A National Disgrace: Channel 10’s Kangaroo Segment Wasn’t Journalism—It Was Propaganda

Written By Maggie van Santen

There are moments when the media fails us—and then there are moments like this. Channel 10’s recent segment on the kangaroo industry wasn’t just biased. It was a disgrace. A calculated, one-sided promotion of a $100 million industry built on the backs of our most iconic and misunderstood animals.

No research. No balance. No compassion.

Instead of investigating the trauma, the ecological damage, or the ethical questions surrounding the commercial slaughter of kangaroos, Channel 10 handed the microphone to those profiting from it. They called kangaroos “pests,” “nightmares,” and “herbivores”—as if reducing them to biology strips them of their right to live. As if that language doesn’t desensitise the public and justify cruelty.

They showed a shooter on screen, gun in hand, as if it were a normal part of rural life. But for those of us who care for the broken bodies left behind, who sit with orphaned joeys trembling in pouches, who witness the aftermath of these so-called “harvests”—this was not normal. It was trauma broadcast as entertainment.

I wonder how many carers broke down watching that report. I wonder how many of us felt the sting of being called “bullies” for daring to speak up for the voiceless. For daring to say that kangaroos are not commodities. They are sentient, social, loving beings. They are not leather. They are not dog food. They are not pests.

They are family.

And while Channel 10 chose to amplify industry spin, they ignored the global movement rising against this cruelty. They ignored the science. They ignored the carers. They ignored the truth.

So thank you to Wayne Pacelle and the Kangaroos Are Not Shoes campaign for continuing to expose this industry on the world stage. While Australian media sanitises the slaughter, international voices are demanding better. And we will not be silenced.

To Channel 10: You had a choice. You chose profit over principle. You chose spectacle over truth. And you failed—not just the kangaroos, but every Australian who believes in compassion, decency, and real journalism.

 

A National Disgrace: Channel 10’s Kangaroo Segment Wasn’t Journalism—It Was Propaganda

Written By Maggie van Santen

There are moments when the media fails us—and then there are moments like this. Channel 10’s recent segment on the kangaroo industry wasn’t just biased. It was a disgrace. A calculated, one-sided promotion of a $100 million industry built on the backs of our most iconic and misunderstood animals.

No research. No balance. No compassion.

Instead of investigating the trauma, the ecological damage, or the ethical questions surrounding the commercial slaughter of kangaroos, Channel 10 handed the microphone to those profiting from it. They called kangaroos “pests,” “nightmares,” and “herbivores”—as if reducing them to biology strips them of their right to live. As if that language doesn’t desensitise the public and justify cruelty.

They showed a shooter on screen, gun in hand, as if it were a normal part of rural life. But for those of us who care for the broken bodies left behind, who sit with orphaned joeys trembling in pouches, who witness the aftermath of these so-called “harvests”—this was not normal. It was trauma broadcast as entertainment.

I wonder how many carers broke down watching that report. I wonder how many of us felt the sting of being called “bullies” for daring to speak up for the voiceless. For daring to say that kangaroos are not commodities. They are sentient, social, loving beings. They are not leather. They are not dog food. They are not pests.

They are family.

And while Channel 10 chose to amplify industry spin, they ignored the global movement rising against this cruelty. They ignored the science. They ignored the carers. They ignored the truth.

So thank you to Wayne Pacelle and the Kangaroos Are Not Shoes campaign for continuing to expose this industry on the world stage. While Australian media sanitises the slaughter, international voices are demanding better. And we will not be silenced.

To Channel 10: You had a choice. You chose profit over principle. You chose spectacle over truth. And you failed—not just the kangaroos, but every Australian who believes in compassion, decency, and real journalism.

 

They’re Not Invading—They’re Surviving

Written By Maggie van Santen

A recent comment made to me—"There are more kangaroos here than in the 35 years I’ve lived here"—was delivered with such disdain, as if the presence of kangaroos is a problem. As if I, somehow, am responsible for their visibility. But what you’re seeing isn’t an increase in kangaroos—it’s a collapse in their habitat.

When I moved here, there were five distinct, healthy mobs living peacefully in the bushland. They had food, shelter, and space. They weren’t lurking behind fences or crossing driveways—they had land that supported them. Since then, about 100 acres of their home has been incinerated in a “controlled burn”—a fast and furious blaze that destroyed their food source and likely claimed lives I’ll never be able to count.

Now, these same kangaroos are being pushed closer to human spaces. Not because they’re multiplying, but because we’ve made their wild spaces disappear.

More cars. More homes. More fences. Padlocked gates slicing through the bush because “that’s what you do” in the city. Since the pandemic, more people are relocating to once-quiet towns that now echo with motorbikes, modified cars, and rising crime. Our human footprint has expanded, but the land for wildlife has shrunk.

Access to food is limited. Water sources are vanishing behind locked gates. And when they cross paths with people, they’re blamed—for being here. But they have nowhere else to go.

So yes, you might be seeing more kangaroos. But let’s be clear: that doesn’t mean there are more.

It means they’re desperate. It means their world is shrinking. And it means we need to take a hard look at what coexistence actually looks like—because their presence isn’t a nuisance. It’s a symptom of everything we’ve changed.

We have the power to change this narrative. To see kangaroos not as pests, but as fellow beings pushed to the edge. To rethink our relationship with the land and those who call it home. That shift begins not with policy or protest, but with compassion—and a willingness to understand what’s really going on.

Change the narrative - they are not invading, they are trying to survive

 

When Did Compassion Become Controversial?

Written By Maggie van Santen

There’s been a lot of media attention lately on the slaughter of kangaroos—finally. Big-name sports brands are stepping away from kangaroo leather, and advocates like Wayne Pacelle and his team are shining a light on the cruelty behind the commercial culling industry. It should feel like progress. And in many ways, it is.

But here’s the part that’s harder to talk about: the backlash.

When I comment on these stories—whether it’s a respectful question to a news outlet or a gentle challenge to a company selling kangaroo pet meat—I’m often met with abuse. Not disagreement. Not debate. Abuse. And I’m not alone. Other carers and advocates are facing the same thing. Slurs. Mockery. Slander. And worst of all, applause from bystanders who seem to revel in the cruelty.

My last comment was on a Channel 10 news report that described kangaroos as “beautiful animals.” while a kangaroo shooter was wielding his gun across the screen, in front of my face and calling them vermin, I asked, simply, “If they’re beautiful, why are we killing them?” The response?

“Animal libtardism is nothing but first world privileged white female virtue-signalling. Thanks for the evidence.”

I’m still not sure what that even means. But I know it wasn’t kind.

When did it become okay to attack people for caring? For asking questions? For trying to protect the very animals that define our landscape and identity?

And here’s what often gets left out of these conversations: how deeply this cruelty can affect those of us doing this work on the ground.

The carers who are already carrying the emotional toll of trauma, grief, and isolation. The ones getting up at 3am to feed an orphaned joey or holding space for a dying roo so it doesn’t leave this world alone. For them—for us—this online abuse isn’t just upsetting. It’s dangerous.

Over time, the slander, mockery, and name-calling can lead to withdrawal, despair, self-harm, and even suicidal thoughts. Not because we’re weak—but because we’re human. Because being bombarded with cruelty while trying to bring kindness into the world chips away at even the strongest among us.

And so, when we call out brands, companies, and government departments, we do so respectfully. But we also do so at a cost. A cost that too many don’t see, or worse—choose to ignore.

We’re not shouting. We’re not threatening. We’re calling out brands, companies, and government departments in a respectful way. We’re asking for accountability. For compassion. For change.

And yet, the cruelty isn’t just in the killing—it’s in the way people respond to those who dare to speak up.

So here’s my musing: maybe the real discomfort isn’t about kangaroos. Maybe it’s about what they represent. Vulnerability. Innocence. The parts of ourselves we’ve learned to suppress in a world that rewards detachment and desentisation. 

But I won’t stop speaking. And I know others won’t either. Because silence is complicity. And these beautiful animals deserve more than that.

Change the Narrative

It’s time we stop treating kangaroos as intruders in their own home—and stop treating compassion like a crime. Their visibility isn’t a sign of thriving populations; it’s a sign of displacement, of survival under pressure. The land they once roamed freely is now fragmented and fenced, burnt and built upon.

Instead of asking, “Why are there so many kangaroos?”—let’s start asking, “What happened to their habitat?” Instead of reacting with annoyance, let’s respond with empathy.

We have the power to change this narrative. To see kangaroos not as pests, but as fellow beings pushed to the edge. And to support the people trying to make their lives better—not tear them down.

That shift begins not with policy or protest, but with compassion—and a willingness to understand what’s really going on.

Their story is unfolding in front of us. Let’s make sure it’s one of coexistence, not conflict.

So I asked AI what it meant. The translation

That comment is a mash-up of insults and political buzzwords, and while it’s clearly meant to be derogatory, it’s also a bit of a word salad. Let’s break it down:

• “Animal libtardism”: A slur combining “animal rights” and “libtard” (a derogatory term for liberals). It’s used to mock people who advocate for animal welfare, implying they’re irrational or overly emotional.

• “First world privileged white female”: This part tries to discredit the speaker by suggesting they’re out of touch with “real” issues because they’re from a wealthy country, are white, and female—implying that their compassion is a luxury, not a necessity.

• “Virtue-signalling”: A common accusation that someone is only expressing moral concern to look good or gain social approval, rather than because they genuinely care.

So, in essence, the person is saying: “You’re only pretending to care about kangaroos to feel morally superior, and you’re doing it from a place of privilege.” It’s not a thoughtful critique—it’s a way to shut down conversation and avoid engaging with the actual issue.

But here’s the thing: calling out cruelty isn’t virtue-signalling. It’s courage. And when someone responds with mockery instead of reflection, it often says more about their discomfort than your sincerity.

 

The Weight of Advocacy and the Need to Breathe

Written By Maggie van Santen

I’ve spent the past few months speaking up—for the bruised, the broken, the babies left behind. Kangaroos have consumed my every waking thought. Not as distant symbols, but as beings I’ve held in my arms. Gentle. Family-bound. Misunderstood.

The massacre in Canberra plays on repeat in my mind. Justifications wrapped in cold policy do nothing to ease the images: kangaroos hunted down, joeys bludgeoned. Some don’t even die quickly—left to suffer from shattered bones, torn muscles, and silent agony because their killers missed. I try to understand what goes on inside someone’s head to murder a sentient being. I think of the trauma workers carry in abattoirs—the way it fractures souls. That doesn’t get measured in industry reports.

I’ve written emails. Posted blogs. Pleaded with pet food companies. Repeatedly met with glossy statements like “It’s ethical,” “It’s sustainable.” But what kind of ethics allow suffering to be monetised?

Then came the kicker—Ruby the Roo, the smiling mascot rolled out by Tourism Australia in a campaign to draw overseas visitors. A cartoon kangaroo bouncing through glossy ads while the real ones bleed in silence. What a joke. It felt like a slap. Do they not see the grotesque contradiction? How can we dress kangaroos in smiles while leaving their real bodies bloodied in the dirt?

And it’s not just the murder dressed up as culling—it’s the cruelty that shakes your faith in humanity. The kangaroo with an arrow lodged in its neck, still breathing. The one dragged behind a car with a rope around its throat, clinging to life as someone laughed behind the wheel. The mobs mown down by hoons who veer off the road just to hurt what’s harmless. Hit-and-run drivers who leave behind shattered bodies and confused joeys standing alone beside their dying mothers or the joey left in its mothers pouch. These aren’t accidents. They are acts of violence—deliberate, senseless, and far too frequent.

To every person who shows up in the aftermath—who cradles those joeys, carries the wounded to safety, picks through the trauma with bare hands and breaking hearts—I see you. I hold nothing but respect and gratitude for the ones who do this work, quietly, relentlessly, because it's the right thing. Thank you for standing between cruelty and compassion when so few do.

And so, the tears fall. Not once, not twice. They just flow—quietly, persistently, throughout the day. Hanging laundry. Bottle feeding. Writing in stolen moments between tasks. It’s like grief has taken up residence just under the skin. I know others feel it too. We hold so much, and there’s rarely space to let it out.

There's a word people use: compassion fatigue. I’ve never liked it—it feels clinical, like something to fix. But what I feel isn’t fatigue. It’s heartbreak, over and over. It’s witnessing so much pain and not knowing how to stop it. It’s rage, softened by exhaustion. It’s love, stretched thin.. Rage softened by sheer depletion.

I have babies depending on me. They deserve all of me. And lately, I haven’t felt like I’m giving them my best. So, I’m stepping back from advocacy—not forever, just long enough to catch my breath.

To anyone else feeling this: you're not weak. You are full to the brim with caring, and there’s no shame in pausing. Breathing. Letting the weight settle for a moment so it doesn’t crush you.

I’ll be back in the advocacy space soon. Refreshed, more strategic, and hopefully more powerful. But for now—I’ll be in the quiet, feeding bottles to babies with legs too long for their bodies, and hearts too tender for this world.

 

Thank You, Wildlife Carers: A Love Letter from the Wild

Written By Maggie van Santen

Dear Wildlife Carers,

Thank you.

Thank you for looking for me when you heard I was stuck in a fence, tangled and terrified. You tried to find me, and when you couldn’t, you came back the next day. You didn’t give up.

Thank you for your gentle hands and your quiet voices. When the outcome wasn’t what you’d hoped for, you didn’t let me suffer. You stayed with me. You made sure I left this world with dignity.

Thank you for driving long distances when you heard I’d been killed. You didn’t just mourn me—you searched for my baby. You found her. You fed her every three hours, day and night, because she needed you. And you never once said she was too much.

Thank you for traveling three hours when you heard I was in trouble. You stayed the night when you couldn’t find me. I’m sorry I ran—I was scared. But you waited. You understood.

Thank you for driving five hours in one day to pick me up when my ‘owners’ got tired of me and dumped me in the street. You didn’t see a nuisance—you saw a life worth saving.

Thank you for your commitment to me, even when I had issues. You gave me medical care, a soft bed, and a loving home. You believed in me. And now, I’m ready to be a wild girl once again.

Thank you for finding me after my mummy was killed. You knew I would come back to her, even though she was gone. I didn’t understand death. I just wanted her warmth. Thank you for catching me gently and giving me a new home.

Thank you for picking me up after I’d been left like a piece of garbage in a hit and run. The car didn’t stop. No one looked back. But you did. You brought me to your home and treated my broken body with respect and dignity. I saw your tears as you buried me gently, alongside other babies who didn’t make it.

Thank you to those who walk the killing fields after a night of shooting—scanning for signs of life among the silence. Thank you for ending lives with care, love, and dignity, even as your heart shatters. Thank you for checking pouches, for finding the tiny ones still clinging to hope, and giving them a chance.

Thank you to those who do the black walks—day after day, week after week—searching for movement, for breath, for life. You walk through grief and horror, and still, you return. You are the light in the darkest places.

Thank you for rescuing me from the dog chase. For nursing me through myopathy, when my body was shutting down from fear and trauma. And when all else failed, thank you for letting me go over the rainbow bridge—safe in your arms, even though your already shattered heart shattered further.

Thank you for searching for me for days after you knew I’d been hit by a car. The driver didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. But you did. You searched, knowing that when adrenaline hits, we can run a long way—even in excruciating pain. I’m sorry you didn’t find me. But I know you tried.

Thank you for knowing we come in broken—sick, orphaned, injured, confused. And still, you love us. You give us every chance. You cry for us. You fight for us. You never give up on us.

Thank you for crawling through bushland, for scanning paddocks, for listening to the rustle of leaves and the faintest cry..

Thank you for giving up two years of your life to raise me. You fed me, healed me, taught me how to be wild again. You let me go, not knowing if I’d be okay. I know it causes you sleepless nights, wondering if I’m safe, if I remember you, if I made it. But you did an amazing job. I’m back where I’m meant to be—under the stars, among the trees, living the life you dreamed for me.

Thank you for the sleepless nights, the heartbreaks, the vet bills, and the quiet victories.

Thank you for seeing us—not as pests, but as beings with stories, with families, with fear and hope.

You are the reason some of us get a second chance. You are the reason we learn to trust again. You are the reason we survive.

From all of us—those who made it, and those who didn’t—thank you.