Romulus, Remus, Khaleesi & ethics of resurrection

In a scene seemingly ripped from science fiction — or the Game of Thrones — three genetically engineered wolves named Romulus, Remus and Khaleesi were on Tuesday unveiled to the world. These are no ordinary wolves. Developed by biotech firm Colossal Biosciences, they were created by modifying the DNA of modern grey wolves using ancient genes from the long-extinct dire wolf.

The trio marks a stunning scientific milestone: the world’s first proxy dire wolves to walk the Earth in 12,000 years. Their creation has triggered awe, excitement and — quite rightly — a flurry of ethical debate. Are we correcting past wrongs or rewriting nature’s scripts for our own narrative satisfaction?

Romulus, Remus and Khaleesi are just the latest chapter in a broader movement to reverse extinction through genetic engineering. A few years ago, the birth of Elizabeth Ann, a cloned black-footed ferret, showed that viable offspring could be created using the DNA of animals long dead. Now, efforts are underway to revive the woolly mammoth, the dodo and the thylacine (Tasmanian tiger) — all spearheaded by firms like Colossal Biosciences, which touts itself as a leader in ‘de-extinction technology’.

Such developments captivate the imagination. Who wouldn’t want to see a mammoth thunder across the tundra again or hear the howl of a dire wolf echo through the forest? But as the boundary between fiction and fact dissolves, so too must our complacency. We must ask whether we should bring back extinct animals.

Supporters argue that de-extinction serves a dual ethical purpose: reparation and restoration. Many species, like the thylacine and passenger pigeon, were wiped out due to human actions — hunting, deforestation, pollution.

Reviving them, then, becomes a form of moral compensation for centuries of ecological damage.

There’s also the ecological case. De-extinct species might help restore lost functions in degraded ecosystems. A reintroduced mammoth, for instance, could help maintain Arctic grasslands and even slow permafrost melt. Proxy dire wolves, in theory, could balance predator-prey dynamics in landscapes where such roles are now unfilled.

But good intentions don’t always lead to good outcomes — and in the realm of bioengineering, even

well-meaning experiments can spiral into ethical

ambiguity.

Romulus, Remus and Khaleesi may look like dire wolves. But are they really? These are not natural-born descendants of a lost species, but genetically sculpted hybrids — animals that mimic their extinct ancestors in form, not in origin. Colossal calls this a “functional de-extinction" even as some scientists are of the view that millions of years of evolution can’t be replicated with just 20 genes.

Their creation raises uncomfortable questions: Are these beings life forms with intrinsic value or biological trophies born of ambition and nostalgia? Could they face behavioural mismatches, unexpected health risks or ecological anomalies? Might they eventually become Frankenstein-like organisms?

There’s another danger here: the transformation of life into spectacle. When we engineer creatures to resemble the beasts of prehistoric fantasy, are we commodifying nature? Is Khaleesi a symbol of ecological redemption or a living theme park attraction?

Colossal Biosciences, backed by venture capital and slick marketing, promotes its work with the enthusiasm of a tech startup. One must ask: Is this science, environmental justice, or Jurassic Park-style entertainment? As the lines blur, so does our understanding of what ethical science should look like.

Even if we assume noble motives, there are practical concerns. Habitats have changed. Ecosystems have moved on. The Arctic that the mammoth once roamed is not the Arctic of today. The grasslands where the dire wolf once hunted are now roads, cities and cattle farms.

Where do we release these revived species? And what happens when they clash with existing ecosystems, species or human activity?

Some scientists argue that these animals may never be suitable for the wild. Others fear that reintroduction could destabilise the already fragile ecosystems or divert resources from critically endangered species that still cling to existence. The risk is ecological disruption as well as animal suffering in alien environments.

Another ethical pitfall of de-extinction is psychological: it risks promoting complacency. If extinction becomes reversible, what incentive remains to prevent it in the first place? Why protect the rhino or the critically endangered orangutan if we believe we can resurrect them later in a lab?

This illusion of a genetic safety net could lull societies into ecological recklessness, eroding the urgency to preserve habitats, enforce environmental laws or mitigate climate change. Worse, it could shift the conservation paradigm from “protect what exists" to “resurrect what’s lost" — a morally and practically perilous trade-off.

The ability to bring back species is among the most profound — and perilous —powers humanity has ever wielded. It forces us to reckon not only with our past failures but also with our current values. What kind of world are we trying to build? Who decides which species return — and for what purpose?

De-extinction is not inherently unethical. It can be a powerful tool for biodiversity, restoration and scientific discovery. But it must be wielded with extreme caution, ecological foresight and a deep sense of humility.

Romulus, Remus and Khaleesi are not just marvels of modern science. They are ethical test cases — reminders of a world that once was and warnings about the world we might create if we let scientific ambition outpace moral reflection.

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