What to Do When Your In-Laws Are Eating a Protected Species

A friend recently sent me a message from Cyprus that began with a photo of a back courtyard at night, cousins gathered around a traditional foukou with souvla turning slowly on the spit, and a bottle of homemade wine catching the glow of the coals. The message ended with another photo, of what appeared to be several small, brownish birds on a plate with the text, “My in-laws just served this. They call it ampelopoulia. It’s illegal.” I zoomed in and knew the friend was not exaggerating. There they were, the infamous “vineyard birds,” a delicacy made from tiny migratory songbirds that are trapped using sticky resin on branches. The millennia-old practice is banned and can cost one thousand euros per bird if caught. So the question that instantly came to mind was not about the birds, or even the fine. It was this: What on earth do you do when your in-laws are eating a protected species?

Thanksgiving is around the corner, which means families everywhere are preparing to gather and politely ignore one another’s ethics for a day. Every table has a hierarchy of moral discomforts. Some people swallow their principles with gravy while an uncle rants about politics. Some of us nod through conspiracy theories about vaccines and elections. You love them, and they love you, but in my old age I’ve learned that some conversations are best replaced with another glass of wine. But what if your ethical discomfort is not just social, it is ecological? What if it comes in the form of a stewed bird with a tiny beak still attached?

Before anyone sharpens their carving knives, I should clarify: neither I, nor SEVENSEAS, nor the person who sent me the message condone the catching or consumption of protected species. We encourage a lifestyle that is close to the land but respectful of it and of biodiversity. This story is not a how-to manual on poaching etiquette. It is an exploration of the moral limbo that appears when culture, love, and conservation collide over dinner.

It is easy to defend wildlife when you are standing at a podium. It is harder when you are sitting across from your partner’s family and they have cooked for you. Person X, as we will call them, was stuck between the rock of moral conviction and the hard place of family peace. The table was full of proud farmers, fishers, and foragers. People whose connection to land and sea goes back thousands of years. They grow their own food, waste nothing, compost, and feed scraps to the animals. They could teach the rest of us a few things about sustainable living. Except that one little problem with the birds.

Twenty years ago, one of my first mentors, Dr. Sheila McKenna, taught me something that complicates all of this. We were working in New Caledonia, where some Kanak communities still practice controlled consumption of sea turtles. It is done for specific ceremonies like weddings, funerals, or the New Yam festival. Sheila, who was way ahead of her time in cultural sensitivity, said something I have never forgotten. “We are here for conservation,” she told me, “and conservation goes hand in hand with culture. Who am I to tell them to stop their traditions? One turtle caught for a ceremony is not what is threatening the species.” She was right. That kind of respectful, limited practice is part of a living relationship with nature. It honors it rather than exploits it.

So when do we draw the line between what is sacred tradition and what is simply outdated? Across the world, there are examples that go both ways. Some people accept that various Inuit-led communities may still hunt whales. Others recoil at the thought. Among the Maasai in Kenya, lion hunting once marked the passage into manhood, but that test of bravery has been reimagined through competitions that honor courage without taking life. Cultures evolve, and traditions can adapt, especially when the environment demands it.

That brings us back to Cyprus and the vineyard birds. Can we say that only indigenous islanders in the South Pacific have the right to keep their ancestral practices, but Cypriot islanders who have lived there for eleven thousand years do not? Does the word “indigenous” have a monopoly on cultural legitimacy? Should we say, “Fine, eat the birds, but use a humane method”? Or does that miss the point entirely?

Click here to see the original bird photo but it may be disturbing to some readers.

When Person X sat down to that meal, the choices were not academic. They could jump up and protest, insult their hosts, and ruin their partner’s family relations forever. They could quietly refuse to eat and explain later. They could report it, though that would probably destroy lots more than the relationship. Or they could do what many of us do when faced with an ethical dilemma in a foreign kitchen: breathe deeply, say thank you, and just eat the salad.

We each have our own invisible lines in the sand. For some, it is factory farming. For others, it is overfishing, fur, foie gras, or palm oil. I know some vegans who will not attend a Thanksgiving dinner where a turkey is present, and others who will sit politely and enjoy the sweet potatoes and corn. The point is that morality has never been served in neat slices. It is messy, emotional, and deeply personal.

Cultural traditions deserve respect, but so does the planet that hosts them. And love, of people or of the natural world, requires compromise. It asks for the grace to disagree without condemning, to educate without humiliating, and to preserve relationships while still protecting principles. That is a tall order, especially after two glasses of homemade wine.

I wish I could tell you what Person X did. Did they call the cops? Did they take a polite nibble and change the subject to how unseasonably warm it is this year? Did they wait until later to explain their discomfort to their partner? For the sake of this article, we’re keeping that a secret.

Because the truth is that conservation, like family, rarely offers clean answers. Sometimes protecting what matters means knowing when to fight, and sometimes it means knowing when silence might keep the door open for change later. Thanksgiving, after all, is not only about gratitude but about grace. The grace to coexist, to listen, and to keep a little space at the table for complexity.

By Giacomo Abrusci, SEVENSEAS Media