Back from Summer Break With a Powerful Passage

I am back from a summer hiatus, and I especially wanted to post this powerful passage by Timothy Pachirat, author of Every Twelve Seconds, a book about slaughterhouses. It's an extraordinary description of slaughter, worth including here in its entirety.

“I wanted to understand how massive processes of violence become normalized in modern society, and I wanted to do so from the perspective of those who work in the slaughterhouse. I worked as an entry level worker on the kill floor of an industrialized slaughterhouse in order to understand, from the perspective of those who participate directly in them, how these zones of confinement operate.      

My first job was as a liver hanger in the cooler. For ten hours each day, I stood in 34 degrees cold and took freshly eviscerated livers off an overhead line and hung them on carts to be chilled for packing. I was then moved to the chutes, where I drove live cattle into the knocking box where they were shot in the head with a captive bolt gun. Finally, I was promoted to a quality-control position, a job that gave me access to every part of the kill floor and made me an intermediary between the USDA federal meat inspectors and the kill floor managers.      

Each job came with its own set of physical, psychological, and emotional challenges. Although it was physically demanding, my main battle hanging livers in the cooler was with the unbearable monotony. Pranks, jokes, and even physical pain became ways of negotiating that monotony. Working in the chutes took me out of the sterilized environment of the cooler and forced a confrontation with the pain and fear of each individual animal as they were driven up the serpentine line into the knocking box. Working as a quality control worker forced me to master a set of technical and bureaucratic requirements even as it made me complicit in surveillance and disciplining my former coworkers on the line. Although it's been over seven years since I left the kill floor, I am still struck by the continued emotional and psychological impacts that come from direct participation in the routinized taking of life.        

The cattle come into the slaughterhouse caked in feces and vomit. From the moment cattle are unloaded from transport trucks into the slaughterhouse's holding pens, managers and kill floor supervisors refer to them as 'beef.' Although they are living, breathing, sentient beings, they have already linguistically been reduced to inanimate flesh, to use-objects.      

The knocker is the worker who stands at the knocking box and shoots each individual animal in the head with a captive bolt steel gun. Only the knocker both sees the cattle while sentient and delivers the blow that is supposed to render them insensible. On an average day, this lone worker shoots 2,500 individual animals at a rate of one every twelve seconds.    After the knocker shoots the cattle, they fall onto a conveyor belt where they are shackled and hoisted onto an overhead line. Hanging upside down by their hind legs, they travel through a series of ninety degree turns that take them out of the knocker's line of sight. There, a presticker and sticker sever the carotid arteries and jugular veins. The animals then bleed out as they travel further down the overhead chain to the tail ripper, who begins the process of removing their body parts and hides. Of over 800 workers on the kill floor, only four are directly involved in the killing of the cattle and less than 20 have a line of sight to the killing.     

There is a kind of collective mythology built up around this particular worker, a mythology that allows for an implicit moral exchange in which the knocker alone performs the work of killing, while the work of the other 800 slaughterhouse workers is morally unrelated to that killing. It is a fiction, but a convincing one: of all the workers in the slaughterhouse, only the knocker delivers the blow that begins the irreversible process of transforming the live creatures into dead ones. If you listen carefully enough to the hundreds of workers performing the 120 other jobs on the kill floor, this might be the refrain you hear: 'Only the knocker.' It is simple moral math: the kill floor operates with 120+1 jobs. And as long as the 1 exists, as long as there is some plausible narrative that concentrates the heaviest weight of the dirtiest work on this 1, then the other 120 kill floor workers can say, and believe it, 'I'm not going to take part in this.'     

Over 8.5 billion animals are killed for food each year in the United States, but this killing is carried out by a small minority of largely immigrant workers who labor behind opaque walls, most often in rural, isolated locations far from urban centers. Furthermore, laws supported by the meat and livestock industries are currently under consideration in six states that criminalize the publicizing of what happens in slaughterhouses and other animal facilities without the consent of the slaughterhouse owners.”   

- Timothy Pachirat, Assistant Professor of Politics at The New School for Social Research and the author of Every Twelve Seconds 

STOP THE MADNESS. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE GO VEGAN!

Mandatory Viewing: Another Video from Toronto Pig Save

The heroic men and women of Toronto Pig Save are fighting a noble battle against the slaughter of pigs at Quality Meat Packers and other slaughterhouses in the Toronto area.

Please watch this video to understand what they're up against. Pigs across North America are being transported in packed trucks in record high temperatures, spending their final moments in agony before they're murdered so human beings can devour their flesh. For those of you who do not follow temperatures in celsius, 38 degrees equals about 101 degrees Fahrenheit. That was the temperature on Thursday when these poor beings were crammed into a transport truck and taken to the last place they will ever be alive.

"There is a crime that goes beyond denunciation," John Steinbeck wrote in The Grapes of Wrath. He could have been describing this scene.

Toronto Pig Save is helping to create glass walls, and, in the process, tearing down the walls of denial. A lot of people will go out of their way not to watch these videos - not to gaze into the abyss and view the horror and suffering firsthand - because they want their ham or their bacon or their pork. But we need to keep battering away at these walls.

Hit, hit, hit, hit these walls, like waves crashing on the shore. Tear them down brick by brick. Demolish them until there is nothing left standing.

Because, take my word for it my friends, this ghastly scene is not confined to Toronto. It has taken place in city after city, country after county, and this "damned human race" (now quoting Mark Twain) has so much blood on its hands. The blood of innocents.

The only way to stop this madness is for everybody to go vegan. That may seem like a pipe dream. But when the great abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison (1805-1879) started his newspaper The Liberator in 1831 and called for the immediate emancipation of his enslaved brothers and sisters and an end to chattel slavery, that was the ultimate pipe dream. Slavery had the government on its side. It had the courts on its side. It had the forces of coercion and the power of wealth on its side. And, yet, thirty-five years after Garrison published the first Liberator and 1,820 issues later, the institution of slavery crumbled into the garbage heap of history.

The mass murder of animals will one day be added to that same wretched garbage heap.

Mobilizing to Help the Pigs: In Praise of Toronto Pig Rescue

Across North America, livestock are being transported to killing factories in sweltering heat. It is bad enough that they are being slaughtered in such huge numbers, but to have to be squeezed into truck trailers by the dozens and dozens, with barely enough room to move, while the heat pounds down on them, is unthinkable.

Yesterday alone, here in southwestern Ontario, temperatures hit 38 Celsius (about 101 Fahrenheit). Factor in what they call the Humidex - an index used by Canadian meteorologists to figure out what the temperature really feels like to people once humidity is factored in - and you reach temperatures that feel like about 43 Celsius/110 Fahrenheit.

A few days ago, I blogged about Quality Meat Packers, a killing factory in Toronto where up to 6,000 pigs are processed every day.

What I failed to say is that small numbers of Torontonians are mobilizing. People in the region have formed a group called Toronto Pig Save. So far, they've launched letter writing campaigns to public officials and key political figures, picketed at various slaughterhouses, taken videos and photographs of distressed pigs, and attempted to speak to workers at these facilities in an effort to start a dialogue about what's going on. Their efforts have drawn media attention to the suffering of the animals.

Most of these activists are committed vegans who understand that winning new converts takes time and lots of hard work.

Yet when you begin to think of the suffering that so many animals are enduring on a daily basis, in what essentially amounts to assembly line murder, you get that sick sense of restlessness, that stabbing feeling that maybe small pockets of sane, reasonable, rational human beings aren't sufficient to counteract disturbing patterns of human destructiveness.

But the wonderful folks at Toronto Pig Save (see their fantastic Website here) are trying. They're part of a larger vegan and animal rights community in the city - and indeed, the region - working to open people's eyes to the suffering. That community has grown over the years. New people are waking up all the time. They are opening their eyes. They're starting to realize that reclaiming our humanity involves embracing nonviolence and compassion, and veganism is the ultimate expression of those values.

Those poor pigs are still out there in the sweltering sun, suffering, with no sweat glands, no means to cool down, knowing nothing but agony in their final days. But like the abolitionists of the 19th Century, who faced overwhelming odds in their efforts to undermine slavery, decent committed people are not giving up on them.

Postscript: To speak out against this madness, I wrote the following letter to The Globe and Mail, Canada's version of The New York Times. I don't know if they'll print it. If it doesn't appear shortly, I'll give The National Post a try.

Dear Editor,

Right now, as most of us struggle to stay cool, a tragedy is unfolding in our midst. Each day in this sweltering heat, truckloads pigs are left outside in the sun next to Quality Meat Packers Limited on Tecumseh Street in Toronto. The pigs squeal in agony, packed into nightmarish, oven-like conditions. Dazed, overheated, their snouts bleed from pressing against the walls of the truck trailers. They have no sweat glands, so their internal body temperature spikes. All the while, the heat blazes down on them relentlessly, making the final moments of their short lives unbearable. Efforts by concerned citizens to bring relief to the pigs are met with resistance by plant managers.

Six thousand pigs a day are processed at Quality Meat Packers. They know nothing but misery before their lives are cut short to fill our plates with meat we do not need to consume in order to survive. Sadly, Quality Meat Packers is not unique. This deplorable treatment is standard operating procedure for pork producers. “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated,” said Mahatma Gandhi. Ask yourself if this is the kind of Canada you want.

Andrew Hunt

The Lonely Fight is Always Worth It

Gwen Dunlop is a vegan from Toronto who is on a mission.

Each Sunday, she appears outside the buildings that house Toronto Abattoirs Ltd. and Quality Meat Packers Ltd. and holds her own one-woman vigil to speak out against what happens inside of those places.

If you want to read more about Gwen's experiences, visit her Blog here.

She started this vigil on December 13, 2009, and has been at it day in and day out ever since then. As Gwen writes on her Blog:

My vigil takes various forms but mostly it entails meeting the truckers as they arrive, witnessing the unloading of the females of the pig species, (called sows by some, who I call my soul friends and my tribe) and then seeing the truckers (who have no option but to pass right by me, my conscience and I hope and I know, in some cases, theirs) turn out of the driveway on route to wherever home is, to sometimes far-enough-away parts of Ontario.

Her Blog truly is one of the most powerful I have ever read. Gwen is brutally honest about her experiences. She is also humble. She writes without a hint of self-aggrandizement. She has engaged in lots of soul searching over the past year-plus. Her experiences have been a compelling mix of harrowing, boring, pathos-filled and intense. She has been yelled at by angry truckers and workers at the slaughterhouses. She has struggled to stay true to her beliefs and not let the violence she witnesses on a regular basis erode her humanity.

The most powerful passages on her Blog discuss her experiences during her vigils. Gwen writes:

I don’t always or only stand in the same place. I have had deeply meaningful, if not at times, intense interaction with the truckers, “super” visors, security, police, City of Toronto public workers (who share the same driveway), residents from the area, one of the care-takers of the numerous feral cats having sought refuge nearby, passers-by and even on one occasion, a waiter from a nearby restaurant. I’ve heard personal stories and extended hugs to someone who came across me and was moved to tears by what I was doing, but moreover through hearing the cries of pain and terror, of the animals themselves. I have had a slaughterhouse worker scream at me: “Who are you…some stupid, f’ing, psycho bitch?” only to very quietly say moments later: “I have nightmares you know…we all do”.

I have seen the inside of the holding area, the ugly red welts and deep gashes near sensitive parts of the animals’ bodies, their precious behinds fire-engine red and sore. I have seen the pile-up of bodies of those who didn’t survive transport, who I originally hoped might have found some modicum of comfort with each other until the realization set in that they were dead. I’ve run up one of the ladders attached to the holding compound and with my head stuck in a truck, screamed for leniency regarding the severity of the beatings. On at least a few occasions, I’ve lost my composure and done my own fair share of screaming, (I am no saint) raising my voice not in anger but as an appeal for humanity, theirs and mine.

The cynic might ask: What good does Gwen do by going out and conducting a one-woman vigil? What has she changed? The pigs still get slaughtered. The meat still goes to market wrapped in plastic and styrofoam. The killing continues. The system remains unchanged. So why do it? Why show up each day and hold these vigils? Why not simply concede defeat and move on?

Years ago, in 1958, World War II veteran-turned-pacifist Albert Bigelow sailed his ship, the Golden Rule, to the atolls in the Pacific where the United States was conducting atomic tests. He and a small group of his pacifist friends put their lives on the line - and put themselves in harm's way - to speak out against the insanity that was the arms race.

When they did this, back in 1958, it was a very gutsy thing to do (hell, it would be a gutsy thing to do now). This was back in the depths of the Cold War, when anticommunist hysteria had reached a fever pitch, and few people dared protest the arms race.

But Bigelow and his friends took that risk. Did they stop the insane escalation of nuclear arms? No. Did their actions halt the tests in the Pacific? No. So exactly what good did they do?

Right after Bigelow's daring protest, Dissent - a tiny, humanistic monthly magazine run by Irving Howe and other anti-Stalinist left-wing intellectuals - published a piece that explained the importance of Bigelow's protest. The article's author, Martin Oppenheimer, eloquently wrote:

If, as they admit, their effort may bring no real change, why do it at all? . . . They did it because they could do no other, because no one else did it for them, because politics failed to do it, because the hour was late and because they had to. Effectiveness had little to do with it. This was the individual act undertaken against a state and a condition which seemed omnipotent; above all, this was propaganda of the deed, one's physical body thrown into a void where no other bridge seemed to exist. (Source)

Today, 53 years after that article appeared in Dissent magazine, Oppenheimer's words could also be used to describe Gwen Dunlop's actions. Sure, she is not going to single-handedly stop the slaughter. Yes, pigs will continue to die in huge numbers to satisfy the human demand for a kind of food that is not necessary for our survival. The insanity will continue.

But in this tiny little corner of a huge, dark, cold universe, one woman is taking a stand. A candle is flickering in the wind. One person is standing against the madness. On a few occasions, she has even been joined by others who have come out to show their support. Thus, a few more candles are lit.

Does this create a revolution? Maybe not. But imagine how much darker, how much emptier, this universe would be if that one little candle weren't lit. If there is any hope of stopping the tragedy and the madness that surrounds us, it comes from the Gwen Dunlops. Great changes have always come from the lonely, the weary and the discouraged, who somehow find, within themselves, the courage to fight for their beliefs, even against impossible odds.

Especially against impossible odds.

Addressing the symptom, not the root, of the problem

Above: English slaughterhouses exposed: 10 minute overview from Animal Aid on Vimeo.

The British group Animal Aid has spent years fighting for the welfare of animals in the UK's slaughterhouses. Their efforts have paid off. Thanks to their undercover videos, the horrific treatment of animals awaiting slaughter - including workers beating and kicking animals and carrying at least one sheep unable to walk in a wheelbarrow - has been exposed to the public and resulted in a widespread outcry for reform. According to The Guardian (October 8, 2010), the government is "calling on nearly 370 slaughterhouses in Britain to install surveillance cameras to help enforce legislation against cruelty to animals, following a controversial campaign run by animal rights activists."

The success of this reform owes everything to Animal Aid, a terrific organization, founded in 1977, that has waged many a noble battle on behalf of the animals. They deserve praise for their efforts. They've worked hard for more than thirty years now to improve the treatment of factory farm animals. Animals are better off because of their efforts.

That said, placing video cameras in slaughterhouses misses the point. The worst part of the slaughterhouse is not the pig that is kicked in the stomach, the cow that is not properly stunned, or the diseased sheep thrown into a wheelbarrow and wheeled to the floor to have her throat cut. No, the worst part of the slaughterhouse is the slaughter itself. The worst part of the slaughter is severing the cartoid artery or the jugular vein of the cow or sheep or pig. The worst part of the slaughter is standing back and watching the life drain out animals, whether they happen to be stunned or fully conscious and kicking fiercely.

True, it is better not to torment an animal on his or her way to death. But what really needs to be changed is the mindset that tinkering with the system and improving conditions in factory farms and slaughterhouses will somehow address the root of the problem. Abusing animals is not the root issue here. The root of the problem is the belief that it is moral and appropriate to murder living, breathing, feeling, sentient beings. As long as this level of ultra-violence forms the basis of the slaughterhouse, then no matter how many video cameras are installed, no matter how many pieces of legislation are passed, no matter how many people sing the praises of "happy meat," nothing - nothing whatsoever - will change.

Photo Essay: The Journey to the Slaughterhouse

You've no doubt heard the expression "A picture is worth a thousand words." These pictures are worth far more than that. I am posting them here with permission from my Facebook friend and fellow vegan, Catherine Garneau. Catherine took these photographs of forlorn pigs on their way to the slaughterhouse and the images are absolutely tragic. Everybody who eats pork or bacon or ham or any other parts of pigs ought to study these images carefully. For these are the faces of the suffering caused by people making bad choices. This photo essay speaks volumes that no words could possibly capture. We owe a tremendous debt to Catherine and others who help us to see suffering animals. Such powerful images tear down the wall of denial that people build around themselves, one brick at a time. (A heartfelt thank you to Catherine Garneau for allowing me to repost her photographs here!)

"One could not stand and watch very long without becoming philosophical, without beginning to deal in symbols and similes, and to hear the hog squeal of the universe. Was it permitted to believe that there was nowhere upon the earth, or above the earth, a heaven for hogs, where they were requited for all this suffering? Each one of these hogs was a separate creature. Some were white hogs, some were black; some were brown, some were spotted; some were old, some young; some were long and lean, some were monstrous. And each of them had an individuality of his own, a will of his own, a hope and a heart's desire; each was full of self- confidence, of self-importance, and a sense of dignity. And trusting and strong in faith he had gone about his business, the while a black shadow hung over him and a horrid Fate waited in his pathway. Now suddenly it had swooped upon him, and had seized him by the leg. Relentless, remorseless, it was; all his protests, his screams, were nothing to it - it did its cruel will with him, as if his wishes, his feelings, had simply no existence at all; it cut his throat and watched him gasp out his life. And now was one to believe that there was nowhere a god of hogs, to whom this hog personality was precious, to whom these hog squeals and agonies had a meaning? Who would take this hog into his arms and comfort him, reward him for his work well done, and show him the meaning of his sacrifice?"'

- Upton Sinclair, The Jungle (1906)