As I got older, more and more things were becoming clear to me and I was getting increasingly upset, frustrated and angry. I joined in heated discussions online, signed one petition after another, read tons of articles, and whenever there was a protest in Perth, nothing in the world stopped me from going.
Inevitably, problems connected to the protests had caught up with me. I was sixteen the first time, fighting for the humane treatment of dairy cows. It was incomprehensible that people turned a blind eye to what was happening. Cows were impregnated, year after year, so that they’d have calves which were then taken away from them two days after birth. The cries from both sides were unbearable, and the cows were then milked several times a day, in a painful procedure, regardless of any possible inflammation, infection, or bleeding. And all this happened while they were standing in a crammed shed they couldn’t even turn around in. I was marching down the street with the other protesters, chanting while waving a poster. The police turned up soon, of course. And even though the protest was completely peaceful, their speakers said that if we didn’t disperse, the police would arrest anyone blocking traffic. But how were several thousand people supposed to squeeze on the tiny sidewalks?
Policemen with clubs and shields entered the crowd and started taking individual protesters away into nearby vans. Most people got cold feet and started backing as far away as possible. I stood there, frozen, thinking: they’re really going to scare us off again? We’re fighting against such cruelty, and all they have to do is shoo us away for everything to go back to how it was, and nobody will do anything to help those poor animals?
I noticed a huge uniformed man walking straight to me. He even raised his arm and pointed at me, frowning so much his eyebrows became one angry line.
I bet you take your coffee with milk. Well, I hope you enjoy it!
I jumped to the side at the last minute, squeezed into the crowd on the sidewalk and elbowed my way through with my head bowed low to hide my face.
That luck ran out the next time. A year later, there was another protest, this time about the export of livestock, especially live sheep. By ships, journeying for several months, suffering from seasickness, dehydration and hunger, because nobody had bothered to feed and water them. A third of them didn’t make it to the end destination alive. The rest was obviously sent straight to the slaughterhouse. It made me sick, and of course I was really angry at the protest. Such injustice!
Dad, unusually quiet, picked me up from the police station I eventually ended up at. Facing the policemen, or even the short stay behind bars, didn’t shake me up at all, but Dad’s expression made me incredibly shaky. The idea that I’d disappointed him almost made me cry.
I was waiting for his reproach about stupid, childish behaviour. On our way home I was stammering out apology after apology, but he stopped me with a single wave of his hand. We were on a busy street, but he still pulled over. He looked straight into my eyes and I felt myself shrinking.
“You have no idea how proud I am of you,” he said.
What? Did I mishear?
“It’s brave to fight for what’s right, not everyone’s got the guts to do it,” he continued. “Don’t ever apologize for that. You just have to be smart and careful about how you’re fighting for what you believe in, or what you want to change.”
I nodded with relief and kept my mouth shut just in case. I was grateful to him for this wisdom, but also for persuading the policemen to release me without a permanent record, on the condition of good behaviour.
Since then I’ve been extremely careful with how I go about things. I stopped going to protests and started frequenting shelters, walking the dogs and helping with maintenance. As soon as I started making money, a part of my pay check went to the charities who could fight against animal cruelty better than I.
“I’m proud of you…”
I smiled now, remembering that moment which came to me just before dawn. Would Dad still be proud now, knowing what I’ve gotten myself into a few weeks ago? Would he understand me and my reasons for not reporting The Collective and their activities?
I guess I’d never find out, I thought to myself and got out of bed to prepare for a new day. I put on my uniform even though I was going to see Mark instead of going to the station. I didn’t like putting on this charade for Dad, but any other way would mean a lot of explaining I didn’t feel like getting into.
Today was the first time I was going to Mark’s house. He wanted to hand over the vaccine as far away from the public as possible, and when he suggested his home, I accepted. After all, why not? It was just a ten minute drive from mine, and although I’d come to associate his presence with moments of intense mental distress, I didn’t think he would cause me any immediate danger.
At the agreed time, I knocked on his door. He greeted me as if greeting a friend coming over for a movie and popcorn, but when we got inside, his voice turned more quiet, more measured. He went straight to the business and showed me a small silver briefcase with a code lock.
“You’ll be the only one who can
