The Morning the Pigs Screamed

I love pork.
Especially roasted pork.

But before I eat, I pause.
I give thanks to the pig who gave its life so that I could be fed.

Behind that love is a memory that never softened.

In the late 1960s, behind my kampong house, there was a small pig slaughterhouse.

Before sunrise, the neighborhood woke to screaming.
Not the kind you mistake for noise.
The kind that announces terror.

One morning, curiosity pulled me there.

I saw a pig pinned to the ground by grown men.
Its body fought with everything it had left.
The sound it made was fear.

That was enough.

I walked away shaken, carrying something heavier than I understood at the time.

I still eat pork.
But I never eat it casually.
I never forget that it once had a voice.