THE COURAGE

TO RESPOND TO

ANIMAL SUFFERING

IN A WORLD WHICH

ACTIVELY DISCOURAGES IT.

LAURA BROWN
Arts University Bournemouth
BA (Hons) Photography 2020
Words: 10075
 CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION 1

RECOGNIsING AN UNEQUAL DISTRIBUTION OF VULNERABILITY 6

aN iNVISIBLE IDEOLOGY 10

OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND 15

FURTHER DEREALIsATION 19

BLIND ALLEGIANCE 25

THE FORECLOSURE OF CRITIQUE 29

BREAKING AN IMPLICIT CONTRACT 34

BEyOND MORAL INDIGNATION 39

CONCLUSION 44

BIBLIOGRAPHY 46
 INTRODUCTION.

In a society which values profit, commodities, images and appearances over reality,

truth and experience, it becomes increasingly difficult to foster authentic relationships

with one another, nor create meaningful and prolonged engagement with issues that are

in desperate need of it. Our innate qualities of compassion, empathy and humility are

stifled early on in order to propagate the system we live under. Through the discourse of

official culture and oppressive ideologies we are fed values which directly oppose what is

natural to us, resulting in a highly mediated, image-obsessed, confusing and confused

world. Under these conditions the lives of certain nonhuman animals are bred into

existence for the sole purpose of being commodified. By societal standards, the lives of

these animals are not lives that count, and their deaths certainly are not deaths that we

can mourn.

The objective of this essay is to shed light on the ways the human population is

actively discouraged from considering the lives and deaths of these nonhuman animals,

and how the only way towards an ethical response to their suffering is through critical

thought, embracing the discomfort of our complicity, and intentionally stepping forward

to share the burden of their pain. I argue that to do so, in the face of a system which tells

1
us otherwise, is a defiant act.

The notion of ethical responsiveness comes from Judith Butler's writing on topics

such as derealisation, greivability and vulnerability (Butler, 2006, p.150). At its simplest, the

term seeks to outline an appropriate moral response to suffering – to make good

judgements when faced with another's misfortune or pain. Butler's writing will be

instrumental throughout the essay. Specifically, her reflections on the dehumanisation of

certain groups to facilitate violence towards them will provide me with a framework to

introduce the ways nonhuman animal lives are excluded from our sphere of moral

consideration.

An underlying theme throughout the essay will be speciesism, the belief system, or

ideology, in which it is considered appropriate to value some animals over others (with

humans at the top of the hierarchy) for reasons of species alone. The ramifications and

history of speciesism are so vast that for the purpose of developing my argument the

primary focus of this essay will be the ways in which it is considered appropriate to eat

some of the animals on the lower rungs of the speciesist hierarchy. The term used to

classify this sub-ideology of speciesism is carnism, first theorized by social psychologist

Dr. Melanie Joy. Carnism can be understood in relation to speciesism just as anti-

Semitism can be understood as a sub-ideology of racism. The term “ideology” has been

2
used in many ways by different authors. One of the more widely understood senses of

ideology is a mode of thought and practice developed by dominant groups in order to

reproduce and legitimate their domination (Stibbe, 2001, p. 4). Rather than explicitly

encouraging oppression and exploitation, an ideology in this sense often manifests itself

through being implicit (Van Dijk, 1997).

Perhaps one of the defining characteristics of carnism is its dependency on

remaining invisible. This is achieved through both a symbolic invisibility (in its capacity to

go unnamed, for choices to not appear as choices) and a practical one (the strategic

placement of farms and slaughterhouses in remote areas). This notion of its invisibility will

be discussed in greater depth with the support, once again, from Butler's understanding

of strategies of derealisation.

Besides the violent ideology quietly at work, further efforts must be made to

discourage nonhuman animals from being included in our sphere of moral

consideration; the public must be misinformed as well as uninformed. The products that

are the result of animal exploitation ought to bear no trace of their origin, thus

misleading imagery and a carefully controlled discourse are managed in favour of

keeping the conscious mind of the consumer suitably preoccupied. The use of language

is crucial in distorting reality and validating the assumptions about eating animals that

3
are accepted as common sense. This discourse is upheld through the policies and

practices of major establishments and institutions, meaning that to question carnism is

also to question these figures of authority and to risk being branded as an irrational

extremist.

Political thinker Hannah Arendt's reflections on the trial of Nazi criminal Eichmann

suggest that evil done in the name of bureaucracy should be understood as the banality

of evil – a concept antithetical to the Western world's notions of good and evil. Arendt

was met with extreme controversy for suggesting that atrocious violence could be

incorporated into the fabric of society by otherwise ordinary people. Butler identifies the

dangers of voicing critical speech but acknowledges that the consequences of an

unwavering sense of obligation to authority are arguably far more severe. The restrictions

on critical speech are enforced through the regulation of psychic and public

identifications. Indeed, those who publicly mourn nonhuman animals – particularly those

deemed edible by our culture – are mocked and criticized for being overly sentimental

or anti-human. Perhaps more seriously, established power actively attempts to

criminalize peaceful dissent, creating a climate of fear and making compassionate pleas

to treat nonhuman animals more fairly appear synonymous with terrorism and violence.

Despite the heavy censorship surrounding animal agribusiness, one cannot

4
assume that ethical responsiveness can be evoked upon encountering information and

imagery that attempts to uncover the truth. On our interaction with images of suffering,

Sontag argues that often our empathy is dulled not because of the quantity of images

we encounter or how we encounter them, but because we are afraid (Sontag, 2001,

p.79). To accept the Eichmanns of the world as monsters and to ignore how our

privileges are linked to others’ suffering is to forgo our ability to examine the morality of

ourselves, the people we give power to and the systems we become compliant in.

To step outside of an entrenched ideology is to openly accept feelings of

discomfort – grief for the animal victims, guilt for our complicity, anger at the deception

we were unaware of, despair at the enormity of the issue (Joy, 2010, p.142) From this

place of vulnerability we can begin to reflect and to share the burden of pain in an

attempt to alleviate the suffering. Ultimately our ethical responsiveness must be an

intentional step towards the victim, and to do so is an act of defiance in the face of what

is surrounding us.

5
 RECONISING AN UNEQUAL DISTRIBUTION OF VULNERABILITY.

In her 2006 book Precarious Life: the powers of mourning and violence , Judith

Butler recurrently poses the question of why some lives are greivable and others are not.

Butler discusses how this differential allocation of grievability functions to maintain certain

exclusionary conceptions of who is normatively human. Using the ethical philosophy of

Levinas, Butler presents an ethical theory which is entirely amenable for including

nonhuman animals within the sphere of our moral consideration (Taylor, 2008, p.62).

Butler's concern is that certain groups and individuals are excluded from the

normative category of the human which in turn makes it possible to spurn their deaths

and not to grieve them, allowing us to do violence to these lives with greater ease. One

of the primary examples she uses is the infinite detention of Guantanamo Bay prisoners,

who are not even considered prisoners and receive no protection from international law.

Butler points out that the political implication of the normative conceptions of the human

produces - through an exclusionary process - 'a host of unliveable lives whose legal and

political status is suspended' (Butler, 2006, p.15).

The author uses the terms dehumanisation and derealisation to describe the

ethnic frame for conceiving who will be human and who will not. What Butler is arguing

6
in favour of is an interruption and dislocation of the frame of the human beyond the

dominant model in order to include individuals who are currently dehumanised (Taylor,

2008, p.63). While acknowledging that Butler cannot be criticized for excluding

nonhuman animals from her discussion, as this topic simply does not fall under her radar,

we might still ask ourselves why the dislocation of this frame, which determines which

lives are considered grievable, is limited to the sphere of the human?

All five of the essays collected in the book were written after the 9/11 terrorist

attacks of 2001 and respond to the heightened vulnerability and aggression that arose

after the events. Butler laments that this state of increased vulnerability following the

attacks led to the government's forbidding of public mourning and a violent retaliation

which caused suffering to even more vulnerable others (Butler, 2006, p.13). What was

missed was an opportunity to draw from the experience of extreme violence and loss

and begin to initiate ways of reflecting on our common vulnerability, allowing us to

grieve. This reflection on our shared vulnerability would foster unity with others, rather

than divide, and would also inevitably inspire us to project rather than violate principles

of justice. 'If we are interested in arresting cycles of violence to produce less violent

outcomes, it is no doubt important to ask what, politically, might be made of grief

besides a cry for war.' (Butler, 2006, p.12).

7
 This recognition of a common vulnerability also means that we must recognize

that certain individuals, due to a wide range of variables such as ethnicity or social

background, are more vulnerable than others. The injustices that arise as a result of this

unequal distribution of vulnerability require us to reflect on our ethical responsibility and

to respond to the suffering of others.

Butler is concerned with instances in which unjust power balances result in the

vulnerability of certain human groups or individuals being exploited. I argue again that

we think beyond the vulnerability and grievability of our own species and consider the

lives of nonhuman animals who are one of the most, if not the most, vulnerable groups

with whom we share this planet. What makes the exploited vulnerability of nonhuman

animals even more barbarous and unforgiving is that in many cases we have made them

dependent on us through domestication, for example those animals raised in factory

farms, fur farms and laboratory cages (Taylor, 2008, p.62). If greivability is determined by

species, then the lives of nonhuman animals are not lives that count, and their deaths

certainly are not deaths that we can mourn.

One way in which we derealise lives is by refusing to individuate them with faces,

names and biographies (Butler, 2006. p.33). One of the many reasons we rarely consider

the suffering of animals raised and exploited for human gain is because the individuals'

8
lives are derealised to an unimaginable degree; we do not see them and we are under

no circumstances encouraged to question the details of their existence, nor their deaths.

Butler uses the example of Daniel Pearl, an American journalist murdered by terrorists in

Pakistan while working for The Wall Street Journal in Mumbai and whose life was

individuated and heavily mourned in the American press. Meanwhile the deaths of other

Palestinians, Afghans and Iraqis remained mere statistics, if mentioned at all (Banita,

2008). Much in the same way the western media has a prejudice to individuate and

mourn a certain type of person (happy, heterosexual, monogamous, Caucasian...), we

apply a similar ideology to categorise nonhuman life into a hierarchy of grieveabililty. It

could be argued that the application of derealisation to nonhuman life is even more

extreme because, as already mentioned, some nonhuman lives are rendered even less

worthy of recognition than those of the most abused and victimized human beings on

this planet. Certain animals' lives and deaths are derealised to the extent that their bodies

are brought into existence only to be commodified and ultimately consumed for nothing

more than human sensory pleasure. The regard for these individuals' vulnerability is

altogether non-existent and this lack of ethical responsiveness towards their suffering is

actively upheld through a web of violent ideologies, corporate strategies and controlling

discourse – aspects of which will be discussed in the following chapters.

9
 AN INVISIBLE IDEOLOGY.

Whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, (...) whatever is misnamed as

something else, made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by

the collapse of meaning under inadequate or lying language – this will become,

not merely unspoken, but unspeakable.

Rich, 1995, p. 6

Carnism, a concept first coined by Dr. Melanie Joy, is used in discussions of

humanity's relation to other animals and defined as a prevailing ideology in which people

support the use and consumption of animal products, especially meat (Gibert and

Desaulniers, 2014). Dr. Melanie Joy begins her 2010 book Why we Love Dogs, Eat Pigs

and Wear Cows by stating that there is a gap in our perception process when it comes to

species of animals we deem edible or not. This gap is our failure to make the connection

between meat and animal source (Joy, 2010, p.14). Joy identifies the classification of only

particular species of animal as food, and the acceptance of practices toward those

animals that would be rejected as unacceptable cruelty if applied to other species. This

classification is culturally relative, therefore we can be repelled at the thought of another

10
culture which eats dogs, but not towards our own culture's tradition of eating pigs. The

lack of disgust towards certain groups of animals is learnt, in other words, our schema

which dictates our treatment of animals isn't innate but constructed out of a belief system

which teaches us how not to feel (Joy, 2010, p.15). According to Joy, the most obvious

feeling we lose is disgust, yet beneath our disgust lies an emotion much more integral to

our sense of self; our empathy.

Our behaviours and our values are incongruent, we care about animals but we

also eat them. This conflict causes a certain degree of moral discomfort. Joy proposes

three choices to alleviate this discomfort; the first is to change our values to match our

behaviours, the second is to change our behaviours to match our values (this choice

would result in ethical veganism). The final choice is to change our perception of our

behaviours so that they appear to match our values (Joy, 2010, p.18). It is through this

final choice that the schema of meat is shaped. The schema of meat functions in such a

way that we distort our perceptions of the animals we eat so that we feel comfortable

enough to consume them.

This act of psychic numbing - a psychological process by which we disconnect

mentally and emotionally from our experience – can prove adaptive or beneficial when it

helps us to cope with violence but maladaptive or destructive when it is used to enable

11
violence (Maier, Slovic, Mayoga, 2017). Psychic numbing is comprised of a wide array of

mechanisms and defences which operate on both social and psychological levels. These

include denial, avoidance, justification, dissociation, amongst others. In relation to

carnism, Joy describes these mechanisms as powerful, pervasive bust most importantly

invisible. This invisibility is the primary defence of carnism, and it accounts for why

choices appear not to be choices at all.

The most evident example of carnism's invisibility is in its capacity to go unnamed.

Society has labels for those who boycott animal products and it is commonly understood

that this is an expression of one's ethical orientation (Joy, 2010, p.28). In other words, the

decision to not consume animal products reflects a deeper belief system in which killing

animals for human ends is considered unethical. A question then arises; if the word

vegan is ascribed to a person who believes that it is unethical to exploit animals, what is

the term to describe someone who believes that it is ethical to do so? (Joy, 2010, p.29).

The term “meat eater ” falls short because it refers only to a behaviour that stems from a

belief system, isolating the practice of consuming animals 'as though it were divorced

from a person's beliefs and values' (Joy, 2010, p.29). It has long been proven that we don't

need animal products to survive, thanks not only to scientific data but also by countless

examples of vegans who have led long, healthy lives (Campbell, Campbell, 2006).

12
Although it still appears to be severed from a person's set of assumptions about animals,

our world, and ourselves, if it isn't essential for our survival then eating animals is very

much a choice.

Joy reiterates that carnism is a very real ideology in which eating certain animals is

considered ethical and appropriate and its ability to go unrecognized is due to the fact

that it is entirely entrenched in society. When an ideology is supported by the majority it

is normalised to the extent that it goes unperceived, unquestioned. 'It's assumptions and

practices are seen as simply common sense, it is considered fact rather than opinion, its

practices a given rather than a choice' (Joy, 2010, p. 31)

Patriarchy, the ideology in which masculinity is valued over femininity, granting

men more social power than women, existed for thousands of years before feminists

assigned it its name. Patriarchal values were upheld and unquestioned by the majority

largely because of the lack of linguistic tools available to identify it and discuss it; it was

part of the oxygen of life. On the other hand, concepts such as democracy, autocracy or

oligarchy, for example, have not only been defined but also debated since the times of

the Greeks (Smuts, 1995). The idea that male supremacy was “natural” was self-fulfilling,

as those that wrote the laws, the poems, the religious books, the philosophy, the history,

the medical treatises and the scientific texts were, majoritarily, men writing for the benefit

13
of men (Higgins, 2018). If it is recognized that patriarchy's particular power is its capacity

to go unseen, then to recognize the same of carnism isn't too much a stretch of the

imagination. As with any oppressive ideology 'if we don't name it, we can't talk about it,

and if we can't talk about it, we can't question it' (Joy, 2010, p.32).

Although it is difficult enough to question an ideology that we don't even know

exists, it becomes even more challenging when that ideology actively works to remain

concealed. Joy identifies this type of ideology as a violent ideology; at its core it is

structured around physical violence (Joy, 2010, p.33). Extensive violence is required in

order to slaughter enough animals for the meat industry to maintain its current profit

margin. The violence inherent in sustaining the system is so distressing that most people

recoil from witnessing it. Many animal rights advocates suffer from post-traumatic-stress

disorder due to prolonged exposure to the violence inflicted on animals, particularly the

slaughter process (Chen and Gorski, 2015). The obvious question is; why does exposure to

animal suffering cause us so much distress?

There is a substantial body of evidence demonstrating the human being's

seemingly innate aversion to killing. Studies conducted by military organisations into the

psychological and physiological effects of killing on the human psyche suggest that

soldiers tend to deliberately miss their aim, firing over the enemy's head, or not firing at

14
all (Pols and Oak, 2007). What the military have learnt from such studies is that in order

to get soldiers to shoot to kill, to actively participate in violence, they must first be

adequately desensitised to the act of killing. Simply put, they must learn how to not feel –

and to not feel responsible – for their actions (Joy, 2010, p.35).

If our aversion to killing, and even witnessing killing and suffering, is innate then

besides evading naming carnism, industries dependent on killing nonhuman animals

must also work incredibly hard to keep the details of this inherently violent system from

the conscious mind of the consumer.

OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND.

The social and psychological invisibility of carnism, as explained in the previous

chapter, account for why choices appear not to be choices at all. This form of invisibility is

symbolic, and it accounts for why consuming animal products appears to be a behaviour

that exists independently of a belief system. It is enabled by the defence mechanism of

avoidance (particularly regarding naming the system), which is a form of denial (Joy,

2010, p.40).

In addition to the symbolic invisibility of carnism, there is practical or physical

15
invisibility which keeps public scrutiny at a safe distance by deliberately maintaining

consumers uninformed or misinformed, as to protect them from the reality of meat

production and the potential to move beyond carnistic defences (Joy, 2010, p.40). Or

perhaps more accurately, to protect the profit of the industries that benefit from the

exploitation of animals.

Judith Butler's framework for understanding derealised lives and deaths once

again becomes pertinent (Butler, 2006, pp.36-38);

Certain images do not appear in the media, certain names of the dead are not

utterable, certain losses are not avowed as losses, and violence is derealized and

diffused. Violence against those who are already not quite living, that is, living in a

state of suspension between life and death, leaves a mark that is no mark. There

will be no public act of grieving. If there is a discourse it is a silent and melancholic

one.

More than 200 million animals are killed for food around the world each day – on

land alone. That equates to 72 billion land animals killed for food around the world

annually. The inclusion of aquatic animals would raise the daily total closer to 3 billion

16
animals killed (Zampa, 2018). The true implications of such statistics are

incomprehensible. As with the derealisation of the civilians killed in warzones, as reported

in western media, they are also detrimental in grasping the severity of the violence. Such

vast numbers can help us quantify, with some mental effort, the scale of the violence but

it is challenging to believe that they are beneficial to one grasping the precious loss of

vulnerable life.

Psychologist Paul Slovic has studied the relationship between the quantity of

victims in a traumatic situation and witnesses' responses to their suffering (Slovic et al.,

2017). His conclusion is that the more victims involved, the more difficulty witnesses had

in comprehending the traumatic event. This results in a depersonalisation of the victims

and ultimately in the witnesses being less likely to feel moral indignation and respond

appropriately. Numbers and numbing go hand in hand.

When passing through the countryside, particularly in the United Kingdom, it is

common to see perhaps 50 or so sheep or cows grazing in a field. However, if every year

in the UK alone approximately 2.6 million cattle, 10 million pigs, 14.5 million sheep and

lambs, 80 million fish and 950 million birds are slaughtered for human consumption

(Hsa.org.uk, 2013), how is it we don't see them? Although we have established that these

statistics contribute little in the way of individuating victims and generating ethical

17
responses, these numbers in relation to the perceivable farmed animals suggests that

something is amiss.

The bucolic ideal of farmyard life, with contented animals who leisurely spend their

time in green pastures is one which animal agriculture very much likes us to us buy. It

cannot be suggested that all consumers are naïve enough to buy this version of reality, in

fact, many people are most likely aware of the existence of factory farms to some

degree. However, the heavy regulation on exposure to these production facilities, and the

slaughterhouses they supply, makes the consumer unlikely to be able to fact-check. The

establishments and facilities where nonhuman animals are raised, transported,

slaughtered and turned into commodities for consumption may as well be invisible. We

aren't aware of their physical existence or whereabouts because they are located in

remote areas where the majority are unlikely to venture (Joy, 2010, p.40). The trucks used

to transport animals to slaughterhouses are often unmarked and sealed. In Fast Food

Nation investigative author Eric Schlosser writes that factory farms and slaughterhouses

have 'no windows on the front and no architectural clues to what's happening inside'

(Schlosser, 2001. p.153). We don't see these establishments because we are not supposed

to, it is no accident. In fact, it is the most obvious manifestation of the physical invisibility

of the system. The obscurely remote locations and seemingly innocuous outward

18
appearances of these facilities are perhaps the most prominent way of masking and

derealising the existence of the nonhuman animals confined within their walls. As with

any other violent ideology, the general population must be shielded from direct exposure

to the victims, lest they begin questioning the system or their participation in it (Joy, 2010,

p.40).

FURTHER DEREALIsATION.

The matter of carnism's physical invisibility begins, as we have established, at the

very places that the lives and deaths of these animals are derealised. The act of

concealment must also extend, however, beyond maintaining the consumer uninformed

and into the realm of misinformation.

In his acclaimed sociology book Animals and Modern Culture, Dr Adrian Franklin

discusses how animal products gradually became detached from the animals themselves,

ultimately being transformed into another commodity, neatly packaged and clean –

utterly disassociated from all suggestion of slaughter: 'in butcher ’s shops, carcasses are

less frequently hung on view and neat trays of smaller, leaner cuts dominate' (Franklin,

1999, p. 155). Apart from the dissociation of the final product from the animal and its

violent death, it is also true that the attempt to make animal products saleable has just as

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much to do with embellishing them with desirable qualities.

Commodity fetishism is the process of adorning mysterious or magical qualities to

any object or product, consequently masking the labour that went into creating said

object (Marx in McIntosh, 1997). Essentially, material relations between producers in a

capitalist society take on the form of social relations between things during exchange

(Spiegel, 2005). Although used to endorse every type of consumer good imaginable,

particularly luxury items, it is unsurprising that animal agriculture is perhaps the sector

most dependent on the use of commodity fetishism. Using cleverly manipulative tactics

in their packaging and advertising, the final products appear sanitized and even

glamorized. The neatly packaged commodity on the supermarket shelf seems to appear

by magic and bears no trace of the plethora of problems at the roots of its production,

including risks for workers on factory farms and slaughterhouses, and of course the

torture inflicted on the nonhuman animal victims (Adams, 1999, p.67). Commodity

fetishism in marketplace exchange removes the production process from the meaning of

meat and, consequently, silences the slaughter of animals (Heinz and Lee, 1998).

The true production process is not just obscured but also masked with another

version of reality. An altogether fabricated one, depicting nonhuman animals as cartoon

characters gleefully wrapped around packages containing their own body parts. The

20
iconography of the butcher shop is synonymous with smiling pigs, often - in a bizarre

turn of events - dressed in butcher's clothing and holding a cleaver, as if somehow

complicit in their own fate. If there were perhaps one example to epitomize the

derealisation of nonhuman animals to facilitate their continued exploitation, it might be

this.

It is not only the visual representations but also the language generated around

nonhuman animals that aims to legitimise and to extend domination as benign, natural

and inevitable (Stibbe, 2001). The role of language in power relations is known to be a

contributing factor in systems of oppression and exploitation (Hoffman, Chimombo and

Roseberry, 1999). Insofar as the role of discourse in the exploitation of animals, Stibbe

(2001, p.2) argues that 'One of the main reasons that animals are excluded from

discussions of language and power is that they are not, themselves, participants in their

own social construction through language'. The analysis of discourse traditionally focuses

on hegemony in which oppression is carried out ideologically as opposed to coercively,

where consent is manufactured (Fairclough 1992, p. 92). The power carried out over

animals is completely coercive, realised by a minority involved in businesses which farm

and use animals, 'The animals do not consent to their treatment because of “false

consciousness” generated through ideological assumptions contained in discourse'

21
(Stibbe, 2001, p3).

The coercive power necessary to oppress nonhuman animals comes from the

majority of the general public who give their consent for the treatment of animals

through the products they purchase. The choice to boycott animal products can thus be

considered a withdrawal of consent (Stibbe, 2001, p.3).

The role of language is crucially important in the manufacturing of consent for the

oppression and exploitation of nonhuman animals (Shapiro, 1995, p. 55). The way that

social constructions exist not in the minds of individual people, but within the constant

interaction and exchange of information in a society is described by Shotter (1993) as

‘rhetorical-responsive’. In regards to animal rights, there is a continuous struggle on

behalf of activists to alter the meat industry's biased social construction of animals as

these cultural constructs, which are mediated by language and discourse, ultimately

influence how they are treated by human society (Stibbe, 2001, p.4).

There are multiple examples of the renaming of processes and techniques used in

animal agriculture to avoid the consumer feeling any inkling of discomfort or from

recognizing the moral worth of the nonhuman animals in question. For example, it has

been suggested that the act of “debeaking” a chicken should instead be called “beak

conditioning”, making the process 'seem more like a spa treatment than a disfiguration'

22
(Joy, 2010, p.46). As consumers place euphemized “pork” and “beef” into their baskets,

these lexicalised terms for animal flesh only go further in concealing its origin (Singer,

1990, p.95). As Shapiro (1995, p.671) points out ‘We do not say “please pass the cooked

flesh”’: meat is meat, with quite different connotations from circumlocutions with the

same meaning such as “bits of the dead bodies of animals”. Similarly the reframing of

language surrounding Guantanamo Bay prisoners, as discussed, seeks to exclude them

from the protection of international law and serves as another clear example of how

discourse can yield enormous power, fabricating law and dictating which lives are

grievable and which are not (Butler, 2006, p.16)

When writing about the ways in which a dominant ideology is presented, Stibbe

suggests that rather than explicitly encouraging oppression and exploitation, ideology

often manifests itself more effectively by being implicit. This is achieved by grounding

discourse on assumptions which are accepted as though common sense, but which in

reality are ‘common sense assumptions in the service of sustaining unequal relations of

power ’ (Fairclough, 1989, p.84). This point references the arguments raised earlier by Dr.

Melanie Joy, in relation to the symbolic invisibility of carnism. Aside from the lack of

awareness of the ideology and its name, language plays a role in upholding a set of

common myths which ratify the carnistic system. Joy states that all myths surrounding the

23
consumption of animal products can be related to what she refers to as “The Three Ns of

Justification”: eating meat is normal, natural and necessary (Joy, 2010, p 96). Using

nonhuman animals for human gain is claimed to align with the “laws of nature”; as this is

all we have ever known it is also seen to be “true” and therefore Normal. Consuming

animal flesh and by-products makes us “part of the food chain” and as a result is

biologically correct and Natural. Finally, consuming animal products is also considered to

be Necessary to our wellbeing - despite the concrete evidence that any individual can

not only survive but thrive without consuming products of animal origin.

The Three Ns are upheld by the establishments that form the pillars of the system

and supported by major institutions in society, from medicine to education (Joy, 2010,

p.98). The ways professionals play a key role in sustaining carnism is by modelling its

tenets, most clearly through acting out attitudes and practices towards animals through

their policies and recommendations. We are made to feel assured that the professionals

and establishments, in whom we have historically placed our trust, have our best

interests at heart. To question the oppression and exploitation of nonhuman animals is to

question these authoritative bodies, and to make oneself vulnerable to the social stigma,

and in some instances the dangers, of publicly voicing one's critique.

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 BLIND ALLEGIANCE.

In his famous 1960s study on obedience to authority, Stanley Milgram concluded

that obedience to authority overrides one's conscience. The results of Milgram's

experiments demonstrated that when we receive a demand from someone we perceive

as a legitimate authority, we do not see ourselves as fully responsible for our actions and

are therefore more likely to act against our conscience (Jones and Milgram, 1974).

Perhaps one of the most recognized examples of the disastrous consequences of

renouncing one's moral judgement would be the case of Nazi criminal Adolf Eichmann.

Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil by Hannah Arendt is an

incredible detailing of her account of Eichmann's career as a member of the SS, the

accusations and witness accounts put forth at the trials and, most crucially, the

examination of Eichmann's character as an utterly ordinary man who contributed vital

work to one of history's worst mass murders.

Joining the Nazi party in 1932, Eichmann was eventually placed in charge of the

deportation of Jewish prisoners to concentration camps, a job which he did with extreme

diligence and would eventually lead to his prosecution as a war criminal more than

fifteen years after the war ended (Pendas, 2007). Arendt travelled to Jerusalem to cover

25
the trial and expected to encounter a cold calculating monster, a man who revelled in his

malicious deeds. Instead what she found was far more shocking; Eichmann was an

altogether innocuous and seemingly normal little man. From within his glass cage in the

courtroom Eichmann attempted to absolve himself of the responsibility of his crimes as a

high-ranking officer of the SS. He protested, contrary to the prosecution’s assertions, that

he had never done anything out of his own initiative, that he had no intentions

whatsoever, good or bad, that he had only obeyed orders (Mahony, 2014). It only so

happens that these orders involved organizing the mass transportation of innocent

people to their deaths. His defence was embellished with bureaucratic rhetoric that he

had picked up just by doing his job, and despite recognizing that he had indeed caused

great suffering, he was insistent that the suffering needed to happen simply because he

had a duty to fulfil (Pendas, 2007). This argument of necessity is concurrent with those

put forward to justify our treatment of certain nonhuman animals.

After attending the trial, Arendt returned to America and wrote a series of highly

controversial and often misinterpreted articles published in The New Yorker, in which she

contested the idea that Eichmann was the monster the world was claiming him to be.

She did this not out of sympathy for the man, or to absolve him of his crimes, but to

draw attention to the fallacy in the assumption that the evildoer is an inhuman other,

26
separate from ordinary, good people. What she encountered was the banality of evil, an

everyday sort of evil, a bureaucrat eager to do his job – one who lacked empathy or

perspective (Mahony, 2014). His unwavering sense of obligation to authority meant that

in many ways he was a cliché, a stereotypical bureaucrat who refused to comprehend the

weight of his crimes. He suffered from blind allegiance and a complete self-deception

about the morality of his actions.

The demonstration of the legitimation of the illegal and the understanding that

atrocious violence could be incorporated into the very fabric of society by otherwise

ordinary people revealed that there are latent possibilities for atrocity in a great many

people (Fraser, 1972, p.84). Arendt was forced to reconsider the traditional conceptions of

evil which focus on the utter monstrosity of evil actions – the complete awe and

unthinkability of horror. She concluded that the pervasive and prominent paradigm of

how we perceive ethics in the Western world is utterly limiting and filled with blind spots

(Dossa, 1984).

The controversy Arendt's articles caused is not to be understated. Arendt was

denounced, including by some of her closest friends, as anti-Zionist and said to an

example of “Jewish self-hatred.” (Aharony, 2019). For many decades, the writer was

unofficially ostracized in Israel. Her books were not translated into Hebrew and her work

27
was not discussed, in either the academic or public spheres. She was effectively subjected

to political-intellectual excommunication (Britt, 2014). Some interpreted “banality of evil”

as a description of the crimes themselves while others thought her comments were

about the responsibility of Jewish leaders (Aharony, 2019).

This censorship of intellectual discussion in the wake of tragedy is echoed in

Butler's writing. In Precarious Life Butler comments on the rise of censorship and anti-

intellectualism that took hold in months following the 9/11 terrorist attacks on New York

'when anyone who sought to understand the "reasons" for the attack on the United

States was regarded as someone who sought to "exonerate" those who conducted that

attack.' (Butler, 2006, p.13). In another essay she considers the effort to quell criticism and

intellectual debate in the context of criticisms of Israeli state and military police (Butler,

2006, p.16). Individuals, but in particular progressive Jews, who hold dissenting opinions

on the practice of Zionism or Israeli policy are presented with two options; either mute

their critical speech or brave the identification with anti-Semitism through publicly

voicing their views. Butler writes that this restriction on critical speech is enforced through

the regulation of psychic and public identifications. 'The public sphere' she writes 'is

constituted in part by what cannot be said and what cannot be shown. The limits of the

sayable, the limits of what can appear, circumscribe the domain in which political speech

28
operates and certain kinds of subjects appear as viable actors.' (Butler, 2006, p.17).

Dissent and debate, Butler argues, can only exist if those who maintain critical views of

state policy and civic culture are present in a larger public conversation. To label those

who voice critical views as anti-Semitic or terrorist-sympathizers, for example, is to injure

the credibility of not just said views but those to whom they belong. It is this act of fear

mongering that creates an implicit censorship, monitoring views that are not in line with

the norm lest one jeopardise their status as a 'viable speaking being' (Butler, 2006, p.20).

THE FORECLOSURE OF CRITIQUE.

As already identified, it is the professionals and figures of authority who validate

carnisim and act as voices of reason and socialized critics, lending credibility to the

system (Joy, 2010, p.98). By consequence, anyone who challenges the carnistic system

appears as an “irrational extremist” in contrast with the rational and moderate stance of

professionals. The tactics of deliberate confusion and misrepresentation used to censor

the activities of animal agribusiness and market its products must also be used to

undermine any threats to these industries and the ideology of carnism more broadly.

On perhaps a more benign level, the act of rewarding conformity is a method

29
used to deter the average person who is perhaps questioning aspects of the carnistic

system from boycotting animal products altogether. It is collectively believed that to not

consume animal products is practically and socially difficult. Even some individuals who

are ethically convinced that the exploitation of nonhuman animals is immoral are

reluctant to act in alignment with their values due to the social stigma associated with

veganism. One may fear that their social identity and the way they are perceived by

others will be influenced by stereotypes such as being a hippy, eating disordered or anti-

human (Joy, 2010, p.106).

A common criticism of animal rights activists is an over-the-top sentimentality, a

disproportionate concern for the unmourned deaths of nonhuman animals. Activists who

attend slaughterhouse vigils and pay their respects to the lives lost are met with reactions

of mixed curiosity and ridicule because such grief is not socially permitted. In 2015 a

Canadian activist, Anita Karjnc, was charged with criminal mischief for giving water to

pigs in a truck on the way to slaughter (Reese, 2015). Krajnc was asked to stop by a driver

of one of the trucks, to which she replied with a verse from the biblical Book of Proverbs:

"If they are thirsty, give them water". The driver's response was that the pigs weren't

human. The farmer of the pigs in question subsequently filed a case against Krajnc, who

was later charged with criminal mischief (Casey, 2015). While on trial, Krajnc was arrested

30
on charges of obstructing police and breaching her bail conditions after a truck of pigs

heading to the slaughterhouse overturned and the activist assisted in freeing the

animals. Police had cordoned off part of the road to deal with the incident, and Krajnc

was arrested after ignoring their instructions. Activists condemned the slaughterhouse

workers' attempts to block the injured and dead pigs from public view (Milward, 2015).

Even in the instance that one mourns the death of a companion animal, the grieving

process can be ridiculed if it lasts too long or is seen to be too extravagant (Taylor, 2008,

p.65). In their seemingly ridiculous concern for nonhuman animals, activists are often

asked why they are indifferent to the suffering of human beings – as if one were faced

with caring for either humans or animals (Taylor, 2008, p.65).

There’s a long history in the UK of attempts to associate peaceful protest with

extremism or terrorism. In January 2020 the Guardian revealed that counter-terrorism

police in south-east England had listed the non-violent environmental movement

Extinction Rebellion (XR) as a form of “ideological extremism” alongside terrorists and

violent extremist organisations (Monbiot, 2020). Teachers and officials around the country

then disclosed that they had been instructed, in briefings by the anti-radicalisation

Prevent programme, to watch out for people expressing support for peaceful green and

31
left organisations including animal rights groups such as The Save Movement, Animal

Aid, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals and Antispeciesist Action, among others.

The Counter Terrorism Policing guide, which includes the signs and symbols used by the

groups previously listed, provides readers with ways of reporting concerns alongside the

slogan “Run, Hide, Tell” (Grierson, Dodd, 2020).

As journalist George Monbiot makes clear, established power will always be

protected from those who challenge it and attempts will be made to criminalise peaceful

dissent, for many numbers of reasons. (Monbiot, 2020). Perhaps the most dangerous, he

writes, is the nexus of state and corporate power. It is no secret that corporate lobbyists

try their best to brand opponents of their industries as extremists and terrorists. Monbiot

references a recent article in the Intercept which discusses why the US Justice

Department and the FBI had put much more effort into pursuing fantasy “ecoterrorists”

than chasing real, far-right terrorism (Brown, 2019). A former official explained, 'You don’t

have a bunch of companies coming forward saying “I wish you’d do something about

these right-wing extremists”.' (Monbiot, 2020). By contrast, there is constant corporate

pressure to “do something” about environmental campaigners and animal rights activists.

The concept of concern for others is itself a dangerous one, and the mechanisms

of capitalism work to keep people focused on individual interests and discourage

32
compassion and responsibility for others. In his book Constructing Ecoterrorism:

Capitalism, Speciesism and Animal Rights, author and professor of Sociology John

Sorenson explains that the discourse of ecoterrorism is driven by powerful and wealthy

industries founded upon the exploitation of nonhuman animals and the extraction of

natural resources. It functions as 'a useful mechanism to repress criticism of the

institutionalized violence and cruelty of these industries as well as their destructive impact

on the environment, their major contribution to global warming and ecological disaster,

and their negative impacts on human health.' (Sorenson, 2016, p.10). Additionally, by

deliberately representing activists as dangerous and violent terrorists, these corporations

and their representatives in government have created a widespread climate of fear that

successfully legitimizes calls for more policing and more repressive legislation, such as Bill

C-51 in Canada (Government of Canada, Department of Justice, Electronic

Communications, 2017). Consequently, the average citizen is simultaneously misinformed

about the activities of such corporations and the true motives of activists who seek to

expose and challenge them.

'The foreclosure of critique' Butler writes, 'empties the public domain of debate

and democratic contestation itself, so that debate becomes the exchange of views

among the like-minded, and criticism, which ought to be central to any democracy,

33
becomes a fugitive and suspect activity.' (Butler, 2006, p. 20). To regulate what will

constitute the public sphere it is necessary to place constraints on content – images of

the slaughter of animals, for instance, are considered unacceptable for public visual

consumption – but also on 'what "can" be heard, read, seen, felt, and known' (Butler,

2006, p.21). These constraints and the tight regulation of the sphere of appearance are

one way to establish what will count as reality, and what will not. It is but another way of

reinforcing whose lives are not valid, and whose deaths ought not to be mourned. Our

capacity to feel and to apprehend hangs in the balance. But so, too, does the fate of

certain lives and deaths as well as the ability to think critically and publicly about the

effects of violence and our complicity in it (Butler, 2006, p.21).

BREAKING AN IMPLICIT CONTRACT.

It is incorrect and naïve to assume that the regulation of the public sphere is what

prevents the average person from realising their complicity in the unpleasant business of

carnism. As already discussed in detail, animal agribusiness will go to great lengths to

misinform consumers, but we enable this by stunting our own curiosity, not asking

34
questions and turning away when required. In other words, there exists an implicit

contract between consumer and producer. The invisibility of carnism has made us

casualties of a system which keeps us unaware of the beliefs underpinning our behaviour,

and in doing so it has stolen our freedom to think independently and to act accordingly.

Yet paradoxically most people desire the knowledge to make informed choices, to be

active consumers and think freely (Joy, 2010, p.71). Only once we become aware of

carnism can we begin to make our choices freely.

The access to information has never been easier. The restrictions of traditional

media are no longer impeding individuals from gaining access to the realities of animal

agriculture (Bolt, 2012). In fact, the internet functions as a megaphone for activists,

making it ever harder for carnistic industries to control information and conceal the truth.

In many instances campaigns are designed and enacted specifically with their digital

reach in mind (Luo, Zhang and Marquis, 2016). Of course, it is beneficial if an action is

reported on by traditional media outlets, and done so favourably, but the accessibility

and immediacy of digital resources allow a message to shared and received almost

instantaneously. However beneficial the internet can be, the exposure to graphic

imagery of factory farms and other places of animal exploitation are in no way

guaranteed to induce ethical responsiveness to the plight of the victims. If the natural

35
progression were from ignorance, to moral indignation to appropriate action, then the

job of an activist would be almost effortless.

In her comments on Sister Helen Perejan's reflections on the death penalty,

Maggie Nelson expresses a similar frustration with the naivety of the conviction that it is

simple ignorance which causes honest Americans to support executions. She writes;

'”knowing the truth” does not come with redemption as a guarantee, nor does a feeling

of redemption guarantee an end to a cycle of wrongdoing' (Nelson, 2009, p.28).

According to Nelson, Perejan's logic – although good-hearted - relies on the hope that

shame, guilt and even simple embarrassment are enough to jolt us towards an

appropriate ethical response. This presumption is proven wrong by the

unembarrassability of the government, CEOs of corporations and the military when

publicly shamed for their immoral behaviour. The general public can be left outraged by

undercover investigations into “free-range” and “RSPCA approved” farms, but to what

avail? No amount of shame can tip the balance in favour of justice.

Furthermore, the outrage expressed towards those directly implicated in the

running of these facilities arguably distances the average person from their own

complicity. When we learn of the horrendous ways nonhuman animals are made to

suffer, it is common to think that the people in charge ought to feel ashamed of

36
themselves (Nelson, 2009, p.28). Firstly, they are not ashamed and not is it likely that they

will ever be, but more to the point, the placing of blame on certain groups and

individuals circles back to the Western paradigm of good and evil which Arendt sought

to challenge. The banality of evil is antithetical to how the Western world thinks about

evil. Evil shouldn't be ordinary, but in our denial that it can be we risk becoming

compliant in the morally repugnant things that people can do when they stop thinking.

In trying to paint the Eichmann's of the world as monsters we forgo our ability to

examine the morality of ourselves, the people we give power to and the systems we

become compliant in. Most people today would adamantly state that had they been

alive in Nazi Germany they never would have supported the Nazis, never complied,

never surrendered the Jewish people to the concentration camps. History grants us the

benefit of 20/20 hindsight. Our culture tells us that the Nazis were undeniably evil, and

they were, but would our minds be so resilient if were not fervently reminded of it? The

reputation follows the act, and in Germany in the 1930s and 40s the danger of

compliance existed and was prevalent. So how are we to know today that we are not

compliant in the evils of the world if we don't stop to think about it? Any one of us could

find ourselves in a job or a position of power that irrevocably damages the lives and

livelihoods of others. Or perhaps more pertinently, we will be stood in a supermarket isle

37
with the choice to purchase a product which is a direct result of cruelty, or one that isn't.

In her study Evil in Modern Thought, Susan Neiman writes 'The claim that evil is banal is

a claim not about magnitude but proportion: if crimes that are great can result from

causes that are small, there may be hope for overcoming them' (Neiman, 2015, p.307).

A crucial difference in the moral indignation felt by the public when exposed to

images of war crimes, for example, as opposed to animal suffering, is that the individuals'

power to influence a government's foreign policy is practically non-existent. By contrast,

the average person eats three meals a day which more often than not will comprise of

animal flesh or by-products. When confronted with information that exposes the horrors

of animal agriculture, there is often an uncomfortable knowledge of our involvement –

an awareness of our complicity. A common response to such feelings of discomfort can

be resistance. We have discussed how dominant systems shape our thoughts, feelings

and behaviours by paving invisible “paths of least resistance” for us to follow (Joy, 2010,

p. 142). To acknowledge the plight of nonhuman animals that the system works so hard

to conceal, to turn to face the victims, is to deviate from the path of least resistance.

Bearing witness to the suffering of billions of animals, and crucially our own

participation in their suffering, is emotionally painful. 'Bearing witness means choosing

to suffer. Indeed, empathy is literally “feeling with”.' (Joy, 2010, p. 142). This resistance to

38
bearing witness, which outwardly can appear as apathy or callousness, is often an

expression of helplessness and fear. As Sontag identifies in Regarding the Pain of Others,

'People can turn off not just because a steady diet of images of violence has made them

indifferent but because they are afraid' (Sontag, 2001, p. 79).

When we are willing to accept our complicity, understand the importance of being

held accountable for one's own actions and how these individual actions add up

collectively, not only do acts of evil seem less frightening but the solutions seem more

proportional and tangible. If one were to focus on the magnitude of animal suffering,

they could be forgiven for feeling resistant to act due to feelings of powerlessness and

despair.

BEYOND MORAL INDIGNATION.

Compassion is an unstable emotion. It needs to be translated into action, or

it withers. The question is what to do with the feelings that have been

aroused, the knowledge that has been communicated.

Sontag, 2001, p. 79

39
 Sympathy, Sontag argues, only serves to distance the privileged viewer from the

suffering they are witnessing. Regarding the way we are accustomed to viewing images,

close up on screens, there is a false proximity created which functions as a barrier to

honest engagement. We can sympathise without any obligation to reflect. Our sympathy,

Sontag writes, 'proclaims our innocence as well as our impotence' (Sontag, 2001, p. 80).

The antidote to passive sympathy, which dulls true feeling, is to gain perspective on one's

position in regard to the suffering and acknowledge what aspect of their behaviour they

can alter to alleviate said suffering. We ought to set aside our sympathy for victims and

opt instead for 'a reflection on how our privileges are located on the same map as their

suffering, and may—in ways we might prefer not to imagine—be linked to their

suffering' (Sontag, 2001, p.80).

Sontag also addresses the assumption that our ability to respond to images that

require ethical pertinence is being diminished or neutralised by the incessant flow of

photographs of atrocities. An image is drained of its power, she argues, by the way it is

used, where and how often it is seen. The way we are expected to interact with images

only enforces feelings of restlessness and indifference to content. This dulled awareness

prevents reflective engagement with images and the issues they represent. Sontag

acknowledges that this critique is cliché, and furthermore, after a certain age no one has

40
the right to the feel disillusioned or incredulous when confronted with evidence of what

humans are capable of (Sontag, 2001, p.80).

Sontag goes on to suggest that perhaps we expect too much of images of

suffering, that we place too much power in their ability to affect. Perhaps, she writes,

'such images cannot be more than an invitation to pay attention, to reflect, to learn, to

examine the rationalizations for mass suffering offered by established powers' (Sontag,

2001, p,91). Crucially, what is to be extracted is the understanding that moral indignation,

like compassion, cannot dictate a course of action. The way images are reproached as a

way of passively observing holds no weight when one can be confronted with the

suffering first-hand and still remain emotionally distant. What matters is not how or

where we witness the suffering, but rather our attitude towards what we see.

In her definition of bearing witness, Melanie Joy establishes that witnessing is not

synonymous with mere observing (Joy, 2010, p.138). Witnessing the suffering of animals

forces us to confront many uncomfortable truths, and while initially disturbing it is

ultimately liberating. Individual witnessing closes the gap in our consciousness because it

connects us with the truth. It allows us to validate the otherwise hidden suffering, and

also validate our authentic reaction to it. By extension, collective witnessing closes the

gap in social consciousness, creating an informed public and a system in which social

41
practices reflect social values.

Virtually every atrocity in the history of humankind was enabled by a populace

that turned away from a reality that seemed too painful to face, while virtually

every revolution for peace and justice has been made possible by a group of

people who chose to bear witness and demanded that other bear witness as well.

Joy, 2010, p. 139

To a violent ideology structured around mass dissociation, such as carnism, there

can be no greater threat than mass witnessing. In fact, witnessing carnism can also allow

us to become informed on other entrenched or dominant ideologies that share similar

structural features (Joy, 2010, p.148). Opening our hearts to the vulnerability that

accompanies witnessing takes courage. It requires an acceptance of the potential of the

human spirit, for better or for worse. When we concede the terrible cruelty that we are

capable of, we simultaneously acknowledge our capacity for resilience and empathy.

Referencing back to Judith Butler's reflections on human vulnerability in the wake of

tragedy, we are reminded that one can and ought to abhor cruelty and violence by

matter of ethical principal – but importantly one must not become subsumed by moral

42
outage, or allow mourning to mute critical speech (Butler, 2006, pp.11-12). Let us

experience the abhorrence that has occurred and grieve fully, but always in service of

reflection and endeavours to arrest cycles of violence.

Finally, bearing witness enables us to choose a role rather than having one

assigned to us (Joy, 2010, p.150). In situations of violence and trauma, psychiatrist Judith

Herman argues that there is no such thing as moral neutrality, and that through either

their action or inaction bystanders are forced to take sides. It is certainly tempting to take

the side of the perpetrator, as all that is required of the bystander is to do nothing. 'The

perpetrator appeals to the universal desire to see, hear and speak no evil. The victim, on

the contrary, asks the bystander to share the burden of pain. The victim demands action,

engagement and remembering.' (Herman, 2015, p. 84).

The generation of ethical responsiveness to nonhuman animal victims is a choice.

Our latent empathy can be stirred by images and other forms of information, but

crucially one must be willing to take a step closer to the victim. To side with the victim, to

act upon empathy, to be tender is a choice; and in the face of so much of what is

surrounding us, it an undeniably defiant choice.

43
 CONCLUSION.

To bear witness to nonhuman animal victims is to validate the suffering the system

actively works to hide, and to also validate our own authentic reaction to it. When we

bear witness, we recognize a common vulnerability shared with nonhuman animals,

which enables us to include them within our sphere of moral consideration.

To do so we must first recognize that the decision to eat certain animals is a

choice made for us by the invisible ideology of carnism. Naming the ideology is the first

step in being able to discuss it and dismantle its control over our behaviour. After we

have named this invisible belief system we can become aware of the extent of its reach

and the strength of its grip. For example, the use of misleading information and the

control of discourse through the fabrication of myths and the renaming of terms serve to

distance us from the reality of animal exploitation. The entrenched nature of this ideology

means that it is supported and upheld through major institutions and figures of authority.

Consequently, when one questions carnism they risk being branded as an irrational

extremist. The control of the public sphere and the threat of losing one's credibility

though voicing critical views creates an implicit censorship and a climate of fear. Despite

the potentially negative consequences of critical speech, the consequences of not

44
questioning our own morality, figures of authority and the systems we are complicit in

are far more dangerous. Honest conversations about animal exploitation and our

complicity are disruptive; they shine light in dark corners.

Upon becoming aware of the horrors of animal agribusiness, the discomfort that

arises from the awareness of our complicity can be so great that we turn away from the

victims' pain. Once there is language, awareness, and understanding, however, turning

back is almost impossible and carries with it severe consequences. It has been the

purpose of this essay to urge that we resist the path of least resistance. To take this path,

and to side with the perpetrator, is the most tempting as nothing is required of us. To

side with the victim, by contrast, requires us to engage and to share the burden of pain.

To choose the latter is to defiantly take one step closer to a reality where the most

vulnerable members of our society are treated with the respect and compassion they

deserve. The choice is ours.

45
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