Pigs In Paradise. Roger Maxson

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СКАЧАТЬ Crossing between the Gaza Strip and Egypt. The 48-hectare moshav, or 118-acre farm, stood like an oasis in the arid desert with olive and carob trees, lemon groves, brown-green pasture, and crops used as fodder for the livestock. In the pasture, pigs dotted the landscape, grazing on the brown-green grass, and lounged on the wet-clay banks of a pond fed by a system of underground aqua filters that supplied water to this and other surrounding moshavim.

      Ezekiel and Dave were perched, hidden among the branches of the great olive tree. Ezekiel said, “On a day like today one can see forever.”

      “Sandstone, as far as the eye can see,” Dave said and ruffled his shiny black feathers.

      “Oh, look, a scorpion. Care for one?” Ezekiel said.

      “No, thank you, I’ve eaten. Besides, I doubt the scorpion would care very much about being my afternoon meal.”

      “You have such empathy for the lesser forms of creatures among us.”

      “I can afford empathy when full,” Dave said. “When running on empty, not so much.”

      “You’re always generous toward the farm animals.”

      “Yes, well, empathy for the lesser creatures among us.”

      While the domesticated farm animals, two breeds of sheep, goats, Jersey cow, and bay mare grazed in the pasture, others, mostly pigs, took refuge from the noonday sun, far from the madding herds, flocks, and gaggles, by lounging on the banks of the pond in relative peace. A road ran north and south, dividing the moshav in half, and on this side of the road, the Muslims from the nearby Egyptian village did not like the spectacle of filthy swine sunbathing.

      Mel, the priestly mule, meandered along the fence line, careful to stay within earshot of two Orthodox Jews as they made their way through the moshav along the sandy road as they often did while on their daily walks. The road went parallel between the main pasture on one side and the dairy operation on the other.

      “Jew, pig, what difference does it make?”

      “Well, so long as they keep kosher.”

      “Mark my word, one day those pigs will be our ruin.”

      “Nonsense,” replied the one whose name was Levy.

      “Of all places on the earth to raise pigs, Perelman chose here with Egypt to the west and Gaza Strip to the north. This place is a tinderbox,” Levy’s friend Ed said.

      “The money Perelman makes on exports to Cypress, and Greece, not to mention Harvey’s Pulled Pork Palace in Tel Aviv, makes the moshav profitable.”

      “The Muslims aren’t happy with swine wallowing in the mud,” Ed said. “They say the pigs are an affront to Allah.”

      “I thought we were an affront to Allah.”

      “We’re an abomination.”

      “Shalom, swine-herders,” someone called. The two Jews stopped in the road, as did the mule, grazing just inside the fence. An Egyptian approached. He wore a plain headscarf, and white cotton clothes. “Those swine,” he pointed, “those filthy swine are going to be your ruin. They are an affront to Allah; an insult to Muhammad; in short, they offend our sensibilities.”

      “Yes, we agree. They are trouble.”

      “Trouble?” said the Egyptian. “Just look at what trouble is.” Along the mud-clay banks of the pond, a Large White, or Yorkshire boar, poured muddy water over the heads of other pigs wallowing in the mud. “What is that?”

      “That is something we have not seen ourselves.”

      “These are not swine or farm animals, these animals. They are evil spirits, djinns, from the desert. They will bring about the destruction of this place around you. They are an abomination. Slaughter the beasts. Burn their stench from the land or Allah will. For it is Allah’s will, that will prevail.”

      “Yes, well, I’m afraid we can’t help you,” Leavy said. “You see, this is not our moshav.”

      “We’re merely passersby,” Ed said.

      “Allahu Akhbar!” The Egyptian turned and made his way up the sunbaked slope that separated the two countries. Only fence separated the postage-sized 48-hectare Israeli farm from the rugged, wind-swept Sinai Desert. Once the Egyptian reached the crest of the hill, he disappeared into his village.

      “Doomed,” Ed said. “He is right. We are all doomed. Of all places on the earth to grow pigs, this swine-herder, this moshavnik Perelman, chose here.”

      “Look,” said Levy. “What does he think he is, John the Baptist?”

      “That’s trouble I’m afraid,” Ed said. “That’s an abomination.”

      Out in the afternoon sun before God and all to see, the Large White stood upright, and from the pond dropped a dollop of wet mud over a yellow-feathered chicken’s head--“Bog! Bog!” cried the hen, buried as she was with mud to her beak. To the animals of the farm, the Large White was known as Howard the Baptist, a Perfect, and almost in every way. As the two men continued beyond the farm’s boundary, the mule turned toward the olive tree that soared in the middle of the main pasture. Border Leicester and Luzein sheep grazed among the smaller carob and olive trees as goats gnawed the scrub grass that grew along the upper terraced slopes that helped conserve water.

      In the middle of the pasture, Blaise, the Jersey, and Beatrice, the bay mare grazed. “My goodness, Beatrice,” Blaise said. “Stanley certainly has caught wind of you.”

      “He’s such a showoff,” Beatrice said. “Just look at him.”

      In the fenced barn lot behind the white cinder block barn, the black Belgian stallion neighed and whinnied and pranced about in all his glory and swagger. He was a large horse with broad shoulders who stood 17 hands or, as priests from the local churches preferred, 17 inches.

      “Do you suppose he knows that the gate has been opened?” Blaise said.

      “It doesn’t matter. Just look at all those humans. Who said men were Godly?”

      From the ridge of the brown sandstone hill, Muslim men and boys watched with anticipation as village women chased young girls away. While on the Israeli side, Jews and Christians, and monks among them from nearby monasteries, all loved a parade. Stanley did not disappoint. He reared back onto his muscular hind legs and kicked at the air, showing off his prowess and massive member, dripping wet as it was, sowing his seed in the ground beneath him for all who saw, and there were many. Cheers went up from the crowd as Stanley snorted, and swaggered about the barn lot. “If Manly Stanley wants to parade about and make a fool of himself, he’ll do it without me.”

      “Manly Stanley,” Blaise laughed. “Really, of all things?”

      “Yes, dear, you see,” Beatrice smiled, “when Stanley’s with me, he’s usually standing on two legs.”

      Blaise and Beatrice continued to graze, and as they did, they drifted apart. Stanley, out of the gate, found his way to Beatrice’s ear. He whinnied, and whined; neighed and nagged, but no matter what he did or how nice he asked, nothing seemed to work. To the dismay of the onlookers, the bay mare refused the СКАЧАТЬ