Saving Fish from Drowning - Heal Burma

SAVING FISH FROM DROWNING
had walked together through Chinatown, and Esmé had cried over
the live fish after hearing the shopkeeper say they were “for eating
not for petting.” Esmé’s hysterical reaction was not that different
from the sentiments of the animal activists on the street who were
passing out leaflets, encouraging people to boycott restaurants in
Chinatown that killed fish and fowl on their premises to ensure the
food was absolutely fresh. “The fish have their heads cut off while
they are still alive,” she once heard an animal rights protester com­
plain. Marlena had shouted back, “All animals are alive before they
are killed. How else do you propose to kill a fish? Let it die of old
age?” She thought it ridiculous that people argued for saving a fish’s
life. But now she saw things through Esmé’s eyes. It was awful to wit­
ness any creature in a fruitless struggle to stay alive.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Walter called. “You may return to the bus
now, and those of you who still want to do a bit of shopping or sight­
seeing, please rendezvous back at the bus in fifteen minutes.” My
friends dispersed, Wendy to seek the shade of the bus, Moff and Ru­
pert to wander the alleyways, and the others to find a photo opportu­
nity to record that they had been in this town, whatever it was called.
Off in a corner of the marketplace, Bennie spotted an old woman
with the sweetest expression. She was wearing a blue turban, which
dwarfed her sun-parched face. He gestured to ask if he might do a
quick sketch of her and her lovely display of mustard greens and
turnips. She grinned shyly. He did the fast line drawing he used for
cartoons, just enough sweeps to suggest the forms and features that
captured the subject. Knowing what the features were—that was as
much the artistry as executing the drawing. The weight of the turban
on her small head, and now a big smile that nearly swallowed her
chin. A bunch of loops for the turnips and mustard greens, and
fainter squiggles for those in the back rows. After a minute or so, he
showed the woman his sketch. “Oh my,” she cried in a language he
didn’t understand, “you have turned me into someone else, much
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