once dismissed as an amateur became a professional with honors. Cambridge awarded her a PhD without requiring an undergraduate degree. Her studies at Gombe turned into one of the longest-running wildlife research projects in the world. Yet she never lost the outsider’s perspective that allowed her to see what others had missed.
The revolution she began at Gombe was not just scientific. It was moral. If chimpanzees could use tools, wage wars, and show compassion, then the old dichotomy of human versus animal could no longer hold.
Science and spirituality
For Goodall, science was never enough on its own. She was a meticulous observer and a pioneer whose discoveries reshaped biology. But she also insisted that reason without reverence was incomplete.
When she received the Templeton Prize in 2021, she summed up her credo: “Only when head and heart work in harmony can we achieve our true human potential. Science can explain how, but we need spiritual values to remind us why.”
Her spirituality was not doctrinal. Raised in a Christian household, she rarely invoked scripture. Instead, she described a sense of connectedness that arose from direct experience: the pant-hoot chorus of chimpanzees, the rustling of leaves in a Tanzanian forest, the gaze of a rescued animal returning to the wild.
This perspective shaped how she engaged with others. At climate negotiations she argued that facts alone were insufficient. “You can bombard people with statistics, but unless you touch their hearts, they won’t act,” she said. Climate models could warn of catastrophe, but stories of resilience — a forest regrowing, a community restoring land, a child planting a tree — could move people to act.
Her emphasis on the “heart” was not sentimental. She often described it as a counterbalance to reductionist thinking. Science, she warned, “can be dangerous if it is divorced from ethics. We need wisdom as well as knowledge.”
Her blending of science and spirit underpinned her activism. It explained why she invested so much in youth movements, where she saw not just political potential but moral renewal. It gave her language to talk across boundaries — from religious congregations to scientific conferences, from Indigenous elders to business leaders.
Goodall’s science revealed what was; her spirituality insisted on what ought to be. The harmony of head and heart became both her credo and her method.
Technology, zoos, and compromise
Goodall’s public voice was clear and forceful, but her private judgments were often more nuanced. She was not a purist who demanded absolutes. She acknowledged the compromises conservation required, even when they made her uneasy.
Zoos were one such tension. She criticized confining animals for entertainment, yet admitted that zoos sometimes fostered empathy and funded conservation. “I would prefer a child to fall in love with an animal in a good zoo, even if it’s not the same as the wild, than to grow up never caring about animals at all,” she said.
Technology presented a similar dilemma. She distrusted the superficiality of digital culture, lamenting how children spent more time on screens than outdoors. Yet she recognized that technology could be harnessed to protect nature. Smartphones could document illegal logging; satellites could track deforestation in near real time; online platforms could spread conservation stories to classrooms thousands of miles away.
Her message was plain: tools matter, but values matter more. “Technology can help us measure and monitor,” she said, “but without political will and moral courage, it won’t save us.”
This pragmatism also made her willing to work with unlikely allies. She spoke at corporate forums and praised companies that reduced plastic or invested in habitat restoration. Critics accused her of being co-opted. She countered that engagement was more useful than denunciation: “If you don’t talk to people you disagree with, how can you expect them to change?”
Her readiness to make uneasy alliances was a measure of her strategic instinct. The choice was not between purity and compromise, but between engagement and irrelevance.
Hope as discipline
Few words were as closely associated with Jane Goodall as “hope” — a theme she returned to so often that it appeared in the titles of at least five of her 30-odd books. Yet she was careful to explain that she did not mean optimism or denial. For her, hope was a discipline — a practice of choosing action despite evidence that might otherwise lead to despair.
“We face the sixth great extinction, climate change, loss of forests, poverty,” she once said. “But hope is about taking action in spite of it all. It’s about saying: I will do my bit. And when we join together, those bits become a movement.”
The distinction mattered. Optimism could breed complacency; pessimism could paralyze. Hope, by contrast, was a call to agency. It was rooted in her experience of watching small acts accumulate — a hillside restored to forest, a school project sparking a movement.
On her 90th birthday she repeated her “reasons for hope”: human intellect, the resilience of nature, and the indomitable human spirit. Each had to be cultivated. Intellect required education. Nature’s resilience required protection. The human spirit required encouragement, especially for the young. “We must not let them lose hope,” she warned, “because if they lose hope, we lose everything.”
Her insistence on hope sometimes drew criticism. Some argued it softened the urgency of ecological collapse. But Goodall framed it differently: despair, she said, was self-indulgent. “If you care, you cannot give up. Hope is not passive — it’s about action.”
In this sense, hope was not a feeling but a responsibility. It demanded work: planting trees, speaking out, voting, mentoring. It was also contagious. By modeling perseverance, she encouraged others to keep going.
Youth and Roots & Shoots
If one subject never failed to rekindle Goodall’s energy, it was young people. Even in her late eighties and nineties, she spoke with vigor when the conversation turned to children.
Founded in Tanzania in 1991 with just twelve students, Roots & Shoots grew into a global movement spanning more than 140 countries. Its projects ranged from recycling drives and community gardens to tree-planting campaigns and animal rescues. What united them was the principle that every action mattered.
“When I meet young people, when I see their shining eyes, it renews my faith in humanity,” she said. Roots & Shoots, in her words, was not just a youth club but a training ground for agency.
She often described it as a three-legged stool: care for people, care for animals, and care for the environment. The stool only stood if all three legs were present.
Her faith in youth was not naïve. She knew the world they were inheriting — extinctions, climate disruption, inequality. But she argued that cynicism was toxic for the young. Where older audiences asked if it was too late, younger ones asked what they could do next.
Roots & Shoots alumni now hold positions in governments, businesses, and NGOs. Many cite Goodall’s example as formative. She delighted in such stories but resisted claiming credit. “It’s not about me,” she would say. “It’s about the young people themselves, and the choices they make.”
Indigenous knowledge and local wisdom
Goodall often reminded audiences that conservation was not invented in the West. Long before treaties and satellites, communities had managed landscapes through restraint, respect, and accumulated wisdom. She admired Indigenous peoples who lived close to the land and urged policymakers to listen.
“The wisdom of people who live close to the land should not be ignored,” she said. “They have survived for generations because they understood the balance.”
She highlighted examples where Indigenous knowledge intersected with science: communities in the Congo Basin tracking animals in ways no satellite could, or Tanzanian villages reducing deforestation through local forest management. “If you want conservation to work, you must involve the people who live there,” she said. “If they are not part of the solution, there will be no solution.”
This emphasis reflected her critique of “fortress conservation” — evicting people to create parks. She saw such approaches as unjust and ineffective. Excluded communities were unlikely to support conservation goals. Those who benefited from sustainable use often became its fiercest defenders.
Her message was consistent: respect for animals, respect for the natural world, and respect for the people who depend on it.
A reluctant icon
Jane Goodall never set out to be famous, but recognition pursued her. From the moment National Geographic splashed her face across its pages in the 1960s, she became a symbol. “Well, initially, it was about a young girl venturing into the forest—something no other young girls were doing at the time—and studying chimpanzees,” she recalled. “National Geographic described it as ‘the beauty and the beast’: mysterious creatures in the jungle and a young, fair-haired girl. That imagery captured people’s attention and was a fantastic start for me. But there are two Janes, Rhett. There’s the one talking to you now, just me, Jane. And then there’s the icon that has been built up by Geographic, Discovery, the media, and so on. This Jane has to maintain the icon’s image. And it’s because of this that I can’t simply walk through an airport unnoticed. So, what is it exactly? I’m not entirely sure.”
The icon carried her far. Awards followed: honorary doctorates, medals, and prizes from governments and scientific societies. In 2018, more than a hundred scientists and conservationists urged the Nobel Committee to award her the Peace Prize, arguing that she had built bridges between humans and the natural world. She deflected. Awards could draw attention, but they were not the point. “What matters is not a medal but whether people are inspired to act,” she said.
Fame, however, became a tool she chose to wield. “I never set out to be famous. I just wanted to learn about chimpanzees,” she admitted later in life. “But once the spotlight came, I felt I had no choice but to use it. It’s not about me — it’s about using that attention for animals, for forests, for young people.” She treated recognition as a channel, not a reward. A question about her routine became a chance to talk about forests; an inquiry about her health became a comment on the health of the planet.
What allowed her to carry fame without succumbing to it was empathy. “If you have empathy, if you can put yourself in the place of another being, human or animal, then you care. And if you care, you want to do something,” she said. Her empathy made her accessible across divides, whether to presidents, CEOs, pop stars, or children she bent down to meet at eye level. Critics sometimes accused her of being too willing to share stages with corporate leaders. She countered simply: “If you don’t talk to people you disagree with, how can you expect them to change?”
Her ambivalence about fame deepened her credibility. She accepted the spotlight but redirected it, turning personal acclaim into collective urgency. “If a prize makes someone pay attention to a forest, or listen to a child, then it’s worthwhile,” she said. “Otherwise, it’s just a piece of metal.”
The difference we make
Jane Goodall’s life resists easy summary. She was at once a scientist, a storyteller, an activist, and an icon. What gave her singular force was how she bound them together into a coherent message: humans are part of nature, choices matter, and hope is a responsibility.
She often said, “I was just a girl who loved animals and wanted to learn about them.” The humility disguised the scale of her achievement. She had upended science, challenged public opinion, and inspired a global youth movement.
Her final years were no retreat. She warned negotiators that climate talks meant little without moral urgency. On her 90th birthday she repeated her reasons for hope: human intellect, the resilience of nature, and the indomitable human spirit. Even in decline, she insisted on urging students not to give in to despair.
“What made her message resonate was not that she ignored grim realities, but that she acknowledged them without capitulating. She knew despair was seductive, but she treated it as indulgence. “If you care, you cannot give up. Hope is not passive — it’s about action.”
Her voice carried moral authority because it was grounded in experience. She had seen forests regenerate, chimpanzees rebound, and young people transform communities. She had also seen destruction and indifference. Her credibility lay in speaking of both, then insisting that the former must prevail.
“You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you,” she often reminded her audiences. “What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.”
Jane Goodall called herself a “messenger of hope.” That may be the most enduring truth about her. She showed that hope could be learned, practiced, and passed on — one child, one chimpanzee, one forest at a time.
Jane Goodall in Japan in June 2023. Photo taken by Kaori Nishida
Other pieces
- What Jane Goodall showed me about hope
- Jane Goodall (1934–2025): primatologist, conservationist, and messenger of hope
- Jane Goodall, primatologist who taught the world to hope, has died at 91
- Jane Goodall awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom
- Mongabay celebrates 25 years with Jane Goodall at sold out event
- Jane Goodall celebrates her 90th birthday with Mongabay
- Jane Goodall at 90: On fame, hope, and empathy
- Jane Goodall’s Hopecast podcast features Mongabay founder
- Jane Goodall launches effort in support of planting 1 trillion trees by 2030
- Jane Goodall wins Templeton Prize for work at intersection of science and spirituality
- Jane Goodall on Leonardo DiCaprio, her 85th birthday, and the need for hope
- Scientists, conservationists: Give Nobel Peace Prize to Jane Goodall
- Jane Goodall interview: ‘The most important thing is sharing good news’
- Dr. Jane Goodall on being proven right about animals having personalities, plus updates direct from COP23
- Jane Goodall on zoos and tech as conservation tools
- Jane Goodall joins mongabay
- Jane Goodall renews her faith in nature and humanity during the “Gombe 50” anniversary, An interview with Dr. Jane Goodall
Credits
This story first appeared on Mongabay
This article is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
You may republish this article, so long as you credit the authors and Mongabay, and do not change the text. Please include a link back to the original article.