Our Responsibility Towards Animals by Daiana Vasquez

A lot has been written in the philosophical as well as the scientific field increasing the debate on how we can establish the grounds for our responsibility towards animals. The discussion, for instance, on whether or not animals are moral actors is motivated by the need to give responsibility towards animals a solid basis, protecting them, namely, against arbitrary experiments. So, if they are moral actors, they should also be a target of moral action. That means, in other terms, that they could not be merely used as objects. The question to be raised is, however, if we do need rational arguments to ground this responsibility for means of protecting the animals.

One of these rational arguments is, as exemplified above, the one that sets for animals a moral status. Stating that animals are moral actors means, among other things, that they are capable of making decisions on moral issues; that they are conscious of the consequences of their decision upon others. This is a very strong claim, since there are no proofs at all for it. On the contrary, available evidence indicates that animals do not decide based on moral criteria but on their so-called natural instincts. It is very problematic attempting to constitute our responsibility towards animals on an assumption that is barely accepted. Besides, there are other ways to pursue the ambition of finding the grounds of our responsibility towards them, avoiding statements that can be easily contested. What is this rational argument good for, if it is so controversial? And being controversial, it does not seem to found the desired solid basis for animal protection.

Other rational arguments are the ones based on equality or on the intrinsic value of the animal. Both are also not totally uncontroversial. In any case, they all lead to the same result: we should treat animals respectfully, because there is a rational comprehensible reason for doing so that we can not ignore.

On the other hand, we have arguments standing for our responsibility towards animals that can not be merely considered as rational, for example arguments that are based on our love or compassion (see more on this, for example on the website of Animal Freedom). These appeal to our sentimentality, although rationality is also here not forgotten. There is a link between loving the animal and having to treat it right. By ‘treat right’ here, I mean more than the commitment of not abusing it, but also to actively take care of it. This link can just be made through rational arguments such as: we must take care of the one we love. Although not purely rational, these arguments still stay on the level of justification.

People are struggling to find the “right” foundations on our responsibility towards animals; as if – at least this is the feeling that rises in me – we would not act respectfully towards them without knowing exactly why we act like this. Presupposing that we respect them, do we really need an explanation for that? Presupposing that there are those who not only do not care about animals but also abuse them – and unfortunately they exist -, can we convince these people to change their behavior based on a theory that - for now and forever - should provide us with the grounds of this responsibility?

Contrasting these points of view, I state that we neither need the “pure” nor the “partial” rational arguments to treat animals with dignity or to convince other people to do the same. (Similar thoughts, by the way, can be found in a book from Raymond Gaita called The Philosopher’s Dog).

First, we can definitely trust our intuition on the matter of why it is right to treat animals with dignity. To trust our intuition is what we are automatically doing everyday, every time we make a decision. Why should it be different in this case? Besides, I would say that people who abuse animals know “intuitively” that they are doing something wrong.

Second, in the case of the ones abusing animals neither our or their intuitions nor well-formulated rational theories will change their behavior. If they wish, for any reason, to abuse animals, theories are not worthy to convince them of the contrary; instead, there are legal mechanisms to control them – at least in countries where society stands for animal protection.

Nevertheless we can, of course, always try to convince people that respecting and taking care of animals is better than ignoring or abusing them. But this does not mean that the convincing process must be a rationally based one, since there are other ways of convincing, often much more effective. Be a living example!

An Almost Kiss and Brazilian Society by Andrea Medrado

November 4, 2005. In Brazil, not one eye blinks in front of the TV screen. The entire country stops to watch the final of the soap opera (novela, in Portuguese) América. According to Globo, the major Brazilian network that airs the program, the audience ratings reached an average of 66 points. Considering that each point corresponds to 47,5 thousand households, we arrive at the conclusion that this event drew a larger audience than the last world cup final. For Brazilians, this is truly a big deal.

Frenzied by a leak of what the country calls “gossip media”, viewers had one major question in mind: would the soap opera América deliver the first male homosexual kiss in the history of Brazilian TV? The answer was “no”. There was definitely a vibe between the characters Júnior and Zeca but they did not come close to anything like a kiss.

Although the reaction among viewers was mostly of frustration, no one took the blame for the censoring of the kiss. On one side, América’s screenwriter Gloria Perez told Globo Newspaper that the management of Globo TV had cut the scene. “We fought for it and I cannot deny that I was frustrated that it wasn't shown. The actors also were [frustrated]. After all, they had staged it with much enthusiasm," she said. On the other, Globo TV denied having cut the scene, saying there never was one gay kiss to begin with.

Who cares about cheesy soap operas anyway, one might ask. But in fact, soap operas can tell a lot about Brazilian society - one that is full of contradictions.

Here’s some context on Brazilian soaps: for those of you thinking of All My Children (see also at Wikipedia.org) and other televised instruments of torture, Brazilian soaps have nothing to do with the American style soaps. Taking into account Brazilian soaps’ influence and popularity, they would be closer to sitcoms, such as Friends or Sex In the City but, still, the comparison would not be accurate. One of the differences over American soaps is that they are not endless. They usually run for around six months, but less than a year. The better the ratings, the longer a story is allowed to run. They also run in prime time, six days a week and last for about 50 minutes.

Also, while in the States soap actors are forever damned to the land of mediocrity, some of Brazil’s best acting can be found in its novelas. Some examples are Fernanda Montenegro (Central Station) and Rodrigo Santoro (Behind the Sun) who have both gone into film after coming from a strong soap opera background.

It is worth analyzing some possible reasons for the rejection of the kiss and some aspects surrounding homosexuality in Brazilian soaps:

1. While there have always been gay characters in Brazilian soap operas, their representation has always been extremely stereotyped. Gay men in novelas are always funny and flamboyant because Brazilian TV refuses to take them seriously. The characters Júnior and Zeca escaped this pattern for being more “manly”. In fact, Zeca was a tough cowboy, while both actors are considered sex symbols in the country.

2. If you have ever watched Brazilian novelas (or Mexican, for the matter), you know that not one single day goes by without a heterosexual kiss. The fact that the gay kiss created such a fuss indicates, by itself, the country’s lack of spontaneity to deal with homosexuality. In a country celebrated all over the world by its physicality, it’s surprising how demonstration of public affection between gay men can be a big taboo.

3. On the opposite side, homosexual kisses between women have become more accepted in the past years and are even considered “a cool thing to do for curiosity” among teenagers. The explanation has more to do with macho culture than with tolerance. Love making between women has always been a common fetish among men (something even more cliché-ed than soap opera kisses). Keep in mind that, in a recent scene, the making-out actresses were two models and you get the idea. After playing a lesbian character that would eventually kiss her sexy girlfriend in the soap opera Senhora do Destino, the actress Barbara Borges went straight to the cover of Playboy. To advertise its edition with Barbara, the magazine went as far as to publish an ad in which the actress’ naked body was covered with lipstick marks.

These considerations leave me with one thought: the apparent Brazilian liberality is covered with many layers of hypocrisy and homophobia. It is puzzling that the country that hosts one of the biggest gay pride parades in the world also ranks first in violence against gay people. It is certainly a good start that gay men have started to be portrayed in a less comical way. However, I’ve learned from years of soap opera watching (all right: I’ll admit it!) that for gay characters, just as it is with all other characters, there is no “happy ending” without a kiss.

Brave in Scotland or the Beginner’s Highland Hiking Guide by Dirk Salowsky

Craig has told me to go see the Isle of Skye if I want some beautiful Scottish Highlands atmosphere. I have a week for my trip; it’s the Bank Holiday Sunday of early June ’99 and I have arrived at the Glasgow Queen Street Station at about midday. I am looking for a train to Fort William to continue to the island from there. Next departure: 6:10 p.m. Unable to see myself stuck in Glasgow instead of the Highlands I check route plans and destination tables for alternatives. Maybe another train covers at least some part of the route up north? The one to Oban does. It will take my direction up to Tyndrum Lower Station, which is already in the Highlands. There’s not too much time for celebrations, though – I only have ten minutes to find a ticket counter with a mercifully short line, buy a ticket and board. Eight minutes later my nervous rush is rewarded with a free seat by the window and the anticipation of sunny (!) Scottish scenery. It is a warm and sunny day indeed, and anyone who knows Scotland will appreciate that a lot!

Loch Lomond is one of the first highlights. Soon broad Highland valleys make me smile like a little boy, even some time before I arrive in Tyndrum. This tiny village divides the train routes to Oban and Mallaig and has two stations for each of the routes, Tyndrum Lower and Upper Tyndrum. I get out and find the village close to my station, at the end of a little path crossing a field and tiny highland becks. There are five hours to pass before the arrival of my next train, so I have a look around.

A public map shows me the next train stop, Bridge of Orchy, within hiking distance. This trip is highly spontaneous anyway, I haven’t researched my route to Skye apart from knowing that Fort William is a sensible point of departure, and lodging – oh, lodging is something to look for when I am there. So I decide on walking to Bridge of Orchy. But my very first destination is the village shop. I really am badly prepared; only carrying a small bottle of water, multivitamin tablets but no food in my backpack. I buy some fruit, a hiking map and midge repellent as first things for the days ahead. Buying only some fruit was a clear mistake.

Lesson No. 1: Always take enough food and water.

3:30 p.m., the sun is still shining and I am following the West Highland Way towards Bridge of Orchy. The valley is broad but still lacks a bit of a homely Highland feeling, also due to the close-by A82 towards Glen Coe and Fort William with its Sunday outing traffic. Nonetheless I am happy to breathe Highland air, and the route soon moves a bit away from the road. About six miles on and something like two hours later I have reached my next destination. I pass by the tiny train stop and head for a nearby hotel pub on the main road for a pint! I will still have to wait two hours for the train I wouldn’t wait for in Glasgow. I have a look at my map. It is day of my trip to the Highlands. If I keep walking on the West Highland Way I will leave the railway behind and end up in Glencoe, on the top left corner of my map – quite a walk. Instigated by the memory of a brave-hearted Mel Gibson on the scaffold and wearing my (real!) Anderson tartan kilt I follow my inner cry for freedom and decide on reaching Fort William and Skye some time later this week. I pick up my backpack and walk on. The way will now first lead me along Loch Tulla, and I have to make yet another decision: follow that small but paved road ahead of me or take the path to my left, up over this hill, to reach the shores of the unknown Loch? The easiest way is not always the best. Consequently I go for the adventure. Uphill I walk through a little wood and soon gravity reminds me that harder ways also tend to produce more sweat. But I bravely march on and eventually face a naked hilltop ahead – Mám Carraigh. (Carraigh, is the original, Gaelic spelling of the name Craig and means “rock”.)

It was a unique moment. My spontaneous boldness of taking an unplanned direction with only a slight idea of where to end up (and an even slighter idea of when) and the extra amount of sweat were already being rewarded. And not for the last time…

I am walking up the hill. From my perspective the horizon is the hilltop. I see a slowly descending sun in the west, wreathed in patches of clouds. I am walking on and see wild mountains slowly rising in the west, close to the sun. Then, next to the feet of the mountains, heatherclad highland hills move up from behind the hilltop. And as I proceed, I see patches of a green valley rolling up from behind that summit horizon, followed by a peaceful Loch, framed in meadows green like a gulf course, with a couple of pine trees and a stone house on the northern shore that you’d normally only expect a romantic painter to have put there. And so I stand the windswept top of the hill looking down on Loch Tulla. By the way, the house by the shore is said to be Ian Fleming’s.

Lessons No. 2 and 3: Move mindfully and seize the chance for little adventures.

It’s already about 7 p.m., but still time to move on yet a bit. I follow a winding path downhill and end up on that road I fortunately did not follow earlier on. Around the western shore and past another little hotel I follow the West Highland Way to the north, past Ian Fleming’s supposed dwelling. It’s the first time that I come to appreciate my smelly midge repellent. I have already run out of water and have a banana left for dinner. There are many little moor becks, containing moor water I do not trust. I will trust a river (also fed by becks, but, alas…) and walk on until I finally reach the rocky River Ba at the edge of Rannoch Moor. The panorama is still incredible, by the way.

This is going to be the place where to spend the night. I haven’t got a tent, just my sleeping bag and pad. First of all I realize that I am completely sweat through, so I take off my clothes to have a bath in the river. I am so heated up that only my reddening skin shows me that the water is really cold. This is so impressive, but anyway I decide not to spend too much time in there. After my yummy dinner I take off my kilt and jumper and crawl into my sleeping bag. Uncomfortable is not only a concise description for the ground beneath but also for my feeling during the night, especially after hearing the not-too-distant growls of some animal. I also feel a bit cold so I do not sleep very well and get up at sunrise. Odd as it may sound, I am still happy to be where I am. I set off listening to the more encouraging cries of grouses and enjoying an early Highland morning.

Lesson No. 4: You go for nature? You bring a tent!

With mountains to my left I head on and reach a broad valley, the vast entrance to Glen Coe. In the middle of the valley I spot a white building: the King’s House Hotel. I might end up having breakfast after all! I am dressed like a badly prepared hiker, so very reluctantly I enter the hotel and ask about the chance of having breakfast in their house. It would not be Scotland if there were a problem with that; all I have to do now is wait – until the room is actually opened for breakfast. Some 20 minutes later I order a huge breakfast plate, including some porridge and a variety of Scottish butchers’ breakfast products. I am starving, and my waitress, a mid-aged lady, smiles when some time later she takes away my empty teapot and clear plate.

Glen Coe. My sight of Loch Tulla was truly outstanding. Walking through this valley, however, is a breathtaking experience in many ways... Again it is a day of brightest sunshine. I leave the West Highland Way to walk on through the glen to Glencoe Village. Thanks to my kilt I receive friendly greetings from many tourists passing by in busses – I am the perfect match for the scenery! I smile and always wave back, smirking at myself about the simple fact that I am German. At some point of the way I meet a tourist couple who ask my permission for a picture. Thus I also receive the honor of becoming a personal vacation memory to Bob and Rachel from the USA.

Lesson No. 5: Walking is the only way to get the most out of a journey.

It is mid-afternoon as I reach the renowned Clachaig Inn and sit down in the beer garden for an afternoon pint. I feel that I need to reach the village soon. I want to take the bus to Fort William, find a bed and breakfast and a good night’s sleep. At the Inn the glen turns north towards Loch Leven and Glencoe Village, which are about 2½ miles away. I have to wait for about an hour before the bus arrives, so I just sit down and enjoy the lovely view of Loch Leven in late afternoon sunlight.

The ride on the bus only takes about 20 minutes, but my arrival in Fort William comes with an unhappy surprise: it now hurts to move. My legs are sore and the rest on the bus has paralyzed them to a certain extent. I cannot walk straight but move out of the bus and through the city like a very old man. Thus I drag myself along until finally finding a B&B sign. The sign points uphill. With a resigning moan I step on. A hundred yards further (and older) I reach a lovely little house with an open door. In disbelief, I standing facing a long staircase, for the landlords live upstairs. I ring the bell and a friendly elderly Scotswoman with a broad twang greets me from top of the stairs: “Where are you from?” – “Germany.” – “Howard, look! A German in a kilt!”. This has to be the Comic Relief! I ask her about a spare room and a shower. As both things are available I bravely conclude my Martyrdom of the Sore Legs with that last challenge of climbing upstairs.

Lesson No. 6: The laugh is always on the loser. Be the one who laughs loudest!

I am led into a lovely and carefully decorated room, drop my backpack and get ready for the shower. Nearly all my toes have blisters which at least don’t hurt. Later I will kindly accept the landlady’s tea and toast. A big, soft bed is already waiting for me.

ten or eleven hours later I wake up very revived, but still with sore legs. At the breakfast table I meet Ali, an Australian girl. Serendipity. She has a rented car, she is on her way to the Isle of Skye and happy to have company. We decide to take the route via the bridge at Kyle of Lochalsh. Day 3 of my long week in the Highlands. Later on Ali reminds me of the importance of stretching – balm for my hurting legs.

Lesson No. 7: Taking a chance may yield the most unexpected chances.

The Village by M.J. Ferreira

“We thank God for the time which has been given to us”

M. Night Shymalan’s film The Village (see also in IMDb.com) is a monument to the human ability to culturally produce meanings through words and images. It is one of those rare motion pictures where nothing is said in vain, no word is misplaced, no gesture is out of order, and no dialogue is meaningless. The script of the film was carefully thought to show how political communities, and mostly the political authorities within them, socially construct fear and, by the management of such terror, socially construct the boundaries that divide people.
The Village is mostly about fear and about boundaries: human boundaries and their translation into physical limits that, by a political inducement of mistrust, prevent people from moving throughout them. It tells a story: a story about a group of North American men and women that, being weary of the violence and bloodshed in big cities, decide to establish a small community within a territory surrounded by woods. There, they start a life without the modern commodities, where there is no money, no outside contact, and foremost supposedly no men-made sorrows. When the ‘founding fathers’ swear never to go back and to keep the young generations from leaving, they also tell a story. And it is then that The Village becomes a story about a story. The elderly tell their youngsters that there are monsters in the woods (“those we don’t speak of”), killing those who cross the visibly established boundaries between the village and the forest. To make their story look credible, the elderly dress like the monsters, impersonate their sounds and mainly create rituals destined at keeping the invented beings away from the village’s boundaries, so that the inside and outside environments are highly securitised. The existence of ‘monsters’ in the woods becomes the ‘Truth’. Terror, borders and belonging are created and managed and exist interdependently.

The message is clear: all political communities constrained within borders are politically controlled by elites that have the resources, the instruments and the authority to create ‘Truths’, to tell stories, to make up ‘monsters’ that induce people to behave in certain ‘normal’ ways and, above all, to designate who belongs to the community and who is a stranger, who is innocent and who is guilty, what is wrong and what is right. Curiously enough, it is the same people who voluntarily entrust political elites to assure justice and order who are 'victimized' by the most dangerous kind of tyranny: mental. When a power, even if democratically elected, has the faculty to direct the minds, the emotions and the behaviour of their citizens, mostly by the reification and the construction of social concepts, democracy becomes an empty model. Tocqueville knew this all too well. The situation gets worse when political leaders, legitimised by their communities, trade-off justice for order. The latter is maintained through unquestioned securitisation processes. In the film, the main characters live a dilemma: to maintain order, reifying their lye, or to assure justice, questioning the grounds on which the community has been established.

The Village is above all a politically and socially engaged critique to the path that Western democracies are currently undertaking. Since 9/11, and mostly on behalf of the so-called fight against terrorism, the international and domestic political environments are becoming extremely securitised. Religious, cultural and social differences are condemned and migrants are being nominated as the ‘enemy’, a danger to be avoided. Migrants are those who do not belong to our ‘village’, and are becoming ‘those we don’t speak of’. In the social realm, Western societies are becoming silent, ‘normalised’ through a series of practices and rituals intended at creating a certain kind of unquestioned political identity and citizenship. Mental domination is becoming real. People do not want to leave their ‘mental villages’ because they are afraid to find some hidden ‘monster’. The same ‘monster’ from the lie the elderly told their youngsters to keep them from leaving the community. We prefer to believe in the ‘stories’ that are told to us. Risk, justice and liberty are fading away from our political and social vocabulary. Many, just like the characters in The Village, think that, by isolation and erasure of differences, they can escape men-made grief. As if sorrow and evil were not, at the same time, reasonable and unreasonable human creations that live inside each one of us. In The Village, it is quite interesting, although not surprising, that the main female character, the one that unveils the ‘Truth’, is a blind woman, and that her sorrow is caused by the acts of a psychologically disabled human being.

Life is what we make of it. Time is what we make of it. There is no ‘Truth’ apart from human creation. The entire social world is constructed. That is why we have to decide what to do with the time, which has been given to us and, for better and worse, with the free judgement that comes along.