Our place is the migration path of the Besra Sparrowhawk. They come here to fatten themselves with beetles on the Anahaw palm. It is also the season when the little snakes are born in the jungle. The sparrowhawks come here to gorge and prepare themselves for the long migration.
I have seen a sparrowhawk choking in its own blood. For the life of me, I could not understand. Something in me was also chocking at that moment. Young men here flash all sorts of air guns and small caliber rifles during March and April. Maybe they think courage is measured by the thunder of a bullet and honor is gained by the blood of the bird. I insist there is neither honor nor dignity in taking the life of a bird whose only fault maybe make us envious of the freedom of their flight.
March and April are supposed to be welcome warm months. But I dread them too. It is also the time when otherwise meek men start bringing out their air guns to slaughter the birds. Crack, crack, crack. I could hear the gun shots at night. I could see trails of flashlights. The so-called hunters were slaughtering again. And I would go to them honking the horn of my ride. I hated them. They hated me.
But not everybody hated me. Some were also concerned.
I wrote to the government about the plight of the sparrowhawks. There was some concern. Somebody was sent near our place. I went to her in her residence in the next town. She promised to help. She gave me a handout. That was it. She never came back.
But the sparrowhawks kept coming back. And they kept dying. On some days, a lady would pass by our house, selling dressed sparrowhawks. They are delicious, she insisted. Go away I would say. She is not a lady, I thought.
She never came back.
But the sparrowhawks kept on trying to keep their promises. They kept coming back. They are dying because they are keeping their promise to return.
They are fewer now. Sometimes I wish the sparrowhawks would not keep their promise. I wish I could do something more to stop the slaughter. I am afraid to promise to do something more. I am not as brave as the Sparrowhawk.
I have seen a sparrowhawk choking in its own blood. For the life of me, I could not understand. Something in me was also chocking at that moment. Young men here flash all sorts of air guns and small caliber rifles during March and April. Maybe they think courage is measured by the thunder of a bullet and honor is gained by the blood of the bird. I insist there is neither honor nor dignity in taking the life of a bird whose only fault maybe make us envious of the freedom of their flight.
March and April are supposed to be welcome warm months. But I dread them too. It is also the time when otherwise meek men start bringing out their air guns to slaughter the birds. Crack, crack, crack. I could hear the gun shots at night. I could see trails of flashlights. The so-called hunters were slaughtering again. And I would go to them honking the horn of my ride. I hated them. They hated me.
But not everybody hated me. Some were also concerned.
I wrote to the government about the plight of the sparrowhawks. There was some concern. Somebody was sent near our place. I went to her in her residence in the next town. She promised to help. She gave me a handout. That was it. She never came back.
But the sparrowhawks kept coming back. And they kept dying. On some days, a lady would pass by our house, selling dressed sparrowhawks. They are delicious, she insisted. Go away I would say. She is not a lady, I thought.
She never came back.
But the sparrowhawks kept on trying to keep their promises. They kept coming back. They are dying because they are keeping their promise to return.
They are fewer now. Sometimes I wish the sparrowhawks would not keep their promise. I wish I could do something more to stop the slaughter. I am afraid to promise to do something more. I am not as brave as the Sparrowhawk.
