alks

“I would like to report in this article about how colleagues and I went to the basement of the Horkheimer skyscraper [while Hegel's master-servant dialectic can still be read as an allegory of class society, in which the driving force of change can emanate from the enslaved, it helps to become aware of the powerless position of animals with the help of Horkheimer's skyscraper metaphor: In an aphorism from 1934, the Frankfurt School theorist symbolizes the construction of society by a skyscraper, at the top of which stand the big capitalists and in the basement of which is located “the indescribable, unthinkable suffering of the animals, the animal hell in human society [...], the sweat, the blood [and] the despair of the animals”.] one night to free a total of 130 laying hens from their miserable existence and hand them over to a sanctuary. My motive, by the way, was not a politically strategic one; I did not engage in effective-altruistic considerations (which probably would have led to the abandonment of the action), nor did I ask myself to what extent the theft of 130 laying hens would harm the farm's operators economically (the damage is likely to be laughably small with over 50,000 animals on site). What drove me I would call an act of materialistic solidarity: My awareness of the fact that there are countless living creatures that are in no way inferior to me in terms of physical ability to suffer, and that suffer agonies that are almost unimaginable, regularly turns my stomach and chills my heart. By this I don't mean, as might be assumed now, that my heart becomes cold in a sense of insensitivity — quite the opposite: whenever I become aware that tormentable bodies out there meet conditions that cannot be described in any other way than as torturous, it tightens in my chest and I experience this state as an unpleasant coldness in the region of my heart. So, together with friends, I decide to free at least some individuals from these conditions of misery. A fight against windmills, perhaps a Sisyphean task, but not only must we imagine Sisyphus as a happy man, but also the slightly pathetic, but therefore not untrue sentence applies: A liberated animal does not change the world, but the whole world changes for the liberated animal. At this point it should be emphasized that every animal liberation is only made possible by people who take care of the liberated animals, which are often in a condition that requires a lot of care. Without foster homes, without sanctuaries and without honorary office no animal liberations, so simply is it. The act of liberation, working one's way through the field to the facility in camouflage clothing with night vision equipment, may have an appearance of heroism, no matter how (completely unrealistic) heroic: the liberation itself is only the beginning, a singular night-and-fog action. What is actually heroic is the daily care of the animals, the trips to the vet with them, saying goodbye to them at the end of the journey together.

BEFORE any rescue, it is absolutely necessary to organize a shelter for the animals, that is the absolute condition for going out at all.

So we gathered in a secluded parking lot, already in the dark, but with still enough time to talk through the course of action in peace. We check that we have everything we need with us and that our equipment is working. Then we get in the car and head for a parking lot not far from the facility. We make a stop to strategically place the many transport bags and boxes it takes to move 130 hens in a bush so we can pick them up on the walk to the animal factory. Some of us are already getting out and hiding in the undergrowth as well. The rest park the cars and follow under cover of darkness. Reunited, each of us takes two bags and in single file we walk across the completely soaked and mowed cornfield towards the animal factory, whose outlines the glow of the full moon makes easily recognizable. 1/3 of the bags stay behind for the time being; a whole three courses are planned for tonight. After about a ten-minute walk over rough ground, we come to a small rampart behind which the plant is located. It has long smelled unpleasantly of a mixture of excrement and dirt. From time to time, conveyor belts rattle in the distance, and the ventilation system drones reliably. Every now and then, scattered chicken noises penetrate the night. The person with the night vision device goes ahead, crosses the rampart and checks the situation: is everything quiet? Are there any abnormalities? Can infrared light be detected that could indicate a camera? Today the situation is relaxed, there is no cause for concern. The person with the night vision device slowly works his way forward. Their target is the heavy iron door at the far end of the facility. The handle is carefully grasped and pressed down: the door can actually be opened, it is not locked. The rest of the people are informed by radio and immediately set off. Beforehand, teams of two were formed: always consisting of one person who grabs the hens and one who opens and closes the bag. After communicating by eye contact, the heavy door is opened and we disappear into the facility. One person remains outside as a guard. Inside it is noisy, musty and the air seems to be stagnant — despite ventilation. Since it is dark, we turn on the red light of our headlamps. A landscape of dusty and filthy grid installations becomes visible, some indefinable dirt particles liberally float through the light cone of the red light lamps. The corridor in front of us is lined with streaks of excrement and other garbage, and occasionally dead hens can be seen whose decomposition has already begun and which have been deposited here. The dimension of the complex shocks me, I don't quite know where to look. The grid installations, behind which countless chickens crowd, seem somehow endless and almost as if they do not fit at all into the complex, which is manageable from the outside. Slowly, I begin to gain a rough overview of this architecture of efficiency. From our vantage point, the huge hall is divided into several compartments, each of which is closed by a shabby iron gate. Behind this gate, which can be opened with a light flick of the wrist, the metal cage bars line up and over each other, on top of them loud animals whose miserable condition is easy to see. Those of them that are kept on the lower floors are covered with loud droppings of their fellow hens vegetating above them. Many hens are missing feathers, especially in the neck area and around the cloaca. Their combs hang limply, they are pale and I immediately associate their appearance with an attitude of resignation. In my perhaps too human perception, it looks as if they have hung their heads, surrendered. Between the mass of living animals, carcasses of long-dead hens appear again and again. The bodies of these animals were pressed into the grids by the weight of the others and it seems as if the metal had cut into them. It is nevertheless a particularly undignified sight in a room where dignity does not exist. Only after I slowly come to terms with these first impressions do I consciously perceive the noise. This cackling of tens of thousands of animals, this lament of the tortured creatures. Then we split up. Always in pairs we go into a compartment, the boxes or bags are prepared and placed. Together with my colleague, we laboriously push up another iron grate to gain access to the animals locked up behind it. Actually, this happens automatically, we do it manually in cooperation. The grate is in such bad shape that after we push it up a few inches, it stays in that position by itself instead of just closing again. This is very convenient for us and we I start to reach for the first animals. The question of which individual to choose doesn't really arise. Each one deserves it and every grab is a hit. Little by little the bags fill up — that the cages are getting noticeably emptier, however, it's a fallacy. Hens always move up, everything seems completely unchanged even after the work is done. There are simply too many. A chicken, which has actually already been in the saving box, frees itself from it in a moment of our inattention and flees back into the anonymity of the masses. It was saved and it is our fault that we now have to leave it behind. It feels bad, although of course we also realize that the animal that took its place deserves to be rescued just as much. After less than 15 minutes, all the transport boxes are filled and we meet up with the other teams at the exit. Before we radio in that we are done, we make sure that we have closed all the gates and left no traces. We will come back twice more that night, but this kind of check is standard. It has to take place so that it always does, ensuring that no conclusions can be drawn about our nightly visit. We give the signal and the door is opened from the outside. The first two bags are received, and we carry the rest outside. The cold air outside hits my face, I enjoy it and take a deep, long breath. The chickens in the boxes or bags are completely silent, nothing can be heard from them. I hope they are all right and that they are merely overwhelmed by the impressions of nature that had been denied them so far. With great effort due to the terrain, we make our way back to where the other boxes are located, each with two bags and six animals. One person runs to the parking lot and returns with the first car. The lights are switched off and a short radio message is enough to give the signal for loading. A few minutes later, the truck with the rescued hens is on its way to the sanctuary. We take a short breath, whisper a little, discuss whether there were any uncertainties and how to proceed. Shortly afterwards, we each grab another two empty bags and make our way to the facility for a second time — after all, the night is still young.”

https://dystopia.blackblogs.org/2023/11/02/erfahrungsbericht-einer-tierbefreiung/