The Next Eco-Warriors (28 page)

I was working with two activists, Juan and Christina, who had called the school in advance to ask if we could visit. We agreed on a story ahead of time: I was a photojournalist from Canada, doing a story on the culture of bullfighting and they were my driver and interpreter. Technically speaking, ours was not such a tall tale. When I am doing this kind of investigative work, I like to keep the deception to a minimum; the more lies, the easier it is to blow your cover.

With our motives for the shoot in check, the unsuspecting director of the bullfighting school agreed to have me spend the evening documenting the bullfighting classes. As our car pulled up to the school gates, the director walked to our car through billows of dust and warmly extended his
hand. We all walked up a hill to the arena, where matadors-in-training practiced their postures, stances and the final act of plunging a sword between the shoulder blades of the bull. The recipient of these blows, in this case, was a bale of hay placed on a wheelbarrow with a plastic bull's head to represent the target.

I like people. I try not to judge them. By extension, I don't like lying to and deceiving them. My motives for doing so, however, outweigh the deception. In this case, I am working to expose the cruelty of
la corrida
, the Spanish bullfighting, with my photographs. They will become part of my long-term photo documentary about our uses and abuses of animals worldwide, called
We Animals
. It has become my life's work, a combination of my skills, my activism and my passion. In the weeks following the bullfighting school shoot, I'll put myself through danger and stress undercover while bearing witness to the slaughter of dozens of bulls at the Spanish bullfighting festivals - purely for the entertainment of humans.

_________

BACK AT THE BULLFIGHTING SCHOOL, men of all ages train while I work, and I go mostly unnoticed as I take their photographs. In another section of the arena, very young children are being trained and it's them that interest me the most, so I turn the camera in their direction. Most children have an innate love for animals, so it fascinates me that they are training to be their killers. When the boy tells me he wants to be a matador because he loves bulls, I am once again jarred by the disparity in humans' understanding of animals. By definition, a Matador kills bulls for sport, money and fame. I'm reminded of their commodification and our disregard, or complete lack of understanding that animals have their own intrinsic values.

As I shoot their training, I politely ask questions through my interpreter, Juan. I feel comfortable asking absolutely anything because I'm in the role of journalist and, as far as they know, I am a newbie to their culture and to
la corrida
. Amidst more benign questions, I ask about the bulls as well. They inform me that the bulls are bred by the thousands all over Spain, and graze happily in pastures their entire lives; they are the most respected animal, being Spain's national animal and symbol; their deaths are clean, instantaneous and
noble; they are bred not to suffer; and adrenalin during a fight keeps them from feeling any pain. The information gathered during these lucrative talks are building blocks for my photo project.

Though I am passionate about my work as an animal rights photographer, I don't look forward to the upcoming shoots at the
ferias
, which are the bullfighting festivals. A lot of time has to be spent emotionally fortifying myself against what I am about to bear witness. Emotional stress aside, there are imminent hurdles that must be jumped before I can successfully document the events to come. At first, I need initial access to the events by attaining a media pass. From there, and over the course of the
feria
, I have to gain the trust of the staff, security guards and the matadors themselves. Finally, I have to keep my mouth shut at all times when it comes to my motives for the photo story. Should I say the wrong thing, or even let a look of disgust shadow my eyes when a bull is being slaughtered while people wave their white flags in celebration, I can be ousted as a dissenter, at which point my job and safety can both quickly be put in jeopardy. Most importantly, if my work or health is compromised, if I fail in my mission to expose cruelty to animals, it is the animals who will continue to pay with their lives, not me.

_________

IT IS LATE AUGUST, THE END OF THE SEASON of
ferias
in Spain. Over the next ten days I'll be jumping from one bullfight to the next. I hate witnessing these gruesome events but it's my responsibility to shed light on the issue through the way I know best. Superficially, the world knows what a bullfight looks like: a
torero
(a bull), an arena, bright colors, cheering fans. What most don't know, however, is the brutality of the event, the manner in which the animals are treated, and what happens to the bulls once they are stabbed and dragged away.

The bullfighting story is an excellent example of the macho and male-dominated industries I must often infiltrate in order to get my work done. On one hand, this might seem to pose an increased danger. I usually work alone, which means it's just me amidst a large group of men who have made careers out of dominating others. However, I use these situations to my advantage. A group of macho men like nothing more than a singular woman new upon their turf, a woman who smiles and asks a lot of friendly questions. People love talking about themselves. Asking them about their lives, goals, work and their “brave” endeavors is an excellent deflector to my mission, and allows me to take photos of my surroundings while we walk and talk.

On day one of my three-day mission at one particular
feria
, gaining trust was a bit of a mission. I was gazed upon with suspicion and then turned away. I stood my ground, though, and stuck to my story. I refused to be refused. After much inquisition on their part, I was given my media pass and escorted to my place in the media box, crowded with other photographers elbowing for space, and told to stay there. I explained that the project was more about the people than the actual fight, but they didn't budge on their decision. That was okay; I used that evening to document the actual fights and the crowd.

There is always an extreme sort of loneliness that sets in when I'm documenting this kind of brutal event. I've experienced this deep melancholy at the countless rodeos and circuses I've documented. The abuse and murder of animals for the sole purpose of our entertainment confounds and offends me, and it seems that in those moments of cheering crowds and celebration, I'm an island. In those moments, I feel a deep disconnect from humanity and an even deeper sorrow for the animals at the event. My soul screams silently while I continue my work, and I know that this internal screaming has damaged me permanently. While working, I can't allow myself an outlet for the pain. Superficial professionalism at all costs. The outlet is the post- production work, when I get to show and publish the photos of the atrocities I have witnessed. The outlet and the healing happen when people who see my photos are moved to react, respond and change their habits that support the exploitation of animals.

The following evening, day two at the
feria
, I decide on a different approach. With media pass around my neck, a big smile and flattering
clothing, I confidently bypassed the security guards while waving to the men I'd met the previous evening, who were on the other side of the security barrier. The guards assumed that was ok. From there, I smiled and shook everyone's hand and chatted easily. Everyone around assumed I was meant to be there because this was the image I was projecting. If the people in charge doubted it, they didn't question, or they assumed someone else in authority had sanctioned it. As for the flattering clothing I wore that evening, consisting of a skirt and open-necked top, I'm sorry to say that this is also an easy and useful tactic when doing my activist work in a male-dominated industry. Small distractions such as these open doors.

From there I wandered into the area where they slaughtered the bulls after they had been brought down by the matador's sword. I walked around, looking genuinely fascinated, all the while seemingly taking idle photographs of people and details. Instead of fleeing when I was being watched, I'd walk towards that person, introduce myself and ask them to tell me about their job at the arena. In this manner, I got photographs of the slaughterhouse, where the animals sometimes start to be dismembered before they've even taken their last breaths. I was reminded that humans can be evil incarnate. During the bullfights that evening, I walked confidently around the arena, taking photos from all angles. It felt great to be getting the photos I wanted. The emotional side effects of bearing witness, however, are carving themselves into my body in the way of an increasingly furrowed brow, wrinkles, grey hair and an often sick stomach!

By day three, most of the staff recognized me. I had free reign of the arena as well as the areas where the bulls were kept, where the butchering and post-
corrida
parties happened. I had one last hurdle, though, which was gaining entry to the sacred chamber where
mataderos
prepare their body and their
traje de luces
, the traditional bullfighting clothing, for the fights ahead. The entrance was guarded by security. I decided to use the “just walk through with confidence” trick, smiling at the guard as I walked by, but he stopped me. Only select few were allowed entry, mostly politicians and perhaps one high-ranking cameraperson. At this point my choices were bribery or begging. I chose the latter. With the sweetest expression I could muster, I pleaded that he'd be doing me a huge favor, that these photos would be so
great for the success of my story and I promised to spend only five minutes and I'd be extremely discreet. I was lucky; he capitulated easily. The five minutes turned into ninety. When he periodically came in to check on things, I would throw him a flirtatious wink and he would respond with a smile and leave me to my photography.

I've blown my cover on a few occasions. While doing investigative work for the organization Zoocheck, the only way to get the photograph I needed of a polar bear kept in a backyard was to trespass. I was caught, but talked my way off the property and escaped the scene before the police arrived. The same thing happened while doing a story in South East Asia about bear bile farming. Luckily, my “dumb tourist” act bought me enough time to leave the property.

Again, I don't like lying and I dislike the fear factor of being discovered as an activist and investigator, then suffering the potentially dangerous consequences. I believe that most of us are not intentionally cruel, that our misguided intentions are fuelled by a lack of knowledge, or hunger, or need in general, whether perceived or legitimate. In countries where resources are scarce, the needs of the family will always precede the rights of animals. Until money and food can no longer be made from their bodies, pelts, bile, and skills as workers and entertainers, and until speciesism is abolished, they will be used.

I take these calculated risks for my activist work so that I can change people's hearts and minds about our treatment of animals. The images I make aren't usually grotesque, like so many of the images we see on activist pamphlets. I'm not saying these aren't effective; they helped make an activist of me, after all. But my photos aim for something subtler, a less conspicuous message. Images that make the viewer go deeper, ask questions, take notice, rather than turn away in horror or reacting with compassionate fatigue.

On my final day of this
feria
, I'm at my wit's end. As the last bull is dragged off to the
matadero
, paralyzed by a severed spine but still alive, I take photos of the party that is underway around him. The partygoers descend the stairwells
en masse
and fill the streets for a night of festivities while the bull takes his last breath. That familiar solitude and loneliness has set itself in my bones, but my solace is that the photos of these horrific events will be seen, published, examined, discussed, and shared. The images I've captured ask the viewer a question. My job is done if the images are evocative and compassionate enough to make people provide the answers. Only then can there be understanding, accountability and change.

_________

Jo-Anne McArthur continues to shoot at bullfights in Spain as well as factory farms and circuses to expose the hidden cruelties of animals around the world. As her We Animals project expands, she attempts to further animal rights by collaborating with various animal organizations, such as Zoocheck and the Jane Goodall Institute. For years to come, she plans to assist activists, animals and campaigns alike to help build compassion in this world
.