Investigator Stories: Her Name is 6728
Investigator stories are the thoughts and reflections of our brave investigators who venture into the field to document and expose some of the cruelest incidents of animal abuse and cruelty. Here, we give them space to share their experiences and emotions.
Honestly, I’m not sure why I stopped and put my camera down. I don’t often do this, look my subjects in the eye, I mean. I find it too hard. I know she’s suffering; I see pain and sadness like hers all the time. But as an undercover investigator, I’ve learned to accept it and move on. I sometimes wonder if that makes me cold if it impacts my ability to be an emotional being – my capacity to feel or connect with the world and people around me.
I’m not alone. There are others like me. People who move in the dark, hide in the shadows, and willingly dive into hell. We’re an odd group, I suppose – driven by both a passion to help animals and the thrill of a secretive operation. Yes, thrill. A bizarre word to use in this context, I know. Our work requires a certain risk-taking temperament though, there’s truth in that. However, this story isn’t about us, it’s about her – number 6728.
As I slid through the window, I knew I’d disturbed them. “I’m sorry”, I said, as they each rose to their feet and strained their necks trying to see who was behind them. I moved in between the rows of metal crates so they could see me and sense that I was not someone to fear. It was hot, smelly, and oddly claustrophobic given the industrial size of the building. I don’t know how many pigs are kept here; I don’t think I want to.
I couldn’t look at them yet, not properly. I wasn’t ready to. I needed my camera. I knelt at the end of a row and slowly zipped open my bag. The contents, I like to think, serve as my armour; my camera, my shield. It’s the physical barrier I place between me and the misery I document. It allows my brain to concentrate on what settings I need to film this, not the sad reality of animal exploitation. I spend time processing the framing of a shot, not the moral injury I inevitably absorb as a result.
Caged and Confused
Each unit here confines a large sow, awaiting her turn to birth the next litter of piglets destined for the dinner plate. These cold metal contraptions are called sow stalls. A despicable device designed to restrict the movement of pregnant females and, as the pig industry claims, to prevent them from fighting amongst themselves. They contain no bedding and there’s barely enough room to shuffle forwards or backward, never mind turn around.
In 2013, a partial ban on sow stalls came into force across the European Union. Sweden was way ahead, outlawing them in 1994 and the UK followed in 1999. The EU directive was intended to end the imprisonment of sows in stalls for the duration of their enforced pregnancies. But of course, there’s an exception, there always is. The law continues to permit this disgraceful practice of close confinement during the first four weeks of gestation and the week before giving birth. Most people never get to see it for themselves. It’s disgusting.
I’m grateful to not see these sow stalls often, but it’s always a shocker when I do. They’re uniform in style; two metres long and 60 centimetres wide. They have a feed trough at the front, a water nipple at the top, and a gate at the back which keeps the pigs locked inside. The shed has a slatted flooring system too. It’s supposed to allow their excrement to fall beneath, into a channel where it’s then pumped out to a shit pit. Yes, that’s as gross as it sounds! There’s no way I’m calling it a ‘lagoon’ like some do, that implies something quite different.
Dead on Delivery
I took my time looking for injuries, encouraging each sow in turn to look at the camera while I snapped away with the shutter. It’s a deeply disturbing photoshoot, interrupted every 10 minutes by a crackle on the radio I wear. One of the team stays on lookout and gives the “all clear” to let me know I’m safe to carry on. That can change and sometimes does, at a moment’s notice. It’s why I always keep one eye on my exit.
Around 40 minutes had passed already. That’s how long I’d been wearing that stifling mask – an attempt to protect my respiratory tract from the fetid air. My lungs felt thick nevertheless. I run through the shot list in my mind – have I got the portraits, have I got the scale shots, have I got the injuries, have I got the…? Wait, someone just tugged at the frumpy blue disposable boiler suit I wear for biosecurity purposes. I looked down, the material around my knee was still in her mouth. She’s inquisitive – who am I, what am I doing?
It was 6728. She looked up at me and then let go of my suit. She seemed amused. I didn’t blame her. There’s no enrichment in this place, she needs something to do. Pigs are far more intelligent than we give them credit for and life in a cage curtails all their natural behaviours – rooting, foraging, exploring, and nesting. Crouching beside her, I brought my hand up for her to nuzzle. She gave a soft grunt of acceptance and allowed me to tickle her chin. A small act of kindness she has probably never known before.
I wanted to tell her she’ll be OK but it’d be a lie. I looked at the chart pinned to the front of her cage. She’d given birth three times already. In her last litter, there were 15 piglets, two dead on delivery. I’m not sure how many more pregnancies she’ll be forced to endure, the average I suppose is around 10. By just five years old, her production will start to decline and it won’t be long until she’s spent. When she’s no longer considered economically viable, like all the others in here, she’ll be sent to slaughter.
The radio crackled again, interrupting our moment. It was time to go. With a last scratch behind her ear, I said my goodbye and gathered my things. Pushing myself through the window once more, I swore it was bigger on the way in. I felt the fresh air reach my eyes. I tore off my mask and took a deep breath. Our work here was done, for now, and I disappeared back through the darkness I came from.