Day 7 In The Faroe Islands

 Day 7 In The Faroe Islands

http://www.seashepherdglobal.org/faroes/updates/day-7-in-the-faroe-islands.html

Tuesday, 14 July 2015 08:42

By Ross McCall

Operation Sleppid Grindini Co-Campaign Leader, Ross McCall, in the Faroe Islands.
Photo: Oden RobertsThe Faroe Islands are a magnificent spectacle. A land seeped in historical splendor and saturated in strict cultural traditions. If there was one way to describe these shores, it would be, breathtaking.

If I were to describe how I was feeling right now, it would be easy. Confused. It’s strange to say that. It’s not something I’m accustomed to. I don’t think the Faroese are violent people. But I truly believe that the exhausted tradition of the grindadráp, is perhaps, nothing more than an act of extreme, legal violence. I can’t see it being any other way. And believe me, I’ve looked.

From day one of my arrival, I have met, mostly,
beautifully friendly and hospitable locals. I’ve also met those who don’t shy away from telling me, through a passive aggressive smile, that they know why I’m here and that I shouldn’t try and convince outsiders to look a little closer at the pilot whale drives that have been taking place here for centuries. Then there are those that tell me I am not wanted here. Maybe it’s my face. Maybe it’s my vibe. But I suspect it’s actually because of my beliefs and perhaps the company I’m keeping.

I became aware of Sea Shepherd in 2011. I became actively involved a year later. My first taste of a campaign was last year, and on June 15th, 2015, I landed in these very Islands once more. I’m a rookie in the grand scheme, but I have big ideas.

I had concerns about how I was going to land on foreign shores and somehow find a respectful line in order to get people to hear my thoughts on the 500 year old tradition of the grindadráp; a really tough thing to do when you are faced with a local distrust and questionable defenses. Sea Shepherd is an incredible organization. Volunteers from around the globe who give up their time, their wage, their surroundings, to save wildlife that doesn’t have a voice to reason with. The end goal is simple. To save hundreds upon hundreds of cetaceans lives from the hunters of the Faroe Islands.

We may have, collectively, exhausted any form of relationship we ever had with the people from The Faroe Isles. Something we can’t take back. This happens when two opinions are so far apart. But, unlike many worldwide practices, we cannot live in the past. We must move forward and so the only feeling I have right now, is to fight back in the way we know how. Rebuild the proverbial bridges? Sure. Remain within the guidelines of the law?

The laws that have been designed to keep our opinions and beliefs tucked safely behind the closed curtains of the society that doesn’t want their horrifically visual grindadráp to be touched? Yes. But we will not go away. We will not stop protecting the ocean-life that the locals think nothing of harvesting.

As I mentioned, the locals are kind, gracious, generous.
Until it is mentioned that you oppose the grind.

McCall visits the scene of the aftermath of the June 29 Hvannasund grind. Photo: Alexandra BennaceurToday, I met up with a man named Hans. He and I met on my trip last year and we interviewed each other extensively, spotlighting our beliefs in a to-and-fro conversation. We put it on film and FOX ran the piece this year. Hans is close to my father’s age. He’s a family man. A good man. A father, husband, retired school teacher and a driving instructor. He also hunts the pilot whales and actively takes his part in any grind he is called in for.

Since my arrival, I thought it would be a good idea to sit with him again. We had a few things in common. Both liked football. Both liked coffee. Both liked island life and nature. I met him in the hippest coffee joint in town. It would be well at home on Abbot Kinney in Venice.

Specialty coffee, modern tunes, pretty girls working the counter.

As soon as I arrived, he stood to shake my hand, I forced him into a hug. If I’m going to sit and drink with you, I’d rather it be in a friendly manner. If you have other ideas, I’ll ask you to leave. A guy-hug will give me an indication of where we stand. Friendly, was the answer.

After our hello, our obligatory compliments on how we both look, the recent footballing results that have the Faroese national team and supporters on a high, we get down to business. He leads the way.
It’s a circle. These conversations. He says his piece, I say mine. It’s the same opinions. They don’t inflict cruelty onto the whales and they kill them as humanely as possible. I retort. Yes you do and no you don’t. They use the meat which saves them millions of Euros in traded produce from Europe. I welcome him to the world, explaining that we all have to take in trade from other lands and we are all okay. Also, I reiterate, I don’t see homeless or starving people on the Island. In fact, everywhere I look, I see booming industry.

If the Whale meat was their only choice in being able to feed themselves and their families, I’d understand that a little more. He replies, they have done this for hundreds of years and who am I to tell them what to do. I agree, it should be their choice, but if they keep refusing to do it, then Sea Shepherd will continue to be a presence. I then reiterated, if they were to choose to end this tired practice, then they could, quite possibly, change anything in the world. He liked that.

I pressed on, some traditions are wonderful but others should be let go. The ones that no longer serve humanity. He then continued with how no-one understands that the grind is a worthwhile and accepted system. So I asked him to let me see it.

Now I know this is the exact opposite of what we want to do. It is also the last thing in the world I’d ever want to witness. But I wanted to see if he would actually be willing to let an opposed outsider see their practice or whether or not he doesn’t want the world to see and try and keep me as far away as possible. It felt like the latter, but I guess time will tell.
McCall is watched by local authorities as he inspects the bodies of the dead pilot whales, slaughtered at Hvannasund. Photo: Alexandra BennaceurHe asked if he could show me around. He drove me to the Tórshavn harbor, pointed out the traditional fishing boats. Then he said he’d like to show me where he used to teach the kids, some of whom are now grown up and would occasionally stop him and say hello. Away we went. Again, our discussion continued. Killing pilot whales is more humane than killing cows, because the whales live a free existence until they are coerced by local fishing boats towards one of the 23 killing beaches. I don’t like that argument. In fact, I don’t see the parallels. To me, I explained, that is like saying a murder in prison is worse than a random murder on the streets.

To me, they’re both terrible. I agree that the mass production of meat farming is horrific. Led purely by greed, the agricultural world has become a business of horror. But, I think, we all know that. Comparing or defending the grind doesn’t satisfy my questions. But that seems to be a common theme. The same answers from everybody.

Walking through his school, an amazingly progressive educational system, I was blown away by the resources available to the children. Science labs, wood-workshops, gyms and architecture that rival the best schools in the U.S. I met a few of his teaching colleagues, all of whom, at first, greeted me with a smile that soon turned to a demure smile or basic scoff when he mentioned my name and who I was representing. I was only ignored by one, the others looked on with suspicion.

One teacher, who I offered to help carry the tray of coffee pots she was holding, only spoke in English for one sentence, telling me she was looking forward to eating her catch of pilot whale this season and didn’t care if it had mercury in it or not, it still tasted delicious. She laughed. So did Hans. He later explained that people just wanted to tease. That they all wanted to defend their right. But then again, so did I.

Tradition. Culture. Affordable meat source. Generational rite of passage. A gift from God. All answers that, personally, don’t fit for me. Rape and pillage and was once a tradition. We woke up, saw the light, and don’t do that in civilized society anymore. There are grocery stores in every village, stocked fully with everything I can find in my local supermarket. Fresh food, affordable pricing.

Everything that can be bought in a supermarket in London, Copenhagen and Paris, can be bought in the Faroe Isles. In fact, the Faroese have the highest per capita income in Europe and one of the highest standards of living. My forefathers would steal sheep, sale boats, boil haggis. Things that still live on the memory, as will some of the hand-me-downs of our generation. God will provide, yes. But he also provides me, right? Provides me with the ocean as much as the next person. Then I must do what I can to help save it and those who live there. My point is, all the answers, the reasons, they feel like excuses.

I’ve seen the grind. I’ve met the men who plunge the retractable spears into the backs of the pilot whales. I hear their defense of the practice over-and-over, but it is now becoming clear to me that it is nothing more than a violent act. An aggressive attack that is allowed to be justified. I’ve met locals who claim they don’t eat the meat, but have no shame in telling me they find it beautiful to watch. Beautiful. The blood spurting. The mammals screeching in pain. The splashing of weapons, of fins.

The pure carnage of entire generations of pilot whale being gruesomely killed in front of one another.
You see, it’s a circus of sorts. Entertainment that brings the locals onto a frenzied beach that is now stained with blood. Pilot whales are curios creatures. They show no fear for humans, and I’m starting to think that may be their biggest downfall. The whalers know their target is gentle. An easy mark. I now find it ironic that they measure these killings as a showcase of their manhood. I’m sure you know how big they are, the whales, but even so, imagine the size of your car. Bigger in most cases. Imagine 150-200 of them being harassed towards the shores, beached and then hooked in their blow-holes, stabbed, deep in the back of the head to snap the spinal cord, then cut around the neck to finish the job before being dragged onto shore for the locals to rejoice in the festivities.

Make no mistake. The pilot whale drive is brutal. The whales suffer tremendously. The explanation of them dying within a second or two are grotesquely misleading. Anyone who views the footage can see that for themselves. It is an indiscriminate killing spree. I came here to lend a hand. Lend a voice. Lend a face. I’ve met incredible individuals who wanted to do more than like an article on their Facebook page and travelled to foreign shores to make a difference. Hopefully, we can thank them when this age-old blood-sport comes to an end.

Truthfully, I’ve looked, I’ve listened, I’ve allowed people to voice their side. A high percentage claim to be indifferent about the grind. Fine if it continues, fine if it ends. But, for the staunch supporters, it ultimately comes down to the fact that this is something the whalers and locals enjoy. Something that gets the aggression out. And something they seem petrified of letting go.


Maybe it’s time they laid down their weapons on this outdated practice and let the pilot whales and cetaceans live.