I look down at my clothes: cut-off shorts with a plain grey V-necked T-shirt. Argh. I wish I’d worn my elephant one, but it was dirty. Our laundry schedule hasn’t been the best lately; I make a mental note to help Paula out more when I get back.
We begin to wander the clusters of stalls from different animal and vegan organisations showing off their wares. One organisation is lobbying to end greyhound racing and another, puppy mills. We stop to read their material and learn about the horrific living conditions of millions of dogs sold as pedigrees.
‘There are so many ideas here for our next videos,’ Oliver says.
We agree to part ways as he wants to watch the doco that’s just starting, and I want to continue exploring. He puts on the earphones and presses play on the iPad. I get a glimpse of a dark warehouse with hundreds of cages stacked on cages, the poor puppies covered in poo and urine. I think of Bella, the sweetest soul on Earth, who was abandoned with no likelihood of being adopted because people don’t want mixed breeds and mutts. I turn away and continue walking; I’ve got twenty minutes to look around before I have to be back.
Many people are sporting the conference logo on clothes and bags. I collect a handful of pamphlets— ideas for Keep Kind. One is about protecting non-native species, and I turn it over to see the logo for Wildlife Conservation Australia. I take a picture and send it to Lucy. West Creek is full of ferals—maybe Lucy’s dad could work for them as a researcher?
Your dad should check these guys out, I message her.
I make my way through the bustling crowd, stopping at each stall to gather information. Using the money from Dad, I buy a pretty tote bag with an illustration of a cow garlanded with flowers. I place all my pamphlets inside it, then double back to the first stand where I saw a powder-blue singlet with the conference logo in white. They also have a kids’ range and I find a tiny T-shirt in size zero with the words Plant Powered with a cute graphic of a tomato flexing its muscles. It’s too cute to pass up for my upcoming baby cousin. I buy them both then go to the toilets to change. When I return wearing my conference singlet, I feel like one of the gang.
Oliver tells me about the doco while we stand in line by the coffee truck waiting to order oat milk chai lattes. He’s taken my hand, which makes me feel relieved, yet again, that last night wasn’t anything to worry about. I squeeze his hand and he squeezes mine back.
He describes how mother dogs are forced to have litter after litter of pups until they can’t anymore and are then killed. Some pups get so filthy their eyes mat shut and they go blind. Because of the animal group’s work, hundreds of puppy mills have been shut down and tens of thousands of dogs have been saved. When he finishes, we agree to prioritise this as a video for our channel.
Lattes in hand, we find a spot to sit down and begin trawling through my stash of brochures.
Fighting animal abuse in the fashion industry.
Animals and the law.
Strategies for student activism.
Vegan nutrition.
Knowing there are gatherings like this, people like this, in the world, who think, hope and strive to be kinder and more compassionate, it’s ... I don’t know. Like seeing a double rainbow. I stare into the crowd, mesmerised.
‘What is it?’ Oliver asks.
‘It’s weird, but I feel like we’ve arrived ... somewhere good. Don’t you?’
He pulls me into a hug and I take that as a yes.
Chapter 13
The main conference is about to begin and there must be more than five hundred people filling the surprisingly large church. Oliver and I step through a beam of emerald light as we search for a place to sit down, and I look up to find its source.
Sunlight. It’s streaming through the hall’s tall stained-glass windows, illuminating tiny specks of floating dust and forming colourful shapes on people’s heads and backs. The room’s not buzzing but throbbing with energy.
The seats are blue plastic, and we find two that are close to the aisle, about halfway back from the stage. The lights dim as a tall man appears in front of the huge black and red banner with the IAAD logo. He pushes his unruly grey mop of hair out of his eyes and taps the microphone.
Chairs scrape as the last of the audience find their seats, then the spotlight turns on and the crowd hushes.
‘Welcome! I’m Neville, head of the Melbourne organising committee.’ In his blue shirt and striped tie, he looks more like a school principal than an animal activist.
I’m so excited to be here that when I run my fingers over my arm, I feel an eruption of goosebumps.
‘Everyone said Australia was too far away for this gig. But look at all of you who made the trip here today.’ He beams at us. His accent is true-blue Aussie. ‘As you know, the IAAD,’ he pronounces the acronym as one word, eye-ad, ‘moves around the globe every two years. I’ve travelled to all of them, and although each one has a special atmosphere and has inspired me enormously, I’ve been wanting and waiting for our chance.’
‘Woohoo!’ someone sings out.
Neville goes on to thank the sponsors, expressing his hopes that this event will compare well to the last one in Tel Aviv, supposedly the vegan capital of the world. Who knew? He makes a few jokes that miss the mark, but people clap anyway; the air of excitement is infectious. Someone hollers, ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi,’ which sets off a burst of laughter from the Australian attendees that bounces all the way up to the vaulted ceilings.
‘Five years ago, you couldn’t get a soy latte in Melbourne, let alone an iced mocha coconut milk frappe,’ Neville continues, still beaming at the crowd. ‘Australia may seem like a long way to travel for many of you, but we’re becoming a force to be reckoned with. And ... talking about powerhouses, it is now my true privilege to welcome one of the most influential people our movement has ever seen. This week she was listed as one of the Forbes 30 Under 30. She’s an award-winning journalist, leader, and an inspiration to so many of us. I’ve been a part of this movement for thirty-five years, and I’m not often struck dumb by one of our own, but in this case ...’ He turns to the side of the stage and does an old-fashioned bow. ‘Please put your hands together for ... Stella Morris.’
The applause is deafening as Stella walks on stage. She’s short and petite and wears a form-fitting black dress like a CEO on the cover of a magazine. Her confident stride and upright composure allow her to easily command the stage.
I take a picture and quickly send it to Paula: Conference starting. This is the amazing Stella xx
Stella stands at the microphone and the room slowly quietens. The video screen attached to the right wall shows a close-up of her face. Her shiny dark hair is swept to the side exposing oversized red hooped earrings, and winged eyeliner frames her eyes.
‘The honour is all mine.’ She brings her hands together prayer-style as the claps fade.
Her accent is unique; a foundation of American with a few tones of posh English. I remember reading somewhere that she went to boarding school in Britain.
Stella opens her arms and addresses the crowd. ‘I am humbled to stand before you. You are all heroes, who, regardless of nationality, race, religion or gender, live by your actions, unsatisfied by standing on the sidelines, but instead demand a place in the centre; who don’t shudder with cowardice, but take your values and make them a reality, shifting society’s perceptions and, most importantly, transforming the lives of animals. Because it is animals, and nobody else, who we are working for.’
Spontaneous applause erupts, and I shiver at her powerful words, beaming like lasers through my body.
‘We are speaking, using our voices,’ she gestures to encompass the crowd, ‘for those beings who can speak, but whom most of us humans refuse to hear. They are not voiceless animals, they are silenced, treated as objects rather than subjects. Do you think our capacity to cause suffering, terror, misery and industrialised death for profit and greed is evidence of our superiority?’ She pauses. One beat, two.
Applause starts again. She waits just a little longer, until the anticipation is almost physical.
‘We are the inferior species, wreaking havoc on our Earth, destroying the planet and the complex life forces, the rich diversity of species and sentient beings, who, to their great misfortune must share the world with us. All of you in this room today—each and everyone one of you ...’ She looks into the crowd, and I feel a strange tingling and blood rushing to my chest. ‘... Every one of you has the power, the ability, to be a changemaker. With our combined force, and the unification of groups around the world, from Australia to Indonesia, Japan to India, Israel to Lebanon, the UK, US and Canada, IAAD activists can come together in power to up-end the paradigm. Stop the murder and the torture of billions of animals. Who’s with me?’
Hollers and whooping. I look around the crowd, rubbing the raised hairs on my arm.
‘Look.’ Oliver points to a figure waiting in the wings by the stage. It’s Miguel, the tattooed guy who was with Stella in that photo.
Stella then steps away from the microphone and starts a slide show that depicts scenes of her undercover work, from the live export trade in the Middle East to the hunting of foxes in Europe and the whaling ships of Iceland.
I can’t believe I’m here. With these people. Amongst them. And close to such an amazing person as Stella. To think that I am part of her group, in some small way, connected to her ... it feels too impossible to be real. I wish my mum was here; she would love this. Melody too. I’ll send her some pictures later.
Oliver loops his arm around my shoulder, and I feel increasingly confident that last night wasn’t a sign of anything except his dad’s unreliability.
When the slide show finishes, the room is pulsing with electricity. Like we really can do anything, and the world will be soon moulded by the force of our will.
‘Now, drum roll, please.’ Stella watches the screen, and a new video begins. She turns back to the audience. ‘These are the runners-up for Young Activist of the Year; people who have shone a light on the worst of human behaviour.’
Slides of the nominees play on the video and I recognise one or two from the Facebook post.
Stella continues to talk about courage, dedication, working together and ridding the world of darkness. ‘Only in the shadows can the abuse flourish.’
I look around the room, wondering where the runners-up are sitting, who among us is worthy.
Stella names several people, and a woman sitting in the row down from us squeezes past my knees to join her onstage. A curvy woman in her thirties, she wears pretty silver eyeshadow and has piercings in her lips and nose. Her earlobes hold large silver rings. I can only imagine what Malcolm would think.
I learn she is from Portugal, where she coordinates mass vigils at pig slaughterhouses, shutting down production for days, drawing media attention and setting a template for replication worldwide. She stands there shyly as Stella lists her accomplishments.
Coming in second is a pale, lanky Brit with spiky blond hair named Devon. He spent months in the small Japanese town of Taiji documenting the slaughter of dolphins and their capture for the international trade. His viral videos have been short-listed for a short-film award. I see Oliver noting down the details on his phone. Making a short film worthy of an award would be his dream.
‘And to give his acceptance speech, the winner of Young Activist of the Year is ...’ Stella pauses dramatically. ‘Miguel Martinez.’
The audience applauds as Miguel walks on stage. He must be over six feet tall, and his conference T-shirt is stretched over broad shoulders and muscly arms. Handsome doesn’t come close to describing him.
‘I’m not that young,’ he says with a melodic Spanish accent, ‘but I am supremely honoured.’
Someone screams out, ‘Old man!’
‘I’m twenty-four; come on, boludo.’ He grins at the haggler, who he clearly knows, then turns back to the audience. ‘Cómo andas? How are you? What a thrill it is to be here in Australia with so many people I have admired for so long. My name is Miguel Martinez. I was born in Argentina and when I was fifteen, my family immigrated to the USA. Today, I will share my story with you.’ He composes himself, closes his eyes, and stands in total silence.
We all wait.
Then he begins. ‘I left school at sixteen. I was failing my classes, and I felt like a loser.’ He tells us he realised later he had dyslexia, but at the time his confidence was shattered. He couldn’t even get a job at Macca’s. His dad threatened to kick him out if he didn’t find a job, so he had to keep trying; quitting wasn’t an option. And he got a job eventually.
I look to Oliver; he’s enthralled.
‘To say I was happy to finally make some money, knowing I could save a little and get out of home, is not the right word; I was ecstatic. Even though the job was ... inside a slaughterhouse.’
The audience audibly groans.
Miguel explains what it was like working the production line, describing in detail the process of stunning and slaughtering cattle. The blood on the floor. The smell.
A man coughs and then clears their throat, breaking the silence from the audience.
‘I started drinking to forget my day. But about six months in, a strange event happened ... Instead of an animal, that day, I saw someone. One cow locked his eyes with mine. One out of the thousands. This one cow didn’t die as he was supposed to. No. He kicked, he fought back. But I got him under control, and eventually he submitted. I knew he knew he was going to die. His eyes told me so, and knowing this broke through my defence shield. I saw him as he was: a scared, innocent creature facing his death.’
The audience is silent. Not a breath. Oliver’s mouth is agape.
‘In that second, everything changed. He died. I killed him. And five other animals during my shift.’ Miguel looks down to his feet and then back at us. ‘I’m ashamed of that day, that I didn’t walk out right there and then. Or better, save that one cow. But I’m not ashamed of the six months leading to that moment. No, I was not ... How do you say? “Woke”.’ He air quotes, and the audience chuckles. ‘No, I was like everyone I knew, believing that this was how it was meant to be. But after I saw him, I walked through the other door, in my head.’ He taps his right temple.
‘I got drunk that night to avoid my problems, just as my father did. I lost my keys and passed out on our back porch.’
He explains how his mother found him, but it was his father who was violent. It’s a hard story to hear and it makes me think of that night in Alaska when we searched for Jaxon’s father in the bars across town. Miguel was sixteen; that’s my age. I think of Mum and how much love she poured into me. How Paula and Dave opened their home to me, no questions asked. And my father, who, because of me, was suspended from his job, but rather than respond with anger, he flew across the world to get to know me better. Despite a year full of loss, hardship and heartbreak, I realise I feel lucky.
‘That day my life started anew,’ Miguel continues. ‘My head pounding, I scraped together the little money I had and left home. I found myself in the big city, and as luck would have it, I stumbled on a group of people leafletting by the train station. I joined them and that’s when my journey began. Eventually I created a site. Expose Them.’
An image of their logo flashes onto the screen.
‘It’s a site about justice. Justice for that one nameless cow, and every other animal who doesn’t want to die at our hands.’ He touches his arm. ‘I’ve marked every single animal I knowingly killed, including those I’ve eaten and those I murdered myself. If someone had drawn my attention to what I was doing sooner, that number would be much lower. That’s where Expose Them fits in.’
The crowd applauds and Oliver and I join in. I pick up my phone and hit record to take a quick video for Dad.
Miguel puts up his hands and we hush. ‘I will not stop until ... EVERY. ANIMAL. IS. LIBERATED.’
I send the video to Dad as Miguel finishes to a standing ovation. After several
minutes of cheering, everyone is seated again.
Stella reappears on stage. ‘Thank you, Miguel. We salute you on behalf of the animals. And now, there are a few people I would like to introduce you to.’ Stella starts to call activists onto stage. My phone buzzes. Dad’s sent a message.
That’s intense, Sky. Who is that guy? Please be careful, okay?
Someone taps me on the shoulder from behind and whispers. ‘Do you know when we’re breaking for morning tea?’
I turn around to see a woman with a small heart tattooed on her cheek. Next to her is the girl I saw on the tram with the red lipstick. I look at the program, back at the time on my phone, and work out how long we have left until the break. I’m about to answer her when Oliver shakes my arm.
‘Sky.’
I turn back to face him. ‘Yeah?’
‘We have to go.’ He points to the stage.
Stella is peering across the crowd, her hand over her eyes to shield them from the spotlight. ‘Is there a Sky and Oliver here?’
I jump up and, after tripping over three sets of feet, find myself in the isle with Oliver behind me. Is she really talking to us? I look around, dazed and confused. The audience is staring at us expectantly and starting to clap.
‘Sky and Oliver?’ I hear again.
I walk towards the stage, trying not to trip over my own feet. What’s going on?
Stella spots us by the steps and waves us up.
My heart is beating so loudly as I take my place between Stella and Oliver on the stage. The light shines in my eyes, and the audience is a black hole.
Stella puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘These young activists are new to the scene but have already made a big wave.’
I feel like the microphone is broadcasting my heartbeat from the speaker. I wipe my palms on my pants.
‘Their undercover video of a kangaroo hunt exposes more of the ugly truth behind one of the most secretive industries in the world. Kangaroos are labelled pests, vermin and roadkill. Kangaroo meat and leather is exported around the world, and consumers usually don’t even know they are using them. Tell me, how many of the Aussies here know what kangaroo skins are called?’ She shields her eyes and looks out into the audience. We see only a few hands raised in the crowd. ‘It’s k-leather. Kangaroo hunting may be a well-kept secret now. But not for long. Well done, Sky and Oliver. With the help of people like you, we will end this industry.’
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