About the death-in-life of animals in 'entertainment' and on industrialized farms.
Excerpt from Karen Davis' book, The Holocaust and the Henmaid's Tale: A Case for Comparing Atrocities
At the heart of the zoo’s paradoxical status is a sort of
double-alienation. On the one hand the zoo is a sort of prison – a
space of confinement and a site of enforced marginalization like the
penitentiary or the concentration camp. And on the other it cannot
subvert the awful reality that the animals, from whatever vantage
point they are viewed, are “rendered absolutely marginal.” It
demonstrates, as John Berger is at pains to point out, a basic
ecological fact of loss and exclusion – the disappearance and
extinction of animals – through an act of incarceration.
‑ Michael
Watts, “The Age of the Chicken”
In “Why Look at Animals,” John Berger presents the environment of
the zoo as a paradigm of false anthropomorphism at its worst. “The
space, which modern, institutionalized animals inhabit,” Berger
writes, “is artificial.”
In some cages the light is equally artificial. In all cases the environment is illusory. Nothing surrounds [the animals] except their own lethargy or hyperactivity. They have nothing to act upon – except, briefly, supplied food and – very occasionally – a supplied mate. (Hence their perennial actions become marginal actions without an object.) Lastly, their dependence and isolation have so conditioned their responses that they treat any event which takes place around them -–usually it is in front of them, where the public is – as marginal. (Hence their assumption of an otherwise exclusively human attitude – indifference.) . . . At the most, the animal’s gaze flickers and passes on. They look sideways. They look blindly beyond. They scan mechanically. They have been immunized to encounter, because nothing can any more occupy a central place in their attention.
Berger says that animals in the zoo “disappoint” the public,
especially the children, who want to know, “Where is he? Why doesn’t
he move? Is he dead?” Animals on factory farms and in laboratories
differ from animals in the zoo in that they are not intended to be
viewed, yet all of these animals share the fate of being prevented
from being seen in their own right. Animals on display are the
objects of blind, and blinding, encounters between a human audience
and the animals’ human-imposed personas. Animals who break out of
their phony images are punished – further punished, that is, since
the condition of spectacular captivity (captivity for the sake of
spectacle) is, of itself, the fundamental punishment – by being
beaten, starved, isolated, sold, killed, or all of the above. Zoo
animals, so-called, are imprisoned in a world that expresses
elements in human nature that no normal nonhuman animal would
voluntarily consent to enter and live in.
Likewise, animals on factory farms are imprisoned in a world which
their psyches did not emanate and which they accordingly do not
understand. Forcing our psychic pattern on animals who fit the
pattern only by being “stretched” or “amputated” to conform is the
very essence of the genocidal assault on nonhuman animal identity,
in addition to the direct extermination of millions of animals every
day by humans. As Roberta Kalechofsky writes in Animal Suffering and
the Holocaust, the animal is trapped in the “symbolism of another
group. The animal’s life and destiny are under the control of the
symbolic signs of others.”
Factory-farmed animals are imprisoned in total confinement buildings
within global systems of confinement, and are thus separated from
the natural world in which they evolved. They are imprisoned in
alien bodies genetically manipulated for food traits alone, bodies
that in many cases have been surgically altered as well, creating a
disfigured appearance – they are debeaked, detoed, dehorned,
ear-cropped, tail-docked, castrated, and (in the case of piglets)
dentally mutilated – and always without painkillers.
Factory-farmed animals are imprisoned in a belittling concept of who
they are. Nor is their predicament new so much as a further turn of
the screw that, with genetic engineering and other refinements of
unrestrained scientific violence to animals firmly in place,
continues to turn. In The Animal Estate: The English and Other
Creatures in the Victorian Age, Harriet Ritvo shows how animals
became surrogates for nineteenth-century agendas, in particular
Britain’s imperial enterprise in which “material animals” and
“rhetorical animals” embodied the most powerful possible symbol of
human possession and control:
As material animals were at the complete disposal of human beings,
so rhetorical animals offered unusual opportunities for
manipulation; their positions in the physical world and in the
universe of discourse were mutually reinforcing. Their ubiquity made
animals particularly available to the Victorians, either in the
flesh or as something to talk about. They figured prominently in the
experience even of city dwellers. The streets were full of cabhorses
and carthorses; flocks of sheep and herds of cattle were driven to
market once or twice a week; many urbanites raised pigs and chickens
in crowded tenements, or bred a variety of pets, from pigeons to
rabbits to fighting dogs.
Although these creatures might be strong in the muscular sense, they
were also manifestly powerless, as were bulls in rural fields, lions
in menageries, and even the dangerous game stalked by hunters on the
African plains or in the Indian hills. And in the rhetorical sphere
they were less potent still. If the power of discourse lies in its
inevitable restructuring and re-creation of reality, the ability of
human beings to offer counterinterpretations places inevitable
limits on the exercise of that power. Animals, however, never talk
back.
The many separate animal-related discourses of nineteenth-century
England constituted a single larger unit, which both discussed and
exemplified a central theme of domination and exploitation.
– Harriet Ritvo, The Animal Estate