by Clare Druce
Where did, and does, the Church of England stand in this particular moral dilemma – the treatment of so-called food animals?
The Church
Chickens’ Lib was never a religion-based organisation but our policy had always been to approach those in a position of influence. Believing our campaign to be a moral one, we naturally went straight to the established top, to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Perhaps he could be persuaded to put ending the suffering of the battery hen onto his list of Things To Do.
In 1977, Violet had written to the Archbishop, at that time Dr Coggan, and received the following reply from Lambeth Palace. Hilda Whitworth who wrote on the Archbishop’s behalf (or was it Hugh? the signature wasn’t clear) certainly knew how to set homework.
‘Dear Mrs Spalding,’ (she/he wrote) ‘Thank you for your letter of the 22nd July about Chickens’ Lib. I respect your deep anxiety, but there is no easy way to assuage it. In this matter I find myself going back to what St Paul said in the eighth chapter of his letter to the Romans, verse 18 and following. The same thought is perhaps differently expressed once again in his second letter to the Corinthians at the beginning of chapter five. The Archbishop receives every second week requests that he should lead some kind of campaign. The plea advanced is nearly always what can rightly be called a good cause. It is physically impossible, even if it were desirable, for the Archbishop to sponsor all these. He has rather to address himself to a much broader front.’
We considered the degradation of billions of animals a very broad front indeed, and not one impossible to address, given the will. We didn’t seek sponsorship, just outright condemnation of the battery system from those claiming a certain moral authority. We puzzled over that first reference. Can she/he really be pointing us to: ‘For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed to us… For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.’
We puzzled even more over the second reference: ‘For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed upon with our house which is from heaven: if so that being clothed we shall not be found naked.’
No help then, from the Archbishop.
*
Autumn 1980: Polite letters from Chickens’ Lib to the Provost of Wakefield cathedral, outlining the suffering of battery hens, had met with what we took to be disdain. Perhaps a personal visit would change his mind? We’d recently bought five ‘spent’ hens from a local battery unit. One had been near to collapse, but a couple of B12 injections worked wonders, and she was now fit to join in our next demo.
On a Sunday in mid-October, Violet and I met up with a small group of our supporters outside the cathedral. Violet ventured in and respectfully asked an official if we might have a few words with the Provost, the Rev John Lister. Back came a message that no, we could not. We hung about, uncertain what to do next.
Initially, we’d had no intention of taking the hens into the cathedral, and most certainly not during a service. But suddenly our blood was up. Why could not the Provost see us? Christians should see these abused creatures, and why not while the congregation was gathering for a service?
Holding our cage proudly, Violet and I climbed the flight of steps and entered the cathedral. The organ was playing softly, and already some worshippers were seated, or kneeling in prayer. We took a short cut along a row of empty pews, just making it to the central aisle before the Provost bore down on us.
“This is most improper. You are interrupting a service. Please leave the cathedral!” he thundered. One of our supporters took exception to the Provost’s choice of words.
“Battery farms are most improper too,” we yelled.
Feeling we’d made our point but were getting nowhere, we left with the Provost in hot pursuit. Cast us out of the temple, you might say.
*
October 13th 1980: The Yorkshire Post reports the incident beneath an interesting photo of Violet and me, clutching the cage of hens between us. I’m looking defiant, while Violet glances anxiously over her shoulder, as well she might, for just behind her is the Provost, a tall man resplendent in gorgeous brocade robes, towering above us and absolutely livid.
We didn’t regret taking the hens into the cathedral. After all, many churches make time for animal blessing services, when members of the congregation take in their pets. Cats, dogs, rabbits, hamsters, tortoises if they’re still awake – you name it. Only don’t mention the battery hen, she who truly needs a blessing…
*
We ‘took on’ several Archbishops over the years, and at times thought we detected glimmerings of progress. In January 1981, possibly as a result of pressure from Chickens’ Lib, the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Robert Runcie, issued a two-page document entitled Statement on Animal Welfare Matters. Here’s an extract from it: ‘As a practical pig farmer I have found it possible to keep my pigs in conditions which respect their natural sphere of existence. I derive pleasure from seeing their response to this more humane treatment and am sure other stockmen feel the same towards their animals in similar circumstances…History has repeatedly shown that when man exploits his fellow creatures for immediate gain it rebounds on him eventually and leads to spiritual poverty. In the end lack of regard for the life and well-being of an animal must bring with it a lowering of man’s own self-respect: “in as much as ye do it to these the least of my little ones ye do it unto me!” ’ (The exclamation mark is the Archbishop’s, not ours, and probably not the gospel writer’s either.)
We’d always assumed Jesus meant children when he spoke of ‘little ones’ but we weren’t going to quibble. This was excellent stuff! We had the last sentence printed onto a colourful postcard, and distributed it widely.
Earlier on in the Statement, Dr Runcie had revealed that he’d received ‘numerous letters’ on the subject of animal welfare. Well, we’d been urging our many supporters to write in, and clearly they had. But we’d hoped for more than this. We were after a resounding cry for compassion from pulpits up and down the land. We doubted whether the man on the Clapham omnibus, or many others, had heard about the Archbishop’s 1981 Statement.
*
That same year, still denied a meeting with the Archbishop, we decided to present him with a wreath. There were now around fifty million battery hens in the UK so we’d have it made from fifty flowers, each flower representing one million battery hens. Perhaps we could jog the Archbishop’s memory about this massive insult to living creatures – or God’s creatures, as he might feel duty bound to call them.
We wondered about sharing the gesture with Compassion in World Farming, and put the idea to Peter Roberts. He liked it, and we agreed to make it a joint venture. Violet arranged for her local florist to make up the wreath (spring flowers, mainly pale yellows and whites) and on January 8th we boarded a train for London, along with our fragrant luggage.
Mark Gold, newly appointed to CIWF’s staff, was deputed to accompany us, and we’d be meeting him for the first time. The rendezvous was for noon at Waterloo station and thence to Lambeth Palace. So we’d be looking out for the unknown Mark, and he’d be scanning the crowds for two unknown ladies, one of them carrying a wreath.
And now a young man was heading our way, wearing a woolly hat and, I thought, a slightly disenchanted expression. Maybe he was dreading this mission, feeling he’d be better employed back in the office. And who could blame him? Still, he greeted us warmly.
Once inside the ancient walls of Lambeth Palace we handed the wreath to a gloomy official. Our message read as follows: ‘The fifty flowers in this wreath represent the fifty million battery hens who will suffer and die in Great Britain in 1981. Chickens’ Lib and Compassion in World Farming beg your Grace actively to encourage compassion towards these suffering creatures through the medium of the Church.’
I don’t recall any good coming from the occasion. Our gesture became just another of those endless drips on the stone, wearing away a rock-hard surface, or so we hoped. We came away with an impression of endless corridors, old-world stuffiness, an abundance of secretaries wearing twin sets and pearls, and a general air of suspicion of our good selves. And no hope whatsoever of seeing the Archbishop.
*
The expedition did end most pleasantly. Mission accomplished, we discovered that we had longish waits before our trains, Mark’s to Petersfield, and ours back to Yorkshire. Though not generally au fait with London events, this time I rose to the occasion, remembering a small exhibition about George Eliot, one of my very favourite authors, and loved by Violet too. It turned out that Mark had read English at York University and shared our enthusiasm so, all of one mind, we hurried to the British Museum and spent an interesting hour there before going our separate ways.
It had been quite a relaxing day, and a pleasure to meet Mark, who was soon to become a good friend. Violet and I arrived back in Yorkshire in better-than-usual form. A wreath of spring flowers had been a lot simpler to transport to London than a cage of live hens, and returning home completely empty-handed was a breeze.
*
Seventeen years later Dr Runcie, by then Lord Runcie, underwent a change of heart, though not the one we’d hoped for. In January 1998 the Daily Telegraph reported: ‘Runcie Stymies Bill to Tighten Pig Farm Rules – A move to improve the lives of pigs…was defeated in the Lords with the help of senior clergymen. Lord Runcie was among those who spoke against a backbench Bill designed to tighten the standards of pig farms. He told peers: “I do not believe this legislation is urgent for the well-being of the pig. It is certainly not timely for the morale of those who look after them”… He opposed the Bill because of the “severe problems bearing down on farmers.” Lord Runcie, a pig keeper for twenty five years, was backed by the bishop of Hereford, the Rt Rev John Oliver.’
It seemed commercial pressures had wiped out morals, at least in regard to some of God’s little ones. Pigs were now outsiders, respect for their ‘natural sphere of existence’ no longer on the cards. Farmers were going through a bad time, so pigs must stay put in their grim buildings, with nothing but filthy bare concrete under their trotters.
Mercifully, they did have the proposer of the Bill, Lord Beaumont of Whitley, to speak up for them. In the House of Lords he described the ‘intelligent and lovely’ nature of pigs, adding: ‘Today, the vast majority of pigs are forced to spend their lives in barren, overcrowded sheds.’
*
2006: I had admired the Archbishop of York, Dr John Sentamu, when he appeared on television, fasting and praying for peace in the Middle East. Encouraged, I wrote to him outlining our work and wondering if he could spare a few minutes of his time for a discussion on the suffering of factory farmed animals. He replied only to say his diary was full for 2006, with very few spaces apparent throughout 2007.
I wrote again, expressing disappointment, this time mentioning the wider picture – the destruction of rain forests to grow crops for animal feed, the excessive use of water for intensively farmed animals in countries where the poor must daily walk miles to collect water for their own scant needs. I pointed out that people were starving, while imprisoned animals ate the soya and cereals that humans could well survive on. I even suggested the year 2008 as a possible date for a meeting, and ended my letter: ‘Animals are now accepted, for the first time ever, as “sentient”. Their present suffering, in the name of food production, is intolerable.’
Dr Sentamu then proposed that I contact the Bishop of Monmouth whom, he told me, had especial and informed interest in the subject.
I did as suggested, and the Bishop wished us well, and explained his support for various organisations, mentioning the importance of the different animal welfare people working together (a principle we’ve always believed in, as it happens).
While understanding the considerable demands on Archbishops’ time, we remain convinced that their remit should include non-human animals. Despite its avowed support for the RSPCA, the Church of England appeared unwilling to get down to grass roots. Surely C of E clergy need to alert parishioners to the atrocities perpetrated on sentient animals in the name of food production? Wrongly perhaps, Chickens’ Lib limited its considerable efforts to the C of E, failing to spread our net wider.
Eventually, we all but stopped dreaming of the day when church congregations discuss what’s going on inside those windowless sheds with their closed doors, and decide to do something about it. Still, an age of enlightenment just may dawn.
Harvest Festival would be a good time to start the good work, should a particular date in the church calendar be needed.
*
2010: Tragically, millions of British pigs continue to live in squalor. Secret filming by Hillside Animal Sanctuary, shot in East Anglia in 2010, revealed pigs living in filth, shivering with cold in sub-zero temperatures, pigs and piglets huddled together, hopelessly seeking warmth. Following cruelty charges, the farmer concerned had previously been prohibited from keeping other farmed animals for ten years but, because he’d once won an industry award for his pigs, the magistrate had exempted that species from the prohibition.
Hillside has filmed on several pig farms, finding evidence of almost unimaginable squalor: pigs struggling through two feet of excrement to reach food, pigs driven to cannibalism, decomposing pigs (1). Let nobody be complacent about British pig farms. Many are bad beyond belief. Over the Christmas period 2011-2012, Hillside Animal Sanctuary filmed in yet another disgraceful pig farm. This same unit had been exposed previously by Hillside, yet conditions for the pigs had not improved, and May Farm continued to operate under the British Quality Pig (BQP) logo and, worse, that of Freedom Food (the latter accreditation applying at least into 2011). The meat from these pigs, who’d spent their last few (cold) weeks of life living on a wet layer of their own excreta, were destined for the shelves of ‘upmarket’ supermarket Waitrose. Complaints from Hillside were, in time-honoured fashion, brushed aside.
In 2010, Compassion in World Farming reported on secret filming of seventy-four pig farms in six EU countries, including the UK: ‘An undercover investigation, alongside the European Coalition for Farm Animals (ECFA) suggests that the vast majority of the 250 million pigs reared each year in the EU are being farmed in illegal conditions…CIWF chief policy advisor Peter Stevenson said: “It’s a scandal that, seven years after the new laws came into force, they are still being ignored by most of Europe’s pig farmers. Pigs are inquisitive intelligent animals, with a real zest for life – it is both illegal and inhumane to keep them in barren factory farms where there is simply nothing for them to do. We call on Member States to enforce the law that requires pigs to be given enrichment materials, such as straw and that bans routine tail-docking.” ’ (2)
The good old days?
I’ve just come upon an old newspaper cutting with District Chronicle scrawled on it, the district in question unspecified. But the date is clear – June 15th 1979:
‘Mrs Violet Matilda Spalding and Mrs Clare Druce are names that mean nothing to most people. But in the corridors of Whitehall they are names that can cause shudders of fear. Mrs Spalding and Mrs Druce have been known to halt a whole morning’s work at the Ministry of Agriculture; they have demonstrated in Whitehall addressing ministry officials by loud-speaker; they have appeared on television in their own programme; they have been threatened with prosecution by the police; and they have had to be forcibly ejected from a Roman Catholic convent…Chickens’ Lib may sound like a joke but it isn’t.’
It’s a longish article, mainly hinging on the nuns.
Loud speakers blaring out challenges to MAFF, in Whitehall Place? No chance of this sort of bad behaviour now, it would be down to the police station with the adults, the children perhaps whisked into care. How different in the 1970s, when indulgent MAFF secretaries let my daughters loose on their
typewriters and plied them with refreshments, glorying in an interrupted morning’s work, while we’d be busy bullying whomsoever we could get hold of, refusing to leave the building until we’d had our say.
*
One of these occasions stands out as being especially long-winded. We’d taken our trademark into MAFF’s Whitehall Place HQ: four abused ex-battery hens in the cage.
As usual, we’d demanded an interview, explaining that we’d brought positive proof of the shameful end result of the battery system. We must have a comment, we insisted (‘we’ being a handful of women – Violet, Vivienne, one or two other supporters, and myself). A doorman showed us into a small pressroom, and there we waited. And waited. We had one packet of sweets between us, which helped a little to keep our spirits up, along with blood sugar levels.
At one point I left the room, to seek out the Ladies. A notice in there caught my eye, informing staff that sanitary towels could be obtained from Room X (actually I think it was room 18, but should hate to misinform anyone on that score). I felt sorry for the female staff, having to make their way down long corridors, before retracing their steps to the loo. I only hoped that once in Room 18 (?) employees were allowed to help themselves, and not obliged to fill in forms before their pitiful requests were granted. But I digress…
After a good hour and a half with no sign of action, Violet snatched up an internal phone, only to find herself on a direct line to Peggy Fenner, Parliamentary Secretary to the Agriculture Minister, who personally answered the call. At the very moment that Violet embarked on our demand for an interview, now, the hens broke into a cacophony of clucking, true farmyard noises.
‘And where are you phoning from, Mrs Spalding?’ asked Mrs Fenner, coldly. That wretched woman again! Thank God she must be at a safe distance, down some muddy lane with her flaming hens. And yet… The internal telephone?