"Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you."
- Ernest Hemingway (taken from Death in the Afternoon).
My friend Anahi, is a lovely, very devout Catholic lady who is kind, sweet, and sincerely generous. When I asked her what her favourite movie was, Anahi replied "the DVD series of the saints"...
...
I wasn't really sure what to think of this. And I was actually a little terrified by her religious zeal.
Who.
The.
Fuck.
Enjoys.
Religious reenactments?!?
(Aside from the obvious exceptions:
)
But as I came to know her, I found, pretty quickly, that she is also highly intelligent, and the combination of her religious beliefs and intellectual vigour makes her incredibly interesting and damn good company over a glass of red wine or three.
Then, one day, while explaining the history of the tranquil neighbourhood of Coyoacan she told me her favourite sport was bullfighting...
...
W
T
F
?
And so to understand this matching of 'lovely religious girl' with 'violent blood sport' (and to experience something I never would have thought of experiencing), I accepted her invitation to the penultimate bullfighting bout for the season.
"We can leave any time you want." She prefaced as we entered Plaza Mexico. I had warned her that I might cry.
I used to be a vegetarian. And I believe that the way a culture treats its animals, is a reflection of it's humanity. I believe that, as humans, we have the capacity for compassion and we should make our life choices based on compassion for others and other things in our world. And it is our responsibility to protect those 'things' (animals and/or people) that are unable to speak for or protect themselves. Just because we have power doesn't mean we need or should assert it over the powerless in violent displays. In fact, I would say true power doesn't - yet the corrupting nature of power means we so often do.
"I see the story of my life play out on the sand" Anahi told me when I questioned her about her fascination with the sport as we took our seats and flagged one of the roaming beer sellers. "Sometimes I am the matador, sometimes I'm the bull."
Of course I love the poetry of this. And reading Hemingway could turn anyone into a bullfighting enthusiast.
But as the games began, I could not change my view that bullfighting is barbaric and archaic. And that if it was ridded from the world, I would be happier. Let it be written about in romantic, poetic and historical prose that speaks of honour and narrative and passion and death - all aspects of being human. Let us learn from it retrospectively. Because compassion and empathy are human qualities too. Let's make the choice for compassion.
Bullfighting reeks of man's (yes, man's not women's) lust for blood, lust for conquering the wild and natural world to prove and prove again that they are powerful. The matadors are renowned for their womanising behaviour and highly arrogant sense of selves - again a manifestation of our human need, to control, to conquer and to feel powerful. Sex, death, blood, story-telling - human pathways to manipulate power to be sure. But, I would argue, not the only ones.
I watched as the bull was slain. Time and time again a majestic and strong animal fought to defend itself in world it does not know and against a cruelty which it cannot comprehend. It was humiliated in front of a jeering crowd, it's majesty striped from its kind and in a final insult it was dragged away; leaving nothing behind of itself, its fight or of its beauty, save for a trail of blood in the sand.
But I didn't cry.
I didn't cry because this country, my beloved Mexico, is barbaric and archaic as well.
Projected statistics can suggest that 120, 000 people were killed by the 'drug war' in Mexico between the years of 2003 - 2012. That's almost as many people that were killed in the Iraq war during the same timeframe. Some of the bodies of those 120,000 were dumped in the desert, others were strung up and hung from a bridge in Zacatecas and others were never discovered; their killers leaving nothing behind of those people, their fight or their beauty - not even a trail of blood in the sand.
Until recently, the richest man in world was Carlos Slim, a Mexican businessman. The girls I teach are driven to school every day by chauffeurs, have maids and vacation in Spain. There are certainly wealthy people in Mexico. And yet 42% of the population live under the national poverty line and with approximately 800,000 of those people living on $1.25USD per day, and most of those 800,000 are indigenous peoples. It's not a fair world; it is not a fair fight.
Girls across Mexico are still taught in schools that marriage is the sum of a woman's life. Yet Mexico has the worst rate of gender violence against women in the world, with 38% of Mexican women affected by physical, sexual or psychological abuse. I'm certainly not equating marriage with these figures. These figures can be more closely be associated with the 'drug war', but it feels that priorities and focuses are a little out of whack when considering these statistics. A matador asserts his masculine dominance, and slays his weaker rival.
Yet I have found safety and comfort in living in Mexico. I have seen some of the most breath taking vistas I have ever had the luck to breath in. The country is alive with energy. Dry earth, damp rainforests, volcanoes, fault lines, monkeys, flamingos (apparently) and beaches that cleanse the soul or simply offer a cocktail, the twinkle of a matadors jacket, the chorus of ole. It's beauty lies in it's ecological and cultural diversity. And as you bus your way across the country, music rises from it's scorched earths and plays to those who have the heart and the stomach to hear it.
From my experience, Mexican culture is, at its heart, a creative one and this is certainly linked to its poverty, its history of revolutions, and the people's need to find ways of doing things that is outside the usual way of doing them. It's a positive energy which approaches life not encumbered by only one way of achieving things. Mexican life and bullfighting can be an art or a blood sport, depending on your persepective.
It is a brutal and beautiful place and the clash of these very raw, very honest and very human qualities is what I love about this country. And that conflict is found in every person I have met here.
I have found a complicated and endearing home for myself... a complicated and (hopefully) endearing woman.
Considering this dichotomy of brutality and beauty, bullfighting makes sense here. As the UNESCO site states:
"Traditional sports and games are part of intangible heritage and a symbol of the cultural diversity of our societies."
The rich and the powerful (and Spanish) of Mexican society come to be entertained by the murder of a mighty animal. As the bull, fierce and frightened and unpredictable bucks his way, blinded by the lights, into the ring, the matador prepares himself for the for the first of three stages of the "fight". First, the dance, then the betrayal, then the final goodbye.
The matador: masculine and proud, versus the bull: masculine and proud.
What is the metaphor here?
We read our own narratives into the fighting of the bull. The bull slain, the hero victorious, and the applause thus fades.
***
Anahi and I discussed abortion as we left the stadium (because we like to tackle the easy subjects). Me, of course, being pro-choice and her, of course, being pro-life. How could she enjoy and be entertained by the murder of a regal bull? And yet not agree with the termination of a unwanted or dangerous pregnancy in a country that is massively overpopulated? And how could I be disgusted by the killing of an animal (we do it everyday for food), and yet advocate for the murder of an innocent child?
How?
Because we are complicated beings. We are contradictory and difficult to understand. Because we all have the ability to be and believe in cruelty and compassion at the same time.
Because sometimes we are the matador and sometimes we are the bull.
