Under the dark blanket of the night we broke into a caged chicken egg farm and took ten chickens away from the bars and into freedom. Thousands were left behind in a dystopian barn, imprisoned to produce profits for a farmer who sees them as nothing else but stock.
Those ten chickens will now discover grass, mud, sun rays and rain. They will get to experience the outside, they will be able to make friends or to take some time to themselves, they will no longer be valued based on their productivity, they will slowly regain their personhood.
When we walked out the barn, hearing the gentle chattering of the hens, we spared a thought for Tortuguita, murdered a year ago by the filth for protecting Weelaunee. We riot from afar, in raging memory.
We are tired of strategising action like liberation is a chess board. We don’t know what works, but we know that fighting is the only way of surviving an increasingly oppressive system that subjugates us all for profit. Be it arson against the machine or the liberation of crickets from a pet shop, don’t let your spirit dwindle and keep fighting.
Action is oxygen to the blessed flame.