Spiralling

Bella’s eyes were half-dead already. The buildup of gunk had drawn in flies which blackened the air. Her shrunken belly revealed the full row of ribs, painfully accentuated by the divots between them. I raised the gun, gently pressing it against Bella’s head. Whenever you shoot a human or cow, in the head, the skin peels back, burnt into a starfish shape. Blood, brain and bone explodes out. However the worst bit about the killing is the red mist that accumulates underneath your fingernails, in your hair and in your nostrils. It lasts for weeks. You can smell it for weeks. 

I reloaded the gun and swallowed the thick in the back of my throat. Bella was the tenth cow I had shot today; my hand was beginning to shake. It was the only humane option we had left. The Tasmanian water supply had been so badly polluted by the Salmon industry that it was not only undrinkable but killed the crop meant to feed the cattle. We had imported some Victorian wheat but we simply couldn’t afford much.

It took two hours to track down the final cow on my list. Travelling over corrupted earth until I found her; an old Guernsey with her calves licking at her face, sitting underneath a dying gum tree. Next to her was a river with floating scum and sludge.

Once Tasmania’s natural landscape was unmatched in its brilliancy. From the fertile soil sprung lush grass and strong trees which birds sat upon to sing. The water, clear and crisp, housed fish, dolphins and even penguins. As a young child I used to run through its fields, delighted shrieks setting off the cockatoos, filling the air with an unbridled cacophony. Even then I believed I was from the earth and the earth was for me. A relationship not explicable but sacred. Its nature transcends the realms of my articulation. Nonetheless, the understanding was entwined into the very fabric of my soul. Now, my first and truest love is thick with faeces and jellyfish bloom. Heavy metals pollute it and everywhere is a reeking grime that kills our crops and cows. 

The government long ago kowtowed to the multi-billion dollar industry, waxing lyrically about the 1,500 jobs it has created.  Yet it accounts for just 1% of jobs in the state. Over five years $3.8 billion worth of fish were sold, but just $64 million tax paid, while $9.3 million in subsidies were received in two years. Moreover, despite legally having to lease the waterways, business friendly governments - both liberal and labour - have waived these fees away. Officially, the reason is to keep the fisheries in Tasmania and not move to Victoria. Despite the fact that Victoria's warmer waters make it untenable for fisheries to operate there. Perhaps it has more to do with the $865,000 the industry spends lobbying each year or the fact that the ostensibly independent bodies specially designed to regulate the industries actions, from all aspects economic, environmental and social, is no more than a “rubber stamp committee” in the words of Brian Kingzett, Phd, who served on the board of one of these bodies. Simultaneously these boards are “stuffed full” of former salmon industry employees.

This is made all the more despicable as Tassel and Huon and other members of the industry then cite the findings of these kangaroo courts to market themselves as “world’s best practice”, both “clean and green”. 

Another, often overlooked aspect of the Industries evil is the sound it generates. Described by those who live near fisheries as a “constant droning that never ends”, which is so loud that door frames shake, imprisoning Tasmanians in a perpetual white noise that makes sleep extremely difficult.

When the townspeople have complained, again and again since 1985 Tassel and other major players of the salmon industry have replied officially by citing that they are within legal regulations. Despite there being no laws surrounding noise pollution as being water based, they fall outside the jurisdiction of the local council. Meanwhile state and federal governments have adopted a “business friendly” stance. Unofficially locals have alleged that dead animals have been left on their doorstep and industrial ships have deliberately moored themselves adjacent to the towns and revved their engines through the night, making houses shake in punishment for complaining.

It's worth noting that subjecting people to constant noise is a technique utilised as a part of the CIA’s ‘enhanced interrogation’. With the express purpose of ‘demonstrating to the person that they have no control over even the most basic aspects of their existence.’

The message is clear. Power resides in a single fist. The Salmon Industry.

So the environment is trashed, the people are tortured, the government subservient and my cows die. 

I shoo the calves away from the old Guernsey as I don’t want them to see their mothers death. The shakes have come back now, worse than before. Daisy’s eyes are clear, large and sad. She’s not even particularly sick or hungry but she’s too old and in such times we must be cold and pragmatic, even if that kills a little bit of ourselves. 

Sometimes this gets too much for farmers. Last week a long time friend Ned Devine, who’s heart was as big as his head, decided that he couldn’t take the despair, the hopelessness, the abandonment anymore. Once a figure that would’ve embodied Australian culture and been the backbone of the economy took a razor to his wrists and opened the doorway to oblivion. 

Then in moments like these, as I hold the gun to something I love all that numbness dissolves but I wish it was still there. I just can’t take it. It’s too much.Too overwhelming. My heart palpitates. I want to vomit. I want to cry. I want to run away. To scream. Instead somehow I shot and the blood spurts out of Daisy’s head. 

Her children cry and I collapse. I can feel it now, the edge. I’ve been pushed to it just like Ned by, the Tasmanian emperors, the salmon industry.