It is pitch dark. The sun hasn’t risen yet, although it is already 8 am. I follow my team members closely, trying not to lose them, while slowly taking in what is around me. We are at the animal market in Ouled Frej in Morocco. My first animal market; my first Animals’ Angels investigation. I have joined Animals’ Angels on 1 January as a team assistant, and a couple of weeks later, I am already ankle deep in a very viscous sludge, made of mud mixed with animals’ faeces and urine. To best do my job, it is crucial for me to fully understand how Animals’ Angels operate and joining an investigation is certainly the most effective way to do it.
Slowly the darkness dissipates a bit, and I can make out things more clearly. Around me, there are dozens of people wearing a djellaba (a loose, woollen robe with a pointed hood), which looks cozy and warm, given the very low early morning temperatures. A lot of them have brought their sheep and goats to the market to sell: many sheep are pushed on, but some are pulled by lifting their front legs in the air; some of the younger ones are carried in a small cart or a wheelbarrow. I am trying to get used to the sights, the smells, and the sounds; I know it will get much more overwhelming than this.
We reach the areas where the cattle are waiting – hundreds of men are standing around, checking the animals and negotiating prices. We first get an overview of the market situation. My colleagues, who have seen so many markets like this, very patiently explain things to me. Those over there are the “dairy” cows, they are sold for producing milk. Few of them are there with their calves, who are trying to drink some milk from their mothers – unsuccessfully, as their mouth is muzzled. Other cows are in urgent need to be milked, their udder is swollen and at times leaking milk. All of them are tied very closely to each other or to a wall, barely able to move. Some have their eyes covered with a plastic bag, others have their front legs tied together, few unlucky ones have both. You can see, hear, feel and smell their fear and disorientation. They call out for each other, or for their calf that has just been taken away – or simply out of terror. I stand there, trying to take it all in, and at the same time wanting to look away. My colleagues are already active: they immediately spot cows who might originally come from Europe and try to get a picture of their ear tag to confirm that, without upsetting the handlers. They move around silently but knowingly, observing and documenting animals clearly sick or particularly mistreated – there is plenty of choice there. I am surprised at how little attention most of the people pay to us, so most of the time we can do our work unbothered.
We split into smaller groups. I go to the area where they load the cattle. I had read a lot of Animals’ Angels reports about what a painful process for the animals this is, so I thought I knew what to expect. But seeing it live is another story. I lean with my back against a stone wall, as if that could provide me with support, physical and emotional, while I am looking around. My colleagues move constantly, getting closer to the trucks, making sure to capture the most relevant moments, trying not to lose sight of the European cows. I stand there, and look. In the distance, one cow has already been loaded onto the top deck of a truck, but has fallen, clearly exhausted, and is now being trampled by the others. Two men are trying to get her back up, twisting her tail, grabbing her nose, beating her with a stick. The whole commotion makes the other cows even more agitated, walking over the one on the ground even more. The men are getting angrier and harsher; the cow is still not standing up. I look away.
Few meters from me there are two trucks that are using the door of the trailer on the elevated ground as a ramp, which is however still incredibly steep. “There is no way a cow will be able to climb onto that”, I think. I am wrong. I had underestimated how enough tail twisting, beating, shouting, pulling and pushing can achieve, if one takes enough time and ignores how often the cow falls, tries to flee, or ends up on her knees. I look away.
On the upper deck of the other truck the cow has somehow finally gotten up, and the truck is now trying to get out of the mud to leave. The whole vehicle is swaying from one side to the other, trying to unstuck its tires, and with it the cows are swaying too. Unfortunately, their faces are closely tied to the side of the trucks, and you can see how they are painfully struggling to keep their balance. It will be impossible for them to stand up again on their own, if they fall, and they seem to know that.
We leave and go to explore an area where there is an elevated concrete deck, for easier loading of cattle onto the upper level of the trucks. “Well, that should be easier to watch”, I think. I am wrong. Between the truck and the wall there is a big gap, where the animals often fall in with their legs. When doing so, they inadvertently kick on the faces of the bovines already loaded in the bottom deck, who are stretching out their heads in search of air and, maybe, freedom. Tail twisting and stick beating seems to be the solution in this case too. Under the wall, tied to a column with one leg hanging in the air, we see a beautiful, big ram. Dirty and scrawny, but with majestic horns. On the side of the truck, the driver is trying to clear some space in a small side opening, where tarps and a spare tire are kept. “They are certainly not going to put the ram in that!”, I say in shock to my colleague. I am wrong. They are. One just has to push deep enough.
We leave and join the others in the sheep area. By now the sun is up, and it is getting warmer. A colleague is crouching on the ground, stroking and comforting a calf lying down. I admire her. Right now, to be able to deal with all of this, I need to keep my distance, I cannot (yet) establish a direct connection to the animals. Slowly, all sheep are being bought off and taken away. Except for Johnny, a small lamb who has been left behind. Nobody seems to want him. He has his front legs tied to the ground and can’t move, but he keeps bleating. Is he calling for his mum, for his flock? His owner keeps offering him to the men walking by, but he is constantly being turned down. I don’t even know what I wish for him, I don’t know where and how his life would be less painful. I decide to write my own story: Johnny is not a reject, he is a proud, independent little lamb who doesn’t want to go with anybody! And he is making that known by being so loud, that’s why nobody wants to buy him. Wherever he goes, he will keep being his strong, stubborn little self. That’s what I tell myself.
We leave. The team is incredibly caring and checks on me repeatedly. I smile. I don’t speak much.
Two days later we are at the Sidi Bennour market, few hours from Marrakech. When we arrive, the men already there laugh looking at our feet, wearing normal hiking shoes, and point at the inside area: there is a lake of mud and no way for us to make it through. Following their advice, we go and buy rubber boots from a stand, which is definitely a good idea since at times the sludge goes as high as our calves! We move around, observing and documenting, as we did at the previous market. It looks very similar; somehow though, the lake of sludge that slows us down but mostly creates worse conditions for the animals, makes the whole experience much bleaker, so we tend to come together again as a whole group, over and over. That somehow gives us strength.
We see a cow, clearly unwell, lying on the ground and propped up by a stone on her side. Esther has a big abscess at her vulva and is visibly bleeding from her vagina. She tries a few times to stand up but her hinder legs are tied together and she keeps falling down. Without having to say it out loud, that becomes our central spot, from where we move around. One of us is always there though, as if our presence could be somehow of comfort to Esther. Beside her they are loading a truck. A calf, Chakib, is lying on his side and cannot get up; his face is tied to the side of the vehicle, so he is in an incredibly painful position. He is also getting trampled by the calves around him, since the space is so tight. The men beat him, trying to get him to stand up, with no success. My colleagues decide to intervene and explain to the workers that the only chance for Chakib to stand up, and to avoid getting trampled, is to be untied from the truck. A man standing on the second deck throws down a pair of scissors, and my colleague cuts the rope tying Chakib to the vehicle. He still does not stand up but can at least lie on his side. Another team member approaches Chakib and strokes his back, trying to soothe him, until the workers come to load him. Tail twisting and stick beatings don’t seem to be enough to get Chakib to stand up, so in the end the men resort to pouring ginger powder in his eyes to get him to move. I am lucky enough to miss this; my colleagues tell me the story later.
Esther is still lying there. A woman and her son pass by, and she gently strokes her head, aware of the pain Esther is in. I sit on the ground beside her, not too close as she gets easily scared. I don’t know how much me being there helps her, but I want to believe it does. A man walks by and makes the sign of the throat being cut, explaining to us that Esther will be brought to a slaughterhouse in Marrakesh. “The pain will soon be over”, I tell her, well knowing that the two hours of drive to Marrakesh will be excruciatingly painful for her. We need to soon leave, too, we have a long drive ourselves. None of us wants to leave Esther alone until she is loaded, but we do not know when this will happen. Once we get to our cars, we drive back to the spot where she was, to check on her, but we find only the stone and a small pool of blood. She is gone.
We don’t speak much in the car. The landscape around us is beautiful, but we are all lost in our thoughts. We have an additional market to visit tomorrow, so we know we are not done yet.
The day after, at 7:30 am, we are at the Souihla market. The ground is dry so that is already a relief. By now I know what we are looking for and I start to be able to recognise health issues more easily, so I observe the cows more closely. I have still not gotten used to the beating, nostrils grabbing and punching though, so when I walk around the cattle I need to be very focused on where I look – and where I don’t. We stop at a wall where many of the cows are tied up with their young calves. One calf, white and light brown, is lying down, completely apathetic. Alfonso’s mouth is muzzled by a piece of hard plastic, to make sure he doesn’t drink his mum’s milk. I look at him and my heart breaks. He has given up. As if his mum senses it too, she gets closer to him and starts licking him. First, on the sides along his spine, then on his head, his cheeks, his neck. This perks him up again. He likes it. He lifts his head to make it easier for his mum to reach all the spots, his eyes closed in enjoyment. I smile.
A colleague comes to get me; a cow just gave birth! I rush to join her and there I see it. A baby calf, still full of amniotic fluid, barely able to stand on his legs. I spend the next 30 minutes watching him as he tries to reach his mum’s teats, the owner of the mother gently guiding him towards them.
My colleagues move around, as always, following European cows or documenting the conditions of the very sick ones. They are unstoppable. I move closer to where the bulls are kept, waiting to be bought and/or transported. I find a bench and sit there, looking at the loading happening in front of me. The ramps are so steep and the trucks so full that some bulls are unable to get in. A man takes out an electric prodder and ironically stops a moment to change the batteries, before continuing torturing one of the bulls. I look away and that’s when I see him, Bruco, a black and white calf tied to a nearby pole, all alone. I approach him slowly, I don’t want to scare him. He is rather suspicious but finds my long scarf very interesting and tries to nibble at it. This connection allows me to get closer, and gently touch his head... He seems to enjoy it. I then scratch his neck, his ears, between his eyes; I stroke his shoulders, his sides and give him a good rubbing, while talking to him all the time. He seems to like it. By my third market, I have learnt to close the distance and establish a connection. Not long after a man comes to take Bruco away. Being a male, most likely he is being brought to a slaughterhouse. I tell him that it will all be over soon, he shouldn’t worry, all will be well.
My colleagues join me on the bench. By now most of the trucks have left. Two cows stand out in the now empty parking lot – dead, they are both lying on their side, their tongues sticking out. As sad as this is, I somehow feel relief for them. Their suffering is over.
It is time for us to make a move as well; there is nothing else to document here now. We silently walk back to our cars, and make our way back to the hotel, where the deskwork will start: sorting through pictures, tracking ear tags, describing in detail what we have seen and working on our reports for the competent authorities. Drawing attention to what we have witnessed, hoping to elicit a debate that might bring about some change for the animals.
It has not been an easy week. But having experienced what I did, and having seen how hard my team works trying to change this, all of us equally motivated by the same love for animals and the belief that they all have the right to life and freedom, only reinforced my commitment to the mission of Animals’ Angels, and my desire to contribute to it.
Animals’ Angels expressly takes a stand against any form of discrimination and hostility against people of other cultures or religions.
