[Author’s Note: At the risk of sounding preachy (which I am well aware I have the gross tendency to become), I decided to write this open letter to those who support the online campaign on the Chinese festival where the practice of dog-eating is a ritual, more commonly known as the Yulin. Forgive the horrible grammar, I will edit this as soon as I have the time. There are just some days when you have to let stuff out. Today’s one of those.]
To those who wrote in the petition,
Hi.
You don’t know me, and I know that that’s the worst thing to ever say to someone so they can listen to what you’re saying, but when you have nothing else to say to start conversations with, you start with saying the truth.
And that’s what’s true — you don’t know who I am.
And yet I’m writing this letter.
I’m writing this letter because as morally disapproving as I am of the whole thing (the mere thought of eating dog meat is giving me goosebumps), I also cannot judge an entire race for something they have been doing practically their entire lives.
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I travel. Not a lot, but far more often than (if I were being completely honest) my allowance can handle. I have found myself in deep crevices of caves, in scary oceans, in clear freshwater lakes. I have found myself sitting on tree branches, living with foster families, and sleeping on floors with nothing but my malong to separate me from the earth.
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I remember one time quite fondly. I found myself sitting at the head of the family table (after inay – my foster mother – insisted that I sit there coupled with the assurance that itay can sit somewhere else), looking at an empty plate. The spoon and the fork were placed neatly at its centre, effectively creating two half moons. The other plates had no forks, some others had no utensils at all. “Joy,” my foster mother said, slightly abash at the question she was going to ask, “do you eat pinikpikang manok?”
(It will not really matter what I answer to that question. I can say yes and eat the chicken famously called pinikpikan in the Mountain Province because it is beaten to death, its muscles taut and rigid, or I can politely say no and drink the soup that comes with it instead, coupled with a piece of bread if they had the luxury of buying a loaf that morning.)
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Perhaps the point I am trying to drive at is thus: people have ways of living their lives, and that includes having personal preferences for food. A huge number of Filipinos are a sucker for pork (not sparing even its blood and intestines), the Arabs think goat and camel meat are delectable, and, well, the Chinese eat canines — have a celebration for it, in fact.
And you only truly realize this as universal truth when you begin to step out of the place where you’ve always been comfortable in, and you’re given a plate of something which you would later learn as food that you have always sworn you would not eat. See, things are different everywhere else, and sometimes we just need to understand exactly that.
It’s easy to get grossed out or left aghast at the thought of dogs being killed and skinned, mostly because of how we view dogs from our vantage point. It’s equally easy to assume that those who partake in the festival are bloodthirsty, sadistic individuals, because many of us see dogs as pets — even parts of our families. We completely forget that this isn’t about ethics or about morally-depraved human beings. It’s about tradition. A tradition that I will never take part in, to be honest, but a tradition nonetheless. After all, and I go to my introduction, who am I anyway? To deprive them of their celebration, to substitute my worldviews for theirs?
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Travelling has taught me how severely oppressive we can be. We impose on people our beliefs, we stuff onto them our values. As if those to whom we do such stuff are savages — as if they have no beliefs or values of their own.
As if, you know, we knew more. Or, and this is even worse, we knew better.
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I have eaten pinikpikang manok, and I have understood why it is a preferred manner of cooking by many. After being beaten several times, the muscles begin to stiffen, and then gradually tenderize, until the flesh becomes succulent. It’s easy on the teeth, and it is fresh. After all, they do not put GMOs on farm chickens. My foster mom waited with huge eyes as I took my first spoonful, probably praying silently that I do not spray the contents of my mouth on the plate, or worse, the floor.
I chewed, silently. Then I told her it tasted good. She smiled, then. Lifting her own spoon to her mouth, she said, “Good. I was scared because you might think it is barbaric that we killed the chicken.”
Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. How much did it matter anyway? She was showing concern about my gustatory preferences. Maybe the best thing I can do was to give respect to her hospitality.
And respect the fact that where she lived — where I currently was — that was how it’s done.
Of perpetual finds 