distinguish from their normal total indifference to animal suffering. They do not at any time or in any way identify themselves with animals, and this utter callousness can give a misleading impression of active sadism. Every animal that a Muslim ever kills must, if it is to be eaten, be bled to death with a slit throat and its head pointing towards Mecca, and this, if it is a large animal, can be a peculiarly revolting procedure. Since all reaction to animal situations can only be a result of identification with the animal, and since the identification is entirely absent, there is no inhibition about display of other emotions that may be aroused; amusement, for instance, at the grotesque movements of a wounded animal. They can detect no element of pathos. I have seen several Arabs roaring with genuine laughter at the weird gyrations of a wild duck with a partially slit throat. Quite a different element creeps in when the wounded animal is a pig, but the nuance is difficult to detect.
In the same way, a pig hunt is imbued with a subtle intensity that is foreign to the pursuit of any other quarry. The feelings and the recollections of those pig hunts are with me now as I write, the remembrance of something stealthy and atavistic, something intent and destructive.
Paddling silently along the edge of the reed-beds and listening. Heads cocked on one side, strained, alert. The minute liquid tinkle of the water-drops that fall from the dipped paddle as the canoe slides forward soundlessly. The unfamiliar croak of a purple gallinule and a faint crackling of dry sedge deep in the undergrowth. The sudden sound of an eagle stooping, the air vibrating in the stiff pinions like a rush of winds in the reeds. The paddles thrust noiselessly, and the bright drops trill back from them on to the blue lagoon water. The canoe rasps and grates through a belt of reeds, forcing its way through to a new lagoon; the noise seems outrageous, deafening. At eye level is stretched the untenanted web of a spider, filled with a hundred flies; the sun glints on their green metallic bodies splayed on thedeserted net. The canoe leaves the reeds, the din stops very suddenly, and one is again in a world of silence. Overhead the sea eagles wheel on the blue sky and a kingfisher scintillates dazzlingly across the bows. Everyone is listening, listening for some small sound which will be unrecognisable to me when it comes.
For this, the sound of the enemy, the marshmen’s ears have an almost incredible sensitivity and selectivity. During the short time that I was among them, one rustle in the reeds remained to me much like another; the small sounds that came from the unseen inhabitants of the reeds seemed undifferentiated. But to the Ma’dan each, however small, produces a clear picture of what is taking place out of sight.
They ignored a heavy splashing and crackling that I thought could only be a startled pig; then, seconds later, they stiffened at some sound inaudible to me. Fingers pointed feverishly, Thesiger stood up amidships in the canoe and unloosed the safety catch from his rifle. Even the tinkle of water dripping from the paddles seemed to be stilled, and we moved over the mirror-smooth surface in utter silence. Thesiger took aim at something I could not see, in a low reed-bed some fifty yards away to our left.
The slam of the rifle was followed instantly by squealing and crashing in the sedge, and a hairy brown shape somersaulted backward into the water. The pig floundered and plunged, swimming in a tight circle like a cat chasing its tail. Its shattered lower jaw dangled from the head, gushing blood into the blue water until the surface closed over it and only a patch of scarlet was left. A terrible and revolting animal, dying a terrible and revolting death.
If every violent death is tragedy
And the wild animal is tragic most
When man adopts death’s ingenuity,
Then this was tragic. But what each had lost
Was less and more than this, which
In the same way, a pig hunt is imbued with a subtle intensity that is foreign to the pursuit of any other quarry. The feelings and the recollections of those pig hunts are with me now as I write, the remembrance of something stealthy and atavistic, something intent and destructive.
Paddling silently along the edge of the reed-beds and listening. Heads cocked on one side, strained, alert. The minute liquid tinkle of the water-drops that fall from the dipped paddle as the canoe slides forward soundlessly. The unfamiliar croak of a purple gallinule and a faint crackling of dry sedge deep in the undergrowth. The sudden sound of an eagle stooping, the air vibrating in the stiff pinions like a rush of winds in the reeds. The paddles thrust noiselessly, and the bright drops trill back from them on to the blue lagoon water. The canoe rasps and grates through a belt of reeds, forcing its way through to a new lagoon; the noise seems outrageous, deafening. At eye level is stretched the untenanted web of a spider, filled with a hundred flies; the sun glints on their green metallic bodies splayed on thedeserted net. The canoe leaves the reeds, the din stops very suddenly, and one is again in a world of silence. Overhead the sea eagles wheel on the blue sky and a kingfisher scintillates dazzlingly across the bows. Everyone is listening, listening for some small sound which will be unrecognisable to me when it comes.
For this, the sound of the enemy, the marshmen’s ears have an almost incredible sensitivity and selectivity. During the short time that I was among them, one rustle in the reeds remained to me much like another; the small sounds that came from the unseen inhabitants of the reeds seemed undifferentiated. But to the Ma’dan each, however small, produces a clear picture of what is taking place out of sight.
They ignored a heavy splashing and crackling that I thought could only be a startled pig; then, seconds later, they stiffened at some sound inaudible to me. Fingers pointed feverishly, Thesiger stood up amidships in the canoe and unloosed the safety catch from his rifle. Even the tinkle of water dripping from the paddles seemed to be stilled, and we moved over the mirror-smooth surface in utter silence. Thesiger took aim at something I could not see, in a low reed-bed some fifty yards away to our left.
The slam of the rifle was followed instantly by squealing and crashing in the sedge, and a hairy brown shape somersaulted backward into the water. The pig floundered and plunged, swimming in a tight circle like a cat chasing its tail. Its shattered lower jaw dangled from the head, gushing blood into the blue water until the surface closed over it and only a patch of scarlet was left. A terrible and revolting animal, dying a terrible and revolting death.
If every violent death is tragedy
And the wild animal is tragic most
When man adopts death’s ingenuity,
Then this was tragic. But what each had lost
Was less and more than this, which
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