My kill count for this year stands well over a baker’s dozen. It’s a number that even Weebay, Snoop, and the other top muscle on The Wire would be proud to claim. Of course, I’m not talking about humans, but rather chickens, ducks, a goat, and two pigs. And, I’m not protecting the territory of Avon Barksdale or Marlowe Stanfield; just looking to make a delicious meal.
Before I began my Global Health Corp fellowship at Gardens for Health International (GHI), local food meant an exclamatory sticker at Whole Foods and the associated price increase. What a difference a year can make. My day job may entail building a database and M&E reporting tool, but the last year has also seen me hoe sweet potato fields, pick an endless supply of sukuma wiki (a delicious variety of kale), and slaughter my fair share of animals. Still, I certainly wouldn’t be able to survive trying to feed myself, but at least I know now I’m no meat-guzzling hypocrite.
Even before I arrived in Rwanda, I’d heard about “Julie’s Rule.” At our office and farm, Julie, our Country Director, insists that if you want to eat meat, you need to kill it yourself. I suppose I was specifically warned because I’d made it clear in my GHC application essay about barbecuing that I am quite the meat lover. When I got to GHI, it was time to walk the walk.
I started simple with a chicken. Our Mcguyver-like handyman, Rasta, supervised as we hung the chicken by his feet and I separated the head from the rest of the body with a few quick strokes of a not-quite-sharp-enough knife. If the chicken hadn’t been tied up, it would’ve been running and jumping just like the saying goes. As it was, it did a fine job of spraying blood up and down my jeans.
I definitely felt something after the first one. I’d crushed a New York City-sized cockroach or two before and laid plenty of successful mouse traps, but a chicken was definitely different. It wasn’t remorse necessarily, but it definitely made me reflect for a minute. Like most things, animal slaughter gets easier with repetition. Not long after, I was charged with getting 20 chickens ready for a community dinner in January. The worst part was de-feathering all of them rather than the act of killing itself. As I moved up to larger animals with whom I shared more genetic material, I thought things might get tougher, but after the first chicken I haven’t been too bothered by the act. Any qualms I might have are easily assuaged by the knowledge that every edible piece will be eaten (heart is particularly tasty) and, especially in the case of the pig, that the delicious ecstasy of roasted meat awaits.
Delicious meat is only part of the reward (potentially a large part). This portion of my GHC experience has further opened my eyes to the power of food to form community. When I wrote my GHC application essay about bringing friends together over barbecue, I was referring to people with whom I shared culture, language, and many common experiences. In the last year, I’ve learned to slaughter from a man with whom I share maybe 50 words, Rasta, and shared the fruits of our labor at community dinners with people from around the world. Had I simply cooked meat slaughtered by others, Rasta and I would never have shared the many knowing smiles we have as we prepared for the next animal. The memory of those smiles will last well past the sensation of spit-roast pig on my tongue, and that’s the real gift.