SOURCE ET SUITE
UN TRES BEAU TEXTE A LIRE EN TOTALITE
C' EST DANS UN ENCLOS OU QUELQUES COCHONS MALTRAITES ET DONT LE CORPS TEMOIGNE DES SOUFFRANCES ENDUREES , LES PLAIES COUVERTES DE CRASSE ET DE MOUCHES... ATTENDENT D' ETRE MENES VERS LEUR DELIVRANCE... L' ABATTOIR....
CAR PLUS RIEN NE PEUT LES SAUVER.
ILS N' AURONT CONNU QUE SOUFFRANCE DANS LEUR VIE TROP LONGUE FAITE DE TORTURES QUOTIDIENNES....
TORTURES PHYSIQUES ET PSYCHOLOGIQUES CAR LES BEBES LEUR ONT ETE RETIRES ET ILS LES ONT VUS SOUFFRIR SANS POUVOIR LES CONFORTER NI LES SAUVER
ALORS QUELQUES AMIS DES BETES... DE VRAIS AMIS DES BETES............PAS CES CONNARDS QUI DISENT "J' AIMENT LES ANIMAUX "" ............ET S' ENFILENT DES STEAKS ET AUTRES A LONGUEUR DE JOURNEES.... S' ARMENT DE COMPASSION, LA RAGE AU COEUR...MAIS LA MAIN DOUCE TENTENT DE LEUR MONTRER QUE NON, TOUS LES HUMAINS NE SONT PAS DES VERMINES...
The following is my account based on a vigil at a stockyard and market in rural North Carolina, where animals are kept for a short period in their journey from “farm” to slaughterhouse. While there, activists offered water and a moment of kindness to spent sows, and documented their conditions to raise awareness of the lives of the animals many call “food.”
It is the smell that first overtakes me – the acrid odor of liquid feces saturating the air and tangling in my lungs. It emanates from a wooden stockyard at the edge of a dusty lot, a dilapidated structure that sags in the humidity and heat of the early morning sun.
My experiences with bearing witness have previously led me to stand in overgrown right-of-ways outside of the most depressing of establishments – slaughterhouses – waiting for that brief and lucky moment when a loaded transport truck pauses to stop. It’s there that adrenaline and fervor kick in, a group rushing to the side of the truck with water in hand, our mission to ease the thirst and suffering of as many animals as possible before they continue to their destination. They are lives that are there and gone in a moment – only enough time for a brief glimpse into their eyes, and never enough to apologize for all that humanity has done to them.
At the stockyard, we find sows waiting to be taken to slaughter.The stockyard is different. Its current inhabitants appear to be spent sows, female pigs whose sole purpose has been to reproduce litter after litter, never having the opportunity to spend more than a few weeks with any of their young. Past the peak of their breeding lives, the stockyard is a pit stop on their final journey; they are brought here from nearby farms and left for a few days, held until the next truck arrives to take them to slaughter.
The yard is a rectangle of loosely-covered pens, a box of weathered wood covered with tattered canvas sheets. Its inhabitants are obvious from a distance, their snouts and flanks visible beneath the shroud that shadows them. I approach with a small group of others, preparing myself mentally for what we are about to see. We move slowly here, not wanting to startle or stress the animals. As we draw closer, we hear the soft, vocal grunts of the sows emanating from within, and the smell of the pens becomes overwhelming.
We give them water. Help them drink. Carefully stroke their bellies. The stockyard gives me the opportunity to look into their eyes for longer, and their desperation and pain is palpable. It feels like hours here, kneeling in the dirt. My hands and heart tremble as I try to impart love to these beautiful beings, while inside, it is all I can do to keep from screaming. After several bottles of water, the sow with the prolapse lifts her head to nudge my hand when I stroke her cheek.