The Cloak of Silence

Shadowfish and the Lanternfish

In the seafood industry, power rarely speaks in plain words. Behind closed doors and confidential consultations, decisions are shaped in shadows—where accountability slips through the cracks like baitfish through a trawl net.

We gather for meetings—on sustainability, policy, representation—and before a word is spoken, the first question is always the same:

“This isn’t being recorded, is it?”

Then comes the ritual incantation:

“Chatham House Rule applies.”

This is no longer about privacy. It’s a culture of calculated silence.

The so-called representatives of our industry—the ones who claim to speak on behalf of harvesters, of legacy, of livelihood—they rarely put their name to a belief, an idea, or a position. They speak safely, vaguely, and always off the record. Because if something fails, they want deniability. But if it succeeds? Suddenly, their names are at the top of the press release.

And yet, not all are content to hide in the dark.

There are still a few among us—harvesters, thinkers, true leaders—who fight to have their names listed beside their words. They speak with conviction, not convenience. They believe that change cannot come without truth, and truth means standing behind what you say, even if consequences follow. But time and again, they are drowned out by a sea of cowardice. Not by louder voices, but by quieter ones. By the soft, careful hum of self-preservation.

It raises a confronting question: If you cannot own your words, what are they worth?

And so, to capture the spirit of this growing fear of consequence—this culture of hiding in the dark—I offer the following parable.

The Parable of the Lanternfish

In the deep, dark trench of the ocean, there lived a vast colony of Lanternfish. These fish had small lights on their heads—not powerful beams, but enough to see the path just ahead. The trench was a dangerous place: predators roamed, currents shifted without warning, and food was scarce unless the Lanternfish worked together to find it.

Long ago, the Lanternfish met in open gatherings. They would swim in circles, light up their thoughts, share ideas, and debate how best to survive. They argued sometimes, but their lights helped them see each other clearly. They found food, avoided danger, and grew strong.

But as time passed, something changed.

A Shadowfish appeared—large, silent, and watching. No one knew who it served, but whenever a Lanternfish spoke too brightly, it would vanish. Just gone. The others said it was taken for "saying too much," or "being too visible."

So the Lanternfish grew afraid. They began to dim their lights.

They still met, but now in whispers. They spoke in riddles, not truth. They checked over their fins before they talked, always asking, “This isn't being recorded, is it?” And whenever a brave fish tried to shine its light again, the others would quickly nudge it quiet.

“No need for that,” they’d say. “Best keep things... dim.”

Years passed. The trench grew darker. The currents grew stronger. The food grew scarcer. But no one knew who to blame—because no one would speak openly. The fish had ideas, but they stayed unspoken. They had warnings, but they stayed hidden.

And so, one by one, the Lanternfish began to drift apart—still glowing faintly, still circling, but never shining. Never trusting.

All the while, the Shadowfish watched. And smiled.

Moral:

When fear of consequence smothers truth, darkness becomes the system. Only when someone dares to shine—name and all—can others find the courage to do the same.