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Animal Rights Groups Object to Buckingham Palace Guard’s Distinctive Bearskin Caps 

King's Guards wearing bearskin caps stand by Buckingham Palace, in London, Britain, September 12, 2024. (Reuters)
King's Guards wearing bearskin caps stand by Buckingham Palace, in London, Britain, September 12, 2024. (Reuters)
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Animal Rights Groups Object to Buckingham Palace Guard’s Distinctive Bearskin Caps 

King's Guards wearing bearskin caps stand by Buckingham Palace, in London, Britain, September 12, 2024. (Reuters)
King's Guards wearing bearskin caps stand by Buckingham Palace, in London, Britain, September 12, 2024. (Reuters)

An animal rights group trying to get real fur out of the bearskin caps worn by King's Guards at Buckingham Palace took aim Thursday at the cost of the ceremonial garb.

The price of the caps soared 30% in a year to more than 2,000 pounds ($2,600) apiece for the hats made of black bear fur, the Ministry of Defense said in response to a freedom of information request by People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.

“Stop wasting taxpayer pounds on caps made from slaughtered wildlife and switch to faux fur today,” the group said in a statement.

A luxury fake fur maker has offered to supply the army with free faux bear fur for 10 years, PETA said.

The military said it was open to exploring alternatives if they pass muster in durability, water protection and appearance. But “no alternative has met all those criteria to date,” a ministry spokesperson said in a statement.

The distinctive tall black hats, worn by guards in bright scarlet tunics, are seen by millions who watch the regular changing of the guard ceremony at the palace. They also appear at other royal events including the annual Trooping the Color ceremony honoring the monarch’s birthday in June.

The cost of the caps rose from 1,560 pounds ($2,035) each in 2022 to 2,040 pounds ($2,660) in 2023, the ministry said. More than 1 million pounds ($1.3 million) was spent on them in the past decade.

The price went up because of a contract change for fur that comes from bears killed in licensed hunts in Canada, the military said. Each cap requires one bear pelt, PETA said.

PETA, which has been pushing for more than two decades to scrap the fur hats, said each cap requires one bear pelt. The group claimed that the defense department is propping up the “cruel” Canadian bear-hunting industry.

The ministry denied that charge and said if it stopped buying the pelts, it would not reduce the numbers of bears being killed.

Parliament debated the issue in July 2022 after an online petition with more than 100,000 signatures called for using fake fur in the caps.

“This hunting involves the violent killing of bears, with many bears being shot several times,” Martyn Day, then a Scottish National Party member of Parliament, said at the time. “It seems undeniable, therefore, that by continuing to purchase hats made from the fur of black bears the MOD is funding the suffering of bears in Canada by making the baiting and killing of those animals and the sale of their pelts a profitable pursuit for the hunters.”

Day said a poll at the time found 75% of the UK population found real bearskins were a bad use of taxpayer money and supported replacing the hats.

He noted that the late Queen Elizabeth II had ceased buying fur for her wardrobe.

Earlier this year, Queen Camilla, wife of King Charles III, pledged to buy no more fur products.

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Varieties

Nigerian Farms Battle Traffic, Developers in Downtown Abuja

Developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in Abuja. OLYMPIA DE MAISMONT / AFP
Developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in Abuja. OLYMPIA DE MAISMONT / AFP
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Nigerian Farms Battle Traffic, Developers in Downtown Abuja

Developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in Abuja. OLYMPIA DE MAISMONT / AFP
Developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in Abuja. OLYMPIA DE MAISMONT / AFP

Under the din of traffic from the highway bridge that cuts over his fields, Bala Haruna inspects corn, cassava and okra on his family farm.

A pump pulls up water from a nearby stream and is diverted through trenches dug through cropland wedged between four-lane roads -- fields which were here long before the nearby hotel, the imposing national mosque or any of the high-rises that make up downtown Abuja were even dreamed up.

"There were no buildings here," Haruna, 42, told AFP, reminiscing over his childhood as birds chirped and frogs croaked.

The urban farms dotting Nigeria's capital show the limits of the top-down management the planned city is known for -- oases scattered around pockmarked downtown that has long expanded outward faster than it has filled in.

They owe much of their existence to the fact that they lie in hard-to-develop gulches along creek beds. Even roads built through them over the years tended to be elevated highway overpasses.

That fragile balancing act, however, is increasingly under threat, as developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in a city known for concrete sprawl.

On the other side of the overpass, the future has arrived: the vegetation abruptly stops and temperatures suddenly rise over flattened fields razed by construction crews.

Local farmers said the people who took the land three years ago provided no documentation and only gave the eight of them 300,000 naira to split -- a sum worth only $190 today after years of rampant inflation.

Much of the farmland in and around downtown is supposed to be a municipal green space, with neither farms nor buildings on it.

But enforcement of the decades-old Abuja master plan is ripe with abuse and lack of enforcement, said Ismail Nuhu, urban governance researcher who did his PhD on the capital's urban planning.

Adding to the sense of precarity is that the land, on paper, belongs to the government.

"Politicians still use it to grab lands, just to say, 'Oh, according to the master plan, this is not to be here'," no matter what the document actually says, he told AFP, adding that, technically, even the presidential villa is not located where it is supposed to be.

Nyesom Wike, the minister of the Federal Capital Territory, which includes Abuja, recently told reporters he would "enforce" the 70s-era master plan by building roads and compensating and evicting settlements that stand in the way.

FCT officials including Wike's spokesman did not respond to requests for comment.

Urbanizing country, not enough jobs

The farms have provided steady employment -- a lifeline for some as the rapidly urbanizing country fails to produce enough jobs. A recent opening for 10,000 government jobs saw 450,000 applicants, according to local media.

"Having a green space... in a very thick, populated city like Abuja does a lot of good," said retiree Malik Kuje Guni, who started farming three years ago to supplement his pension.

While tens of thousands of residents pass by the farms each day without second thought, Guni, when he was working as a civil servant, would often come down to visit, enjoying the shade and fresh air.

Now tilling a potato plot of his own, "I can come down, work, sweat," the 63-year-old said. "I have hope something will come out of it."

A few blocks over, squat, informal houses made of wood and sheet metal give way to a field of sugarcane, corn and banana trees. Glass-paneled highrises, half-finished construction and the imposing Bank of Industry tower above.

The crops give way to land cleared by developers a few months ago, some of whom pushed into Godwin Iwok's field and destroyed his banana trees.

Iwok, who quit his security job 22 years ago to make more money as a farmer, has had parts of his fields destroyed twice in the past two years, neither time with compensation.

To Guni, the farms represent the city's rural heritage. Despite decades of government promises to relocate Nigeria's capital from the crowded, congested mega-city of Lagos, the move only occurred in 1991.

But neither Iwok, 65, nor Haruna want their children to continue their increasingly precarious line of work.

"I wouldn't want my children to stand under the sun as I did," Iwok told AFP.

"I only use what I'm getting here... to make sure my children go to school."