I remember the fate of a puppy at the roadside. We don’t have to take it to the hospital, provide a bed, covers, not to be spooned, forced, persuaded to eat. No chicken soup. If only we give him but leftovers of a meal that would be more than sufficient to keep him alive.
“Water, … “ cried the evacuee, his hand lifted before dying of thirst and hunger in a war in Rwanda or Cambodia. Oh, his life is still so precious.
Meanwhile a bowl of warm chicken soup was served. By little tea spoonfuls granddad who is very old was fed. He doesn’t want to eat anymore, he can’t enjoy the so delicious soup anymore. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to live. But his children and grand children didn’t want him die and encouraged, forced him, tortured him to eat the chicken soup to stay alive.
“Well, let us kill a chicken, especially for granddad,” so they, the family decided before.
“Ah” said the chicken without words, “Why must I be killed?” I’m still young, I still want to live, enjoy life, though I should be sleeping perching on a tree, in rain and wind, though they wouldn’t provide for my food.” Only could he know that he would be slaughtered for the sake of a man who doesn’t want to live anymore. Suppose he knows it, what could he do? Those that know and want it, are we.
And the chicken was killed. It doesn’t help if he would protest, cry for help and justice.
“When I’m as old as granddad, give my dish to some little puppy so he may still live. Don’t kill a chicken for my sake anymore. Better, let me die.” Si Upik whispered to me. “But then I should say this to my daughters and granddaughters and I’m not yet married ha, ha.”
Berita Buana August 19, 1997
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