On the prowl

We park and three of us get out of the car, while another three stay inside and wait for a signal that will come later. I am in Italy, with women from the radical collective named 269 Liberation Animale. Their group targets slaughterhouses with blockades and liberations at the point of slaughter. Their plan tonight is to liberate chickens who have just been unloaded at a slaughterhouse. My plan is to get shots of their silhouettes in the night on the lookout and of the action itself, and of course remain undetected.

We walk along a path between what could look like vineyards during the day, and stop where a small fenced wall starts. In the near distance, we can see the slaughterhouse with an empty truck. Now, the waiting game.

As we wait for the perfect moment, I take shots of the two women I am with. We are all wearing t-shirts folded in balaclavas, and glitter over our eyes. I learned earlier the women from the collective wear glitter for direct action as war paint, with the added bonus of creating an effect that makes it harder for cameras to read their eyes. Tonight I am wearing glitter too in solidarity, a blend of purple, black and pink sparkly dust, and frankly also because it's fun. The insolence of women targeting a slaughterhouse at night, wearing balaclavas with eyeliner and glitter make up, is not lost on me.

After a little while, a massive truck makes its way around from the road and turns to enter the slaughterhouse. We spot it in the distance, but for some reason it drives full lights onto the path where we are crouched. "Down!" orders me one of the women, "Do not make a move." I crouch and stay perfectly still. As I go blind into these actions, I didn't know I was positioned so close to the entry of the driveway. The truck stops to turn just a few meters away from us, and drives into the slaughterhouse. The drive didn't see us.

Half an hour later, the driver leaves the premises. The chickens have been unloaded and are left in crates on the parking lot in the cold, in the dark. The signal is given, the car gets closer and one of the activists indicates where to park.

And now we walk in. A million things can go wrong in that moment: another truck may arrive while we're inside, and for this reason the action is very rushed. Later I check and find out the whole action lasted 90 seconds. The masked women pull the drawers, take out dozens of broiler chickens and place them in boxes. The chickens coo and protest gently but cooperate. They are scared and despite their large size, they're only babies. Everything is chaotic, my camera can't focus and I don't have time to get the shots I wanted. But it's part of it.

We leave quickly, place the boxes in the car and take off. At the point of separation, one car keeps all the chickens to get them to a safe house as soon as possible, while I'm part of a group that drives away.

We immediately take off our balaclavas and drive into the night with the feeling of revenge against a system that kills over 600 million broiler chickens in this country alone. We're wearing eyeliner and glitter. We're just a group of girls who went to a party.

This story is dedicated to those who act in complicity with the animals who want a way out but could never achieve liberation on their own. They have wings but can’t fly, bodies imprisoned into metal bars and genetic manipulation that makes them too heavy to move. Just like there are humans who cage and kill, there are those who free and protect.

These moments, where fate is changed on a roll of a dice, are some of the most defining sparks of my entire life.

With thanks to 269 Liberation Animale for access, and to We Animals for licensing some of these shots.