It’s interesting to see how one culture’s normal activities may seem brutal or cruel in contrast to another. Take, for example, this particular afternoon spent in Banaue, Central Luzon, Philippines. We visited a very remote traditional rice-farming village nestled in the serene valley outside of Banaue, and lived, if for only an afternoon, as they do.
For these gentle people, the act of killing a live chicken with your bare hands is just a daily chore – something as natural as bathing or dressing the children. The capturing, killing, burning of feathers, gutting, and cooking were all just natural steps done in a jovial manner surrounded by light-hearted conversation. And yet, for those amongst us whose lives are the very definition of metropolitan, it seemed shocking, violent, and harsh.
Much of so-called modern society is so far removed from such practices, that it stings the senses. It’s too raw, visceral, real. Most of us are not vegetarian, and yet, we rarely question where this meat comes from. Surely the treatment of animals in massive American farms is far worse than these free-range chickens that had lived naturally until their time ran out.
Somehow it seems more natural than fast food.
The little girl in this series was helping her father to hold the chicken as he sliced into the neck. At one point she even began stroking the feathers as the blood and life drained from it; an act of affection in a moment of violence.