Interconnected Oppressions – From Dog Training to Liberation for All

Coercive Training and the Logic of Oppression 

In the dog training world, a deep divide exists between force-free approaches and coercive methods. “Force free” or positive reinforcement training relies on patience, rewards, and understanding a dog’s needs, whereas coercive training uses pain, fear, and domination – tools like shock collars, prong collars, leash jerks, and intimidation.

Decades of behavioral science and experience have shown that aversive methods are not only unnecessary for teaching dogs, but actively harmful.

The American Veterinary Society of Animal Behavior flatly states that “aversive training methods have a damaging effect on both animal welfare and the human-animal bond,” with no evidence that punishment-based techniques are more effective than reward-based methods.

In fact, dogs trained with aversive tools often exhibit stress and fear in their everyday body language. By contrast, dogs trained with kindness and positive reinforcement tend to be more attentive, confident, and trust in their guardians.

If compassionate, science-backed methods are well-established to work better AND avoid trauma, it begs the question: Why do some trainers fiercely defend coercive techniques?

What are they really defending when they “go to war” for the right to use pain and intimidation on a dog?

It’s clearly not about getting better results – the evidence disproves that.

Instead, it often boils down to defending an internalized ideology of dominance.

It’s about clinging to the belief that hierarchy and force are necessary to maintain order, whether it’s in the dog-human relationship, or in society at large.

Challenging that belief can feel really threatening to those who have built their identity or comfort around being in control.

Many of us were taught for years that “being the alpha” was the responsible way to raise a dog. We were told that strict discipline and even force were necessary to prevent chaos. Letting go of those notions requires humility and unlearning.

A dog trainer’s purpose is not to control a dog through fear, but to teach and partner with them through respect.

But that totally goes against traditional dog training culture.

Looking at this directly forces us to ask come uncomfortable questions:

Who “deserves” to be treated with patience and empathy, and who is deemed a subject for pain and force?

If we believe a being will only obey when hurt or scared, what does that say about our view of authority and order?

Coercive dog training, at its core, shares a logic with oppressive social systems.

It assumes that problems must be solved by exerting power over another, rather than examining why the behavior occurs and how we might address its root causes.

It treats disobedience as a crime to be punished rather than a communication to be understood.

This mirrors the logic of the carceral mindset in our society – the notion that the way to handle wrongdoing or conflict is to inflict pain (through prisons, police violence, military force) rather than to heal, educate, or address injustices that breed conflict.

It’s no coincidence that the dominance narrative in dog training (“might makes right,” “show them who’s boss”) so closely resembles the language of authoritarianism everywhere else.

They all rely on a hierarchy of power maintained by fear.

None of this is meant to draw a simplistic equivalence between training a dog and governing a society. But it is to say that a mindset which normalizes domination in one arena makes it easier to accept in another.

When I see colleagues in my field react with rage or fear to my support for oppressed peoples, I recognize that for what it is: a reflexive defense of the status quo of power.

Many trainers have built their careers on asserting human dominance over dogs; perhaps it feels natural to also side with state dominance over a population, or to dismiss a liberation struggle as a “terrorist” cause.

When we are comfortable wielding or justifying force against the vulnerable – whether the subject is a disobedient dog, a prisoner, or an occupied community – we are upholding that same paradigm of oppression.

Solidarity Beyond Species

Once, I was surprised to see a fellow dog trainer accuse me of “supporting terrorism” simply because I voiced solidarity with Palestinians resisting genocide. But in the days that followed, I realized this outburst was more than a personal slight – it was a revealing window into how different forms of oppression reinforce each other.

Interconnected oppression is not just a theory, it’s a lived reality that touches everything from how we train our dogs to how we understand global struggles for freedom.

That angry accusation from a fellow trainer came in the context of my public stance in support of Palestinian liberation.

Here was a professional dog trainer, presumably someone who loves animals, essentially excusing or ignoring the suffering of people.

In moments like those, all we can really do is ask: What are they really defending?

Palestinians have endured decades of dispossession, violence, and occupation.

Speaking up on their behalf should be a basic human response to witnessing injustice.

Yet some in our dog training community respond not with empathy, but with hostility – as if opposing the oppression of Palestinians is somehow a personal affront to them.

To these individuals, challenging oppression anywhere is perceived as a threat to the systems of authority everywhere.

It’s as if acknowledging the injustice in Palestine might unravel other beliefs they hold about order, punishment, and “deserving” victims.

This is the mentality that turns a blind eye to atrocities when they’re committed by a familiar authority… and it’s eerily similar to how a trainer might justify hurting a dog “for their own good.”

Both are cases of internalized oppression: accepting violent domination as normal or necessary.

Oppression doesn’t stop at species lines. It never has.

One of the more horrifying aspects of the occupation of Palestine is how non-human animals are also pulled into the machinery of domination. Reports from human rights monitors describe Israeli military units systematically deploying large police dogs to attack and terrorize Palestinian civilians. In some documented cases, soldiers sicced dogs on elderly people, detainees, and even children – allowing the dogs to maul defenseless civilians while soldiers stood by and even mocked the victims.

The animal we have the audacity to call our “best friend” is being weaponized by us into an instrument of fear. This is how deeply oppression can distort our relationship with other animals.

Under a regime of domination, a dog ceases to be a beloved companion and instead becomes just another weapon.

As a dog lover, these accounts break my heart; as a human being, they outrage my conscience. It underscores the painful truth that the way a society treats animals is intertwined with the way it treats people.

The mentality that views a population as sub-human “others” easily extends to viewing animals as mere weapons or property, and vice versa.

Truly valuing empathy and dignity makes no division between species or groups – it becomes a universal value.

I stand with Palestinians fighting for their freedom for the same reason I reject hitting or shocking a dog: because I reject cruelty and I believe in respect for the vulnerable, whether they have two legs or four.

Solidarity, to me, means recognizing that suffering is suffering, oppression is oppression, and justice is indivisible.

This understanding has been articulated by many before me.

Black feminist and vegan author Aph Ko writes that assuming animal bodies are less than human bodies only reifies the exact same hierarchal systems that justify racism, sexism, and other oppressions.

In other words, the moment we decide that some lives matter less – whether they’re non-human animal lives or the lives of distant humans we don’t know – we’ve opened the door to injustice.

Civil rights leader Fred Hampton famously declared, “You don’t fight racism with racism. We’re gonna fight racism with solidarity.” 

His point was that oppressed peoples must stand together across differences, refusing to adopt the oppressor’s divisive logic.

Solidarity means expanding our circle of concern, not narrowing it. All of us, human or non-human animal, have connected fates.

My stance on oppression in places like Palestine is an extension of the same empathy that guides my stance on dog training: a refusal to accept that violence and domination are the rightful tools to resolve problems.

For those in the dog training community who might not yet identify with terms like anti-colonial or anti-imperialist, I invite you to consider this:

If you strive to rehabilitate a reactive, fearful dog with patience instead of punishment, can you see why an entire people reacting to decades of violence might need understanding rather than more violence and oppression?

These are not separate issues – they are reflections of the same core values.

Solidarity beyond species and borders doesn’t dilute our love for our own dogs or communities; it enlarges our capacity for care and justice. It makes us better trainers and better humans.

Today, the idea of a society without punitive prisons, or a world without colonizers and colonized, might seem “unrealistic” to some.

But as dog trainers, don’t we know firsthand how quickly norms can change? Not long ago, alpha-rolling a dog or hanging them by a choke chain was mainstream advice; now a new generation of trainers shudders at that cruelty and embraces compassionate methods.

Change is possible when we dare to envision it and put it into practice step by step.

An abolitionist future – one with no shock collars, no cages, and no occupied territories – begins with our willingness to say no to cruelty everywhere and yes to creative, caring alternatives.

These connections between dog training, Palestine, and abolition might seem unusual at first glance, but they have revealed to me a consistent truth: our ethics cannot be compartmentalized. If we believe in treating the least powerful among us with kindness instead of cruelty, that principle will inevitably call us to widen our circle of concern.

For those of you who’ve found this page, it might start with how we raise our dogs, but it doesn’t end there.

Remember to ask tough questions about how our society treats anyone deemed “less than” or outside the circle of empathy.

I know that not everyone in our diverse audience of dog lovers, trainers, and activists will initially identify as an “abolitionist” or an expert in global issues – and that’s okay.

You don’t need a label to engage with these ideas. All it takes is an open mind and a willingness to reflect.

I invite you, wherever you are starting from, to consider a few guiding thoughts:

• Reflect on power and harm: In your daily life or work, notice when a situation tempts you to use force or coercion. Is there a gentler, more understanding approach that could be effective instead? This could be as simple as pausing before yanking a leash, or pausing before judging a person in distress. Choosing patience over anger in those small moments is practicing anti-oppression on a micro scale.

• Recognize linked struggles: When you see news of suffering or resistance – whether it’s an abused animal or an oppressed community – try to make the empathetic leap instead of turning away. The dog howling in the backyard and the people protesting in the streets may have more in common than we think: both are voicing pain, both deserve our compassion, and neither should be met with blind violence. We don’t have to be experts on every issue to know the difference between cruelty and care.

• Educate and engage: If some of the concepts here (like prison abolition or the Palestinian struggle) feel foreign or politically charged, consider learning more rather than dismissing them. Seek out the voices of those directly affected. For example, reading Angela Davis on prisons or listening to Palestinian activists can illuminate why these struggles align with a commitment to justice. As with dogs – when in doubt, listen before you react.

Above all, remember that compassion is not a finite resource.

Caring about one issue doesn’t steal energy from another; in fact, it often amplifies it.

Working to become a better dog trainer made me more attuned to injustice in the wider world, and fighting injustice in turn reinforced why I refuse to use fear in training. It’s all part of the same ethic of care.

As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. famously noted, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Our liberation stories are intertwined.

I want to thank you for reading this far with an open heart. I know that these are heavy topics, but they’re also hopeful ones. By changing ourselves and our approaches, we can change the world around us.

The next time you gently guide a dog instead of yanking the leash, or the next time you question a news narrative that asks you to devalue certain lives, you are doing the work of unraveling oppression. That is principled, courageous work.

Whether you’re training a dog or organizing for social change, know that you are not alone. There is a wide spectrum of us out here: dog trainers, activists, parents, teachers, students, and ordinary folks, all realizing that a just and compassionate future is possible if we build it together.

Every act of compassion chips away at the walls of oppression.

So let’s keep chipping away.