The brave Chick

Every day I had to walk past this barn. It was actually a stable, even if the halls were more reminiscent of factory buildings. It would also fit better. In it rearing happened as production. I was allowed to see it once. Chickens that were only a few weeks old were crammed together with no space. As babies, when they were delivered, the hall looked spacious, but they had been bred to grow as fast as possible. They reach their slaughter weight within six weeks. The growth is so rapid that many cannot stand upright because the breast is too heavy and pulls them forward when the vacuum cleaner comes and collects them to take them to the slaughterhouse.

They are hatched under a heat lamp because the mothers lay eggs all the time. Then they come into this hall from the hatchery. There’s a bit of straw lying around. They are put in, then the gate is closed, and nobody takes care of them because the food and water are administered automatically. Woe to those who are not growing fast enough and are too small to reach food or water, which is always being pulled up to accommodate the growth of most chickens. It’s not entirely true that nobody cares. Every now and then, not too often, someone will go through and collect the dead bodies. Very soon you can no longer see the straw and the animals are standing in their own shit. She burns her feet. Then, after 42 days, they are taken away and murdered. And I have to think about it when I walk by, every day.

At that time, I took photos and published them. Everything legal. Still, it may turn one’s stomach that this is covered by law. An outcry followed. Then nothing. People continue to buy the cheap meat and forget how it’s done. The farmer built a barbed wire fence, installed surveillance cameras and no longer let anyone in. It goes on as before, only that nobody gets to see it anymore. Tears run down my cheeks at the thought of suddenly hearing a soft beep. I listen carefully. There it is again. I bend my knees to see where it’s coming from. That’s when I spot a small, yellow ball of feathers that had made its way away from the van, across the yard, and through the barbed wire. Now, apparently exhausted, it sat at my feet and squeaked heart-rendingly. I was so glad I was there otherwise it might have spilled onto the street. So I bent down and picked it up. How tender and soft it felt. „You are such a brave little chick,“ I said, „You obviously took advantage of an opportunity to escape. And then you should get run over by a car? No, I won’t allow that.” The chick squeaked in agreement. Now it walks around my garden and goes by the name Alma, which means the brave. If she had stayed where she was, she would have been killed long ago. she is fine She has a little house where she can retreat in the evening, safe from foxes and martens, a green meadow where she can peck and run around. In short, she leads a normal chicken life and enjoys it as long as she can. A brave little hen that I saved from a brief life of torment and pain. Actually, you can’t call it life at all, but just wasting away on the day of the murder. The doors will be locked. No outsider sees it. When we buy the chicken breast packaged, there is no trace of the misery. It doesn’t smell of poop and death, but clean and tidy, something these dead animals we’re eating never got to experience. It is normal in a society where they are not seen as living beings but as units of production used to make a profit. No, I didn’t change anything in the system with my action, but I gave Alma, this one brave hen, a life that millions of others are denied. But we can change it. Each one of us has it in our hands. Stop buying animal meat. Go vegan. That’s how easy it can be.

Schreiben Sie einen Kommentar

Trage deine Daten unten ein oder klicke ein Icon um dich einzuloggen:

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Abmelden /  Wechseln )


Du kommentierst mit Deinem Twitter-Konto. Abmelden /  Wechseln )


Du kommentierst mit Deinem Facebook-Konto. Abmelden /  Wechseln )

Verbinde mit %s