Digging at the Roots of Sadness

Digging at the Roots of Sadness
by Marla Rose

March 23, 2001

For the past few weeks, an old familiar feeling has sunk its teeth into me.

It started off slowly by sort of creeping up from behind, and then overtook me when I wasn't looking. Now I've stopped struggling and have surrendered myself to it, to the almost overwhelming feeling of sadness, a lump perpetually in my throat, always threatening to bring me to tears.

For a while I was trying to uncover the source of my feelings of sadness: my life, despite a sincere wish for winter to be over, is fine. My friends and family are healthy and well. There is nothing glaring that I'm disappointed or depressed about.

Then it finally dawned on me without much fanfare. I realized that despite all the work I and many others do to raise a consciousness of compassion among those we encounter, I've been feeling pretty bereft of hope when opening the newspaper every day and seeing the giant mounds of charred, smoldering farm animals in Europe.

I think that before foot and mouth disease swept Britain, I'd become disconnected emotionally, despite the fact that I am completely dedicated to spreading the message of veganism. I'd been going through my day like a good soldier, trying to educate and empower people to move toward a positive change, but feeling detached from the actual emotional connection I'd felt with animals that lead me down the path to where I am now.

Back when I began this journey to veganism, I'd decided - though it was impossible for me to articulate at the time - that I couldn't carry the burden of my complicity in an animal's death any longer. I felt a growing sense of disassociation with the nakedly self-serving notion that animals exist solely for the human race's purposes. I felt personally betrayed by the various industries and the systems of reinforcement that had conned an impressionable child into believing that this form of oppression was acceptable, that this was simply the way things were.

Under all that, though, was a deep reservoir of grief and sadness for the billions of creatures destined to be picked over behind the meat counter or stored in perfect round patties in a fast food freezer. Was that the sum total of what their lives were worth? Was that the sole reason why they were put on earth? There was a resounding silence suffocating any words on the behalf of these beings, aside from the occasional nutcase who had the audacity to suggest that our treatment of animals was unjust and cruel. Finally the silence became deafening enough that I snapped out of my state of slumber.

When I awoke, I was angry. It's much easier for me, and I believe this is true of others, to tap into feelings of anger, defiance and righteous indignation in our work as activists. Anger can be a very effective tool for me; some of my most inspired creative work comes when I'm thoroughly consumed with a red-hot, boiling sense of outrage. But beneath that anger, always trailing it through the years, has been an undercurrent of sadness. Sadness for the innocence of the chicks, calves, piglets, lambs: born into a misery they didn't expect, understand or create, and killed the same way. What must they think or feel about this world, one in which they'd received no comfort or warmth? How could I ever impart to the animals trapped in cages and stalls, surrounded by a frantic, gnawing despair that I objected to their oppression? Why would such a futile gesture matter?

I believe it's the abuse of another being's innocence that makes me both the saddest and the angriest. I've been vulnerable in the past, and I've had that vulnerability willfully exploited. It's possible that my need to protect other creatures stems from a feeling of having not been protected myself in the past. Maybe I feel that if I can shield and protect another, I will be repairing the damage done to my own sense of safety when I was vulnerable to the whims of another. I like to think it's deeper than some psychological need I have, though. Perhaps the reason why all of us become vegans is because we have a seed of vulnerability within us that remains raw, so it's not too much of a stretch for us to empathize with the similar vulnerability of a newborn chick or an elephant in the circus.

I think it's our sadness -- our innate, personal understanding of hurt and exploitation -- which is really our finest tool as advocates. Though sadness is a hard emotion for many to accept (because it reminds us of our vulnerability, perhaps), it's what keeps us in check, what grounds us when we become detached from the reasons why we are doing this work. It's what connects us inextricably to another who is vulnerable, and compels us to protect another being as we would want to be protected ourselves.

Even though it is always foremost in my work through Vegan Street and my personal advocacy efforts to impart a sense of hope, of endless possibilities for change, I have to also accept emotions that are not as overtly empowering. If I ignore or neglect these feelings, I'm selling myself short as an activist and an individual.

So I'm grieving right now for all the animals who never had a chance to eat clover on the hillside, take dust baths and lie on the soft grass in the sun. I feel enormous sadness for them and for us.

There. I said it.

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