Original French title: Le pommier et le ch�ne
Once upon a time, a massive oak tree stood alone in a
large field. The towering
oak had stood in this field for more than two hundred years. Much had
happened during those years, but trees have remarkable memories, and the
oak vividly remembered the very first moments of his consciousness.
The oak tree was then no more than a three-month-old
sapling when its hazy
perceptions merged into awareness. He saw a haggard-looking old man in
front of him. Behind the man stood a red farmhouse. An elderly woman was
working in the garden. The old man had a gentle smile and was looking
tenderly
at the oak.
"You're awake now my child, aren't you?"
"Who am I?" answered the oak.
"You are an oak tree," the man answered, "a symbol of
hope for my children
and my children's children in this world. Until now, I used this field
to grow
soybeans and wheat for cows and chickens. Only now do I realize how
waste-
ful and needless this has been."
The old man's words flew by too quickly for the young
oak. Several large
animals were roaming in the field; several small animals were pecking at
the
ground near the woman.
"What is a cow?" What is a chicken?" asked the oak,
perplexed.
Those large, four-legged animals in the field are cows,
my child. They are
gentle, peaceful, harmless animals. Until recently, they would feed them
with
the grains I grew in this field and then kill them so that others could
eat their
flesh. I did the same with those small birds near my wife, called
chickens.
Although people in this world are dying of hunger, I wasted the space of
this
field and wasted the grains I grew on the animals. I could have fed many
more
people by giving them the grains directly.
"I continued to raise and kill chickens and cows even
after I learned that eating
their flesh is more wasteful than eating the grains used to feed them.
Yet I
treated them nicely, until their untimely death, that is. They had
better lives than
on those horrifying factory farms. In factory farms, thousands of
chickens are
confined indoors, never see the light of day and are packed in cages so
tightly
that they can barely move. And I also avoided using chemicals to kill
insects in
the field and fight diseases in the animals, for these chemicals also
poison the
ground, other animals and humans. In this respect, I was more
compassionate
and caring than many of my fellow farmers.
"Nevertheless, I always felt guilt and sadness every
time I killed a cow or
chicken so others could eat their flesh. My wife and son would hold a
gentle
cow still, and I would break open her head with a large hammer. Her
large,
innocent eyes would always stare bewildered at me, as if to say "Why?".
And when I would cut off a chicken's head with an ax, his poor body
would run
helplessly around, looking for his lost head, desperate to be alive
again.
"These thoughts weighed heavily on my heart and soul.
And as the years
passed, I felt more and more saddened and helpless. Yet I had little
choice:
I had borrowed much money from the bank and they threatened to ruin my
family and me if I stopped the killing.
"It was my son who freed me from this misery. He went to
study in the city and
thanks to his job, my wife and I could finally pay off the bank. When I
asked
my son, 'But what will become of the animals?' he answered, 'Make sure
that
they cannot have children, and let them live out the rest of their lives
in peace,
Father.' And when I asked him, 'But what will become of the field?' he
answered, 'Father, this field used to belong to the trees. Ever since we
took the
trees away, much precious, life-giving soil in the field has been washed
away
by the rain. Give the field back to the trees, Father. They will keep
the soil in
place and give precious, life-giving oxygen back to the air. And if you
choose
food-bearing trees, they will also feed people too.'
"That is why I have planted you, dear child. You will
hold the soil in place, give
oxygen to the air and bear acorns to nourish us. And we can eat your
acorns
without having to kill and destroy you. You are a blessing for me, and a
symbol
of hope for my children and my children's children. And I will soon fill
this whole
field with trees, so that you may have friends and work together."
But the old man died before he could plant other trees,
and the wife moved to
the city to join her son. Other people later moved into the farmhouse,
and
though they were forbidden to chop down the oak tree or raise animals,
they
cared little for the old man's vision, and planted no new trees.
Many years went by before the oak tree understood the
meaning of the old
man's words. And though with each passing year, the oak tree grew
mightier
and mightier, it also grew sadder and sadder, for it had no friends, and
rain
continued to wash away the soil.
Eight generations came and went. And though much topsoil
had washed away
and the oak was still friendless, it learned through watching them that
the world
had changed very much. People everywhere had stopped killing and eating
animals, realizing the senselessness of it all. People had also stopped
killing
each other, and the world had become a great country, where everyone
could
travel freely everywhere. The French language had evolved and changed
and
everyone in the world spoke English as a second language, so that they
could
communicate with each other.
A middle-aged man, his wife and their young daughter now
lived in the farm-
house. The oak tree learned from them that much work still remained to
be
done. Soil was still being washed away from former pastures and grain
fields,
and large-scale tree-planting projects were taking place everywhere.
One day, the young girl from the farmhouse came to the
oak tree. She was
smiling and holding a small notebook.
"Hello, oak tree," she said with a grin, her curly red
locks blowing in the wind,
"I found my ancestor's diary this morning. He was the one who stopped
raising
animals, I believe. I had difficulties understanding his French, but I
believe that
he planted you as the first of many trees to give this weary field new
life. I'm
afraid that my ancestors after him have neglected you. But that is going
to
change now. In six months from now, the government is going to give us
enough
saplings to entirely plant this field. After that, you'll never be alone
again, and
you and your friends can feed us, clean the air and hold the soil in
place.
"But fear not, oak tree, that you will remain friendless
for another six months.
Tomorrow, I will plant a baby apple tree next to you. It will keep you
company
and bring you joy. And thanks to your wisdom and experience, you can
guide
and comfort it and the other saplings that follow."
The young girl was faithful to her promise, and the next
morning, she planted
a tender, fragile apple sapling next to the oak. The sapling was too
young to
be aware of its own existence. In the months that followed, the oak tree
sung
soft and reassuring songs to the apple sapling, waiting patiently for it
to
awaken.
Several months later, the moment arrived. The oak tree
felt a slight shiver from
the apple tree, and knew that it was now awake.
"You're awake now my child, aren't you?" the oak tree
asked.
"Who am I?" answered the apple tree.
"You are an apple tree, "the oak tree answered, "a
symbol of hope for the
healing and betterment of this world. When I first came to life, this
field had
been used to grow grains for cows and chickens, who were later killed
and
eaten. Only later did my Master realize how senseless this had been."
The oak tree's words flew by too quickly for the young
apple tree.
"What is a cow? What is a chicken?" asked the apple
tree, perplexed.
"Never mind, my child," the oak tree responded, more
slowly and reassuringly,
"For those sad times have passed and the world today is filled with hope
and
promise. Give thanks and rejoice, my child, for together we can heal the
earth,
clean the air and feed the people. And soon, very soon, many friends
will join
us and help us in our task."
And the oak tree began to sing a lullaby to the apple
tree. The apple tree was
comforted, and the oak tree was happy. And the sun set slowly behind the
large field of hope ....
Copyright � 1995-1998 by Mohan Embar. All Rights
Reserved
May be used in unchanged form by avowed Animal Rightists if accompanied
by
this copyright message.
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