Compassion for Terrorists
I trudge up the steep, redwood-lined hills of Berkeley, California, lugging two black canvas suitcases—one small, one large—and an oversized, gaudy scholarship book, awkwardly wedged between my armpit and torso. Reaching the final intersection, a drooping roundabout seemingly melted into the hillside, I sigh with relief; five miles, two hours, and much misdirection later, I had finally reached the Chicken Coop, an unassuming apartment complex nestled among the uptown frat houses. I would spend my first night here among the terrorists, the peculiar smell of stale cheese, celebratory cannabis, and wet dog wafting through my nostrils as I lay on the matted, hair-encrusted carpet.
”15 minutes to Anna Head!” Rachel shouts the following morning, rattling me awake from my exhaustion-induced slumber along the uncomfortable floor. After quickly donning my new t-shirt, depicting an irresistibly cute cow, chicken, and pig trio sandwiched between the slender, white words “I don’t eat my friends,” Rachel carts our entire entourage to Anna Head, a large, bungalow-style hall covered with blackened shingles, green roofing material, and wandering branches of ivy. Once we arrive, I push my way through the foyer into the main hall, a churchlike room featuring open rafters, draping party lights, and a slanted upper balcony that wraps around the room like an indoor veranda. Along the unpopulated edges of the room I find a breakfast table, brimming with vegan pastries, from thick, moist pumpkin loaves to buttery, chocolate-filled croissants. I smuggle them one-by-one, slinking each time to the corner of the room with my spoils.
With notes of chocolate, butter, and pumpkin spice still lingering in my mouth, I plop on a firm, black chair. A large, burly man named Paul strides onto the stage; like a 1980’s anachronism and a 1950’s farmhand rolled into one, he sports both a wispy, blonde-haired mullet and a pair of weathered, blue denim overalls. “I would like to tell you about some of the most important work we undertake as Direct Action Everywhere,” he begins. “Every year since our founding, we have investigated factory farms to document the conditions animals live in. We have investigated Smithfield facilities and Whole Foods suppliers alike. And what we have found every time is anything but humane.”
As images of pus-filled eyes, rotting carcasses, and mutilated genitals flood my mind, Paul swivels in front of the podium. “We don’t just expose these inhumane conditions; we actively rescue animals from these places of violence, suffering, and death. We find sick, injured, and dying animals who have suffered the most, and we bring them to safety and freedom. We give them the veterinary care they deserve, and we find them loving homes where they will never need to fear for their lives again.” Strutting across the stage, Paul extols 2016 as our most successful year yet. “We conducted six open rescues across the country this past year, saving over a dozen animals from painful, protracted deaths without any comfort or care. We gave them a second chance at life, the life they always deserved but were cruelly robbed of.” He pauses, tugging on one of his overall straps. “I would like to show you the tale of Lily, who we rescued just two weeks ago from Circle Four Farms.”
A screen hisses behind Paul as it unwinds, and the room plunges into darkness. Music with grand, rolling phrases undulates in the background as childlike phrases materialize on-screen. “This is the story of a piglet who was saved, and of a man who found her in a cage.” The warm scene of Wayne, the founder of DxE, stroking Lily dissolves. “Lily’s mom gave birth at a ‘crate-free’ farm. But the bars stopped her from caring for her babies. The ground was so hard that she couldn’t sleep. The air was so dirty that she couldn’t breathe.” Wearing his trademark, brilliant-blue DxE shirt atop a white, plastic biohazard suit, Wayne wades through this dreary netherworld of neglect, dust, and suffering.
“One day, Lily’s foot got caught and injured,” the screen reads as the camera pans to a quivering piglet, stumbling between the cold, iron slats of her prison cell, her ribs showing under her silky, newborn’s coat. “Her mom tried to break her out, but she couldn’t escape. Then a strange man arrived. He heard Lily’s mom crying. He saw Lily couldn’t walk. And he knew she had to be saved.” Reaching under the pale, metal bars of the farrowing crate, Wayne lifts Lily to safety, cuddling her against his chest. As Lily’s mother nuzzles the metal bars of her oppressive cage, her wrinkled, downtrodden eyes communicating the world-weary brokenness of her soul, Wayne says farewell, promising a better life for her daughter. Wayne then gently lowers Lily into a large, Rubbermaid plastic bin, fitted with holes and a grey blanket to warm and comfort Lily as he smuggles her to safety, love, and freedom. “And Lily came back to life,” the final credits beam, images of Lily frolicking with another piglet dancing on the screen. Stricken with both grief and hope, I shudder.
On an otherwise pedestrian morning several months later, just before I hurtle down I-44 to my advanced ethics class at St. Louis University, I receive an update from DxE in my inbox. With this email screaming “URGENT” in all caps, I open it immediately. “The FBI is raiding animal sanctuaries across the country in a desperate search for Lily,” I read as adrenaline bolts through my mind. “They have mutilated baby pigs by notching their ears, harassed volunteers at animal sanctuaries to the point of tears, and threatened even more violence at the behest of the animal industry, enraged by our shocking exposés of their almost boundless cruelty.” I nudge myself back from the computer desk, disturbed by the latest news of a struggling industry trying desperately to withhold the truth from an increasingly aware and disillusioned public, this time, by intimidating whistleblowers into silence and inaction with the force of FBI troopers. With precious few minutes to spare, I shove my disheveled binders into my backpack, burst out the front door, and speed down the suburban straightway in my dinky, blue-green Hyundai Elantra.
Troubled by my morning read, I neglect to tune into 107.3, whose symphonies, concertos, and operas I blare into my ears to the point of partial deafness, sinking instead into solemn reflection. I had once criticized animal rights activists for breaking into farms, rescuing animals, and damaging some property in the process; I feared these actions painted animal rights activists as extreme, radical, and even criminal. Even though I secretly rooted for these the heroes of future generations, I discounted their contributions in the present as unnecessary and unwarranted. But when a young, charismatic, Mexican Jew by the name of Sasha drew me into the movement, exposing me to my first DxE Forum, my opinion shifted. As images of black-ski-mask-wearing Animal Liberation Front activists unleashing a horde of vulnerable minks into the wild faded, replaced instead by the familiar faces of Wayne, Paul, and Priya rescuing a trembling piglet from a life of desolation, I realized that open rescue, founded on the principle of strict nonviolence toward all sentient beings, has incredible potential to revolutionize our relationship with nonhuman animals. Through this act of sheer compassion, we can expose the violence, save the victims, and ultimately challenge the prevailing social norm of animal use, abuse, and exploitation.
Amid the FBI raids, I ponder behind the wheel—since when did compassion become a crime? Since when did saving the life of an innocent become an act of terrorism instead of heroism? And since when did the liberator, and not the oppressor, become the terrorist?
