I became a vegetarian 30 years ago. It came to me gradually, along many years. When I was a toddler I had pet rabbits, so I never considered them as food, unlike many French people at the time. When I was 6 years old, we went to visit the farm where my dad was a refugee during the war and I bottle-fed a lamb. That came right off the menu! I also refused to eat duck because I was worried that I would accidentally eat one of the ducks we fed in the park. One by one the meats disappeared from my table, until one day I decided that I no longer wanted to be part of the system that involved treating animals with no respect, no kindness, no empathy and no mercy. Torture and slaughter are not a way of life I want to follow, regardless of the species concerned.

Being a vegetarian in France 30 years ago was not an easy task. My decision was met with disbelief, contempt and even anger. Fortunately my parents were open-minded and accepted it. Most of the time. I remember going to Sunday lunch at my grandparents and my Mamie proudly saying “I know you’re a vegetarian, so I didn’t cook roast beef. I thought of you and prepared a chicken instead!” Before any word could come out of my mouth, my mum kicked me under the table to stop me in my tracks. Eating chicken one more time wouldn’t kill me and my Mamie had gone to so much trouble… It’s true that it wouldn’t have killed me, but it would certainly have hurt me. I can’t be vegetarian “most of the time”. I can’t be “almost vegetarian”. I am or I’m not. It’s a state of mind, a lifestyle, something I believe in and not just a diet. I didn’t become a vegetarian because I didn’t like meat. I loved meat. I became a vegetarian because I no longer wanted to kill animals or having someone else kill them for me so that I could eat their flesh. That is a lot more powerful than taste buds. Fortunately for me, the Mamie/chicken incident had a happy ending (not for the chicken, too late for that, but for me at least): we had a little dog, sitting quietly under the table…

Things have improved yet only 5 years ago, a senior pharmacist in a large French city told me after I suffered a miscarriage that it was my fault, that my vegetarian diet was responsible. I didn’t believe him, but it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. When confronted with so much disinformation (even hostility – telling a woman who just lost her baby that she had it coming is downright cruel) even in the medical profession, you realise how slowly things are progressing; although I think being a vegetarian is easier and better tolerated in the UK.

In the end, eating meat or not is a choice. And I respect people’s choices. As long as it is an informed choice. I truly believe that if a documentary about what goes on in slaughter houses was shown to senior school pupils, or even better, a school trip organised, 90% of the kids would stop eating meat. Unfortunately, the truth of where our food comes from is not deemed to be worthy of being part of our education. And people continue to live under the illusion that the meat in their plate started its life on a supermarket shelf, obliterating what went on before the cellophane covered the blood.

When I became a vegetarian 30 years ago, many people argued that it wouldn’t make much of difference. Well, I think the hundreds of cows, along with the thousands of chickens and a few hundred pigs I did not eat make a magnificent, happy herd in the imaginary pastures of my mind. Dig a beautiful pond and add a few thousands fish…

And yet this is no longer enough. The meat industry is responsible for most of animal suffering but not all of it. The dairy industry has its share of torment too. So now I have taken one more step and I have become a vegan. But that is the subject for another post…