(This can be read as a metaphor for poor people in Asia also)
It’s not much fun being a chicken in Asia –
you’re born into a short and competitive life;
as a little chick you’re lucky if you survive the first few days
and this largely depends on how intelligent your mother is
and how strong was the Cock that fathered you.
You’re born under the relentless sun and you need the shade
provided by your mother’s wings and the floor of the mud hut
under which your mother shelters in the intolerable heat.
Your little fluffy siblings immediately pose a threat to your life in that they
snatch food from in front of your beak, if you’re not quick enough.
Also your genes may have a less-than-intelligent thread passed down
from your father, and this may make the difference between survival
and early death. Death from wild dogs, cats, foxes, bigger birds and many other predators –
there are so many dangers if you slip just a little away from your mother’s protection,
or if her attention is turned away momentarily –
all take their toll on a young brood of chicks.
Survival to adult bird is not much fun –
endlessly scratching around for scraps of food, anything at all – rice, worms, grubs, scraps of refuse, tourist trash,
all with the competition and pecking-order ruthlessly imposed by the Cock of the Roost.
You don’t argue with the big, flashy, self-centered Cock –
he has too-sharp a beak, too-strong a pair of legs, each equipped with a sharp spur
which he uses very effectively to see off all-comers to his patch, and ensures that he gets first pick of the takings.
He rushes over when food is available, kicks his way to the centre of the group and gobbles greedily.
Hens, smaller roosters, bantams, ducks and chicks have no chance
against this heavyweight feathered hoover.
As a chick, you scratch a living from the dust, somehow – you learn the tricks
of the trade from your mother, learn your place in the pecking-order, and your intelligence is sharpened by experience and the brutal facts of life.
As you grow you can enjoy an occasional day of rest and contentment, lazily pecking around and dozing in the shade –
but this peace is short lived and
you are soon back to being chased by dogs, and humans with bamboo sticks.
All the time, the humans are sizing you up, to see how you’re growing
and then, when you’re ready (in their eyes, not your’s), and after all too short a time,
you are taken off behind a shed where your throat is slit by a sharp knife
and you’re left bleeding to death on the dusty ground.
You’re then taken to the back door, where you’re plucked and gutted, head and feet
chopped off, and slung over a cooking pot in the kitchen.
You’re then cooked (boiled then roasted or grilled)
and eaten.
Then your bones are flung out to the dogs in the yard
which just a short time before
had been chasing you through the dust and heat of an Asian day.
C. Tim Taylor 2013