28. července 2009

There's nothing wrong with it

Filozofická povídka, v které jsem se snažila zveličit výrok, že pokud by jatka měla skleněné zdi, všichni lidé by byli vegetariány. Pokud autoři mnohokrát opakovaného výroku chtěli ve skutečnosti říci vegany, tj. těmi, kdo nejí ani mléčné výrobky, pak fajn a používejte napříště správná pojmenování. Musíme už se naučit nebát slova veganství a neříkat vegetariánství všude tam, kde ve skutečnosti myslíme veganství. I to se snažím říct touto povídkou a dotahuju tvrzení o skleněných zdech do extrému - kdyby jatka měla skleněné zdi a všichni lidé by byli vegetariány (tj. ne vegany), nešťastné krávy by probíhaly sklem. Zatím jen v angličtině.

A philosophical fiction in which I tried to exaggerate the quote saying that if slaughterhouses had glass wals, we'd be all vegetarians. If the authors of this frequent statement wanted to actually say vegans, then well done and say what you really mean next time. We truly need to learn not to be afraid of the word vegan and not to say vegetarian when we really mean vegan. This is one of the things I wanted to point out in my story and so I hyperbolised - if slaughterhouses had glass walls, so-called dairy cows would run through them.

For some particular reason, I was deeply interested in not having my limbs cut off in the name of this frantic belief. There is everything to be "wrong" with what assigned me to milking machines, to wade in my siblings' blood here.

That's right. They said, if slaughterhouses had glass walls, we'd be all vegetarians. Clearly, let me explain. Now when slaughterhouses have glass walls, so-called dairy cows run through them. Surely, it did turn you vegetarians...
I know about humans tokenizing my mothers' photographs while praying for the world to go vegetarian. I wonder if this is what they wanted, here... I'm not a cow anymore, but I see.
When the time came that you stopped eating our flesh, unspeakable numbers of fourleggeds went on to end up being burnt into the piles of tr/ash. 'We wouldn't eat their muscles, right?' So ended up my nine little children in their fortnight. The tenth and eleventh ones I bore dead.
Meanwhile cows, such as I used to be, rotted in rusty stalls nourishing humans with flowery milk... and blood as they were dying. I will not any longer be part of it anymore.

But there are few more things that I will have to say. Something to leave behind as a memoriam, for something to be left of me as my children were all butchered. An insight. I was born in a stall, I spent all my life inside the stall and before I was trucked to slaughter, I had never stepped out of the stall. Still, I will never cease to wonder the miracle of holocaust we were all left to linger within, lower creatures. Children being born on concrete, their lame mothers beaten to get up on their feet and watch and listen to their children's screams as they were castrated alive, horns thrown away, testicles cut and numbers burnt. Iron deprived and wood kept, filthy, always-thirsty though swilled and hungry though fed. Mad. Motherless, bloodless, chronically anemic muscles called white meat. What is a meat?
Shot. Tied. Dragged. Hung. Awoken. Stabbed. Cut. Throats cut. Ears cut. Limbs cut. Roar.
Head cut. Veal.

Or, as others said, ... If slaughterhouses had glass walls, you still wouldn't be able to see much, because the glass would be smeared with blood.

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