I’ve spoken with hundreds of entomologists at conferences the world over. While there’s clearly some self-selection (not everyone wants to talk to a philosopher), my experience is consistent: most think it’s reasonable to care about the welfare of insects. Entomologists don’t regard it as the last stop on the crazy train; they don’t worry they’re getting mugged; they don’t think the idea is just utilitarianism run amok. Instead, they see some concern for welfare as stemming from a common-sense commitment to being humane in our dealings with animals.

Let’s be clear: they embrace “some concern,” not “bugs have rights.” Entomologists generally believe it’s important to do invasive studies on insects, to manage their populations, to kill them to document their diversity. But given the choice between an aversive and a non-aversive way of euthanizing insects, most prefer the latter. Given the choice between killing fewer insects and more, most prefer fewer. They don’t want to end good lives unnecessarily; they don’t want to cause gratuitous suffering.

It wasn’t always this way. But the science of sentience is evolving; attitudes are evolving too. These people work with insects every day; they constantly face choices about how to catch insects, how to raise them, how to study them, how to end them. Questions about insect monitoring, use, and management are top of mind. Questions about how to treat insects, therefore, are hard to avoid.

So, the welfare of insects is not just—or even primarily—a “weird EA thing.” The people who work with these animals think they’re worth some care. Lots of ordinary people do too. And we, who show our concern for suffering through spreadsheets, are one more voice in that chorus.

Let’s be clear again: nothing follows about cause prioritization from the attitudes of entomologists (or anyone else). I'm not saying: “Entomologists sometimes try to be marginally nicer to their insects; so, all the money should go to bugs.” I do not think that all the money should go to bugs. Or even most of the money. Or even most of the animal money. To pick a number somewhat arbitrarily, I might think that, at most, 10% of animal dollars should go to invertebrates in the near-term. 

There are several reasons for this. First, my best guess is that organizations working on invertebrates aren’t ready to absorb $25M–$30M (which is ~10% of total animal movement spending (though we could absorb more than we’ve got, and some orgs more than others). Second, I don’t think other animal organizations should pivot away from effective interventions just because there’s something else that could, in principle, be even more cost-effective: in practice, they won’t be able to do that new thing cost-effectively for a long time. We care about doing the most good per dollar, not working on the problem that, abstractly described, sounds most important in expectation. Third, it’s easy for an org to think it’s helping when it’s hurting: we know so little about how to help that some caution is warranted. I don’t just want to do good in expectation: I want to do good. And finally, I want a thriving ecosystem of people who are committed to working on the world's most pressing problems. A thriving ecosystem is bound to be a diverse one, due to differences in ideology, temperament, and opportunity, among many other things. And given as much, funding shouldn't be narrowly focused on what's of most concern to me; there should be plenty of room for others. 

But my point here is not really about the resources that should—or shouldn’t—be directed to insect welfare. Instead, it’s about how we approach the issue. In some of the talks I’ve given on insects, I adapted lines from Will MacAskill: “Insects might count. There are a lot of them. And we can make their lives better.” While I stand by those basic points, I regret implying that the case for caring about insect welfare is, ultimately, a wild gambit, where the sheer numbers make the conclusion irresistible. 

I do not care about insects because there are a lot of them. Entomologists don’t either. My conversations suggest that they care—when they do—because they’ve sat for countless hours watching ants, or they’ve fed oranges to Madagascar hissing cockroaches (which the roaches love), or they’ve watched a beetle struggling in a kill jar. And they didn’t just watch; they looked. 

We should all look more closely—to the point that, if we see suffering, we need to look away. I want to be the kind of person who flinches at another's pain. Even an insect's.