Farther Away: Essays

by Jonathan Franzen

  When, in 2006, the local bird group BirdLife Malta hired a Turkish national, Tolga Temuge, a former Greenpeace campaigns director, to launch an aggressive campaign against illegal hunting, hunters were reminded of Malta’s siege by the Turks in 1565 and reacted with explosive rage. The FKNK’s general secretary, Lino Farugia, inveighed against “the Turk” and his “Maltese lackeys,” and there ensued a string of threats and attacks on BirdLife’s property and personnel. A BirdLife member was shot in the face; three cars belonging to BirdLife volunteers were set on fire; and several thousand young trees were uprooted at a reforestation site that hunters resent for its competition with the main island’s only other forest, which they control and shoot roosting birds in. As a widely read hunters’ magazine explained in August 2008, “There is a limit to what extent one can expect to stretch the strong moral ties and values of Maltese families and stop their Latin blood from boiling over and expect them to give up their land and culture in a cowardly retreat.”

  And yet, in contrast to Cyprus, Maltese public opinion is strongly antihunting. Along with banking, tourism is Malta’s main industry, and the newspapers frequently print angry letters from tourists who have been menaced by hunters or have witnessed avian atrocities. The Maltese middle class itself is unhappy that the country’s very limited open space is overrun by trigger-happy hunters who post NO TRESPASSING signs on public land. Unlike BirdLife Cyprus, BirdLife Malta has succeeded in enlisting prominent citizens, including the owner of the Radisson Hotel group, in a media campaign called “Reclaiming YOUR Countryside.”

  Malta is a two-party country, however, and because its national elections are typically decided by a few thousand votes, neither the Labour Party nor the Nationalists can afford to alienate their hunting constituents so much that they stay away from the polls. Enforcement of hunting laws therefore continues to be lax: minimal manpower is devoted to it, many local police are friendly with hunters, and even the good police can be lethargic in responding to complaints. Even when offenders are prosecuted, Maltese courts have been reluctant to fine them more than a few hundred euros.

  This year, the Nationalist government opened the country’s spring season on quail and turtledove in defiance of a European Court of Justice ruling last fall. The EU Birds Directive permits member states to apply “derogations” and allow the killing of small numbers of protected species for “judicious use,” such as control of bird flocks around airports, or subsistence hunting by traditional rural communities. The Maltese government had sought a derogation for continuing the “tradition” of spring hunting, which the directive normally forbids, and the Court had ruled that Malta’s proposal failed three of four tests provided by the directive: strict enforcement, small numbers, and parity with other EU member states. Regarding the fourth test, however—whether an “alternative” exists—Malta presented evidence, in the form of bag counts, that autumn hunting of quail and turtledove was not a satisfactory alternative to spring hunting. Although the government was aware that the bag counts were unreliable (the FKNK’s general secretary himself once publicly admitted that the actual bag might be ten times higher than the reported count), the European Commission has a policy of trusting the data presented by the governments of member states. Malta further argued that, because quail and turtledove aren’t globally threatened species (they’re still plentiful in Asia), they didn’t merit absolute protection, and the commission’s lawyers failed to point out that what counted was the species’ status within the EU, where, in fact, their populations are in serious decline. The Court therefore, while ruling against Malta and forbidding a spring hunt, did allow that it had passed one of the four tests. And the government, at home, proclaimed a “victory” and proceeded, in early April, to authorize a hunt.

  I joined Tolga Temuge, a ponytailed man who likes to swear, on an early-morning patrol on the first day of the season. We weren’t expecting to see much shooting, because the FKNK, angered by the government’s terms—the season would last only six half-days, instead of the traditional six to eight weeks, and only 2,500 licenses would be granted—had organized a boycott of the season, threatening to “name and shame” any hunter who applied for a license. “The European Commission failed,” Temuge said as we drove the dark, dusty labyrinth of Malta’s road system. “The European hunting organization and BirdLife International did a lot of hard work to arrive at sustainable hunting limits, and then Malta joins the EU, as the smallest member state, and threatens to bring down the whole edifice of the excellent Birds Directive. Malta’s disregard for it is setting a bad precedent for other member states, especially in the Mediterranean, to behave the same way.”

  When the sky lightened, we stopped in a rough limestone lane, amid walled fields of golden hay, and listened for gunshots. I heard dogs barking, a cock crowing, trucks shifting gears, and, somewhere nearby, electronic quailsong playing. Patrolling elsewhere on the island were six other of Temuge’s teams, staffed mainly by foreign volunteers, with a few hired Maltese security men. As the sun came up, we began to hear distant gunshots, but not many; the country seemed essentially bird-free that morning. We proceeded through a village in which a couple of shots rang out—“Fucking unbelievable!” Temuge cried. “This is a residential area! Fucking unbelievable!”—and back into the stony maze of walls that passes for countryside in Malta. Further gunshots led us to a small field in which two men in their thirties were standing with a handheld radio. As soon as they saw us, they picked up hoes and began tending lush plantings of beans and onions. “Once you’re in the area, they know,” Temuge said. “Everybody knows. If they have radios, it’s ninety percent sure they’re hunters.” It did indeed seem awfully early to be out doing hoe-work, and as long as we were standing by the field we heard no more shots. Four blazing male golden orioles flashed by, unlucky to have chosen Malta as a migratory stopover but lucky that we were standing there. In a low tree I spotted a female chaffinch, which is one of the most common birds in Europe and is all but absent in Malta, owing to the country’s widespread illegal finch trapping. Temuge became very excited when I called it out. “A chaffinch!” he said. “That would be incredible, if we’re starting to have breeding chaffinch here again.” It was like somebody in North America being amazed to see a robin.

  Maltese hunters are in the weak position of wanting something that would get Malta into real, punishable trouble with the EU: the legal right to shoot birds bound for their breeding grounds. Their leaders at the FKNK thus have little choice but to adopt uncompromising positions, such as this spring’s boycott, which raises false hopes in the FKNK rank and file, fostering frustration and feelings of betrayal when, inevitably, the government disappoints them. I met with the FKNK’s spokesman, Joseph Perici Calascione, a nervous but articulate man, at the organization’s cramped, cluttered headquarters. “How could anybody, in their wildest imagination, expect us to be satisfied with a spring season that left eighty percent of hunters unable to get a license?” Perici Calascione said. “We’ve already gone two years without a season that was part of our tradition, part of our living. We weren’t looking for a season as it was three years ago, but still a reasonable season, which the government had promised us in no uncertain terms before accession to the EU.”

  I brought up the matter of illegal shooting, and Perici Calascione offered me a scotch. When I declined, he poured himself one. “We’re completely against the illegal shooting of protected species,” he said. “We’re prepared to have hunting marshals in place to spot these individuals, and take away their membership. And this would have been in place, had we been given a good season.” Perici Calascione conceded that he was uncomfortable with the more incendiary statements of the FKNK’s general secretary, but he himself became visibly distressed as he tried to convey how much hunting mattered to him; he sounded strangely like a victimized environmentalist. “Everybody is frustrated,” he said, with a tremor in his voice. “Psychiatric incidents have increased, we’ve had suicides among our membershi
p—our culture is threatened.”

  Just how much Maltese-style shooting is a “culture” and a “tradition” is debatable. While spring hunting and the killing and taxidermy of rare birds are unquestionably traditions of long standing, the phenomenon of indiscriminate slaughter seems not to have arisen until the 1960s, when Malta achieved its independence and began to prosper. Malta, indeed, represents a stark refutation of the theory that a society’s affluence leads to better environmental stewardship. Affluence in Malta brought more sophisticated weapons, more money to pay taxidermists, and more cars and better roads, which made the countryside more easily accessible to hunters. Where hunting had once been a tradition handed down from father to son, it now became the pastime of young men who went out in unruly groups.

  On a piece of land belonging to a hotel that hopes to build a golf course on it, I met with an old-fashioned hunter who is disgusted with his countrymen’s bad behavior and with the FKNK’s tolerance of it. He told me that undisciplined shooting is in the Maltese “blood,” and that it was unreasonable to expect hunters to suddenly change after the country joined the EU. (“If you were born of a prostitute,” he said, “you won’t become a nun.”) But he also put much of the blame on younger hunters and said that Malta’s lowering of the hunting age from twenty-one to eighteen had made matters worse. “And now that they’ve changed the spring-hunting law,” he said, “law-abiding people can’t go out, but the indiscriminate shooters still go out, because there’s not enough law enforcement. I’ve been in the country for three weeks this spring, and I’ve seen one police car.”

  Spring was always the main hunting season in Malta, and the hunter said that if the season is closed permanently he will probably keep hunting in the fall only as long as his two dogs live, and then quit and be just a birdwatcher. “Something else is happening,” he said. “Because where are the turtledoves? When I was young and going out with my father, we’d look up at the sky and see thousands of them. Now it’s peak season, and I was out all day yesterday and saw twelve. I haven’t seen a nightjar in two years. I haven’t seen a rock thrush in five years. Last autumn, I went out every morning and afternoon looking for woodcock, with my dogs, and I saw three of them and didn’t fire once. And that’s part of the problem: people get frustrated. ‘I don’t find a woodcock, so let’s shoot a kestrel.’ ”

  Late on a Sunday afternoon, from a secluded height, Tolga Temuge and I used a telescope to spy on two men who were scanning the sky and fields with binoculars. “They’re definitely hunters,” Temuge said. “They keep their guns hidden until something comes by for them to shoot.” But, as an hour passed and nothing came by, the men picked up rakes and began weeding a garden, only occasionally returning to their binoculars, and then another hour passed and they worked harder in the garden, because there were no birds.

  Italy is a long, narrow gauntlet for a winged migrant to run. Poachers in Brescia, in the north, trap a million songbirds annually for sale to restaurants offering pulenta e osei—polenta with little birds. The woods of Sardinia are full of wire snares, the Venetian wetlands are a slaughtering ground for wintering ducks, and Umbria, the home of Saint Francis, has more registered hunters per capita than any other region. Hunters in Tuscany pursue their quotas of woodcock and wood pigeon and four legally shootable songbirds, including song thrush and skylark; but at dawn, in the mist, it’s hard to distinguish legal from illegal quarry, and who’s keeping track, anyway? To the south, in Campania, much of which is controlled by the Camorra (the local mafia), the most inviting habitat for migratory waterfowl and waders is in fields flooded by the Camorra and rented to hunters for up to a thousand euros a day; songbird wholesalers from Brescia bring down refrigerated trucks to collect the take from small-time poachers; entire Campanian provinces are blanketed with traps for seven tuneful European finch species, and flush Camorristi pay handsomely for well-trained singers at the illegal bird markets there. Farther south, in Calabria and Sicily, the highly publicized springtime hunting of migrating honey buzzards has been reduced by intensive law enforcement and volunteer monitoring, but Calabria, especially, is still full of poachers who, if they can get away with it, will shoot anything that flies.

  A curious old statute in Italy’s civil code, enacted by the Fascists to encourage familiarity with firearms, gives hunters, and only hunters, the right to enter private property, regardless of who owns it, in pursuit of game. By the 1980s, there were more than two million licensed hunters running wild in the Italian countryside, which had emptied out as the population flowed into the cities. Most urban Italians dislike hunting, however, and in 1992 the Italian parliament passed one of Europe’s more restrictive hunting laws, which included, most radically, a declaration that all wild fauna belong exclusively to the Italian state, thereby reducing hunting to a special concession. In the two decades since then, the populations of some of Italy’s most lovable megafauna, including wolves, have rebounded spectacularly, while the number of licensed hunters has fallen below eight hundred thousand. These two trends have prompted Franco Orsi, a Ligurian senator from Silvio Berlusconi’s party, to propose a law that would liberalize the use of decoy birds and expand the times and places in which hunting is permitted. A second, “communitary” law, intended to bring Italy into compliance with the Birds Directive and thereby avoid hundreds of millions of euros in fines pending against it, has just been passed by the parliament and includes at least one clear victory for hunters: a shifting of the hunting season for certain bird species into February.

  I met with Orsi at his party’s offices in Genoa, on the eve of regional elections that brought fresh gains for Berlusconi’s coalition. Orsi, a handsome, soft-eyed man in his forties, is a passionate hunter who chooses vacation destinations on the basis of what he can shoot in them. His argument for updating the 1992 law is that it has led to an explosive increase of harmful species; that Italian hunters should be allowed to do whatever French and Spanish hunters do; that private landowners could manage land for game better than the state does; and that hunting is a socially and spiritually beneficial activity. He showed me a newspaper picture of wild boar running down a Genoese street; he described the menace posed by starlings at airports and in vineyards. But when I agreed that controlling boar and starlings is a good idea, he went on to say that hunters don’t like killing boar in the season the authorities want them to. “And, anyway, I can’t accept that hunting is only for wild boar, nutria, and starlings,” he said. “That’s something the army can do.”

  I asked Orsi whether he favored hunting every bird species to the maximum compatible with sustaining existing numbers.

  “Let’s imagine fauna as capital that every year produces interest,” he said. “If I spend the interest, I can still keep the capital, and the future of the species and of hunting will be preserved.”

  “But there’s also the investment strategy of reinvesting part of the interest, to grow the capital,” I said.

  “That depends on each species. There’s an optimal density for each one, and some have a density that’s larger than optimal, others smaller. So hunting has to regulate the balance.”

  My impression, from earlier visits to Italy, was that its avian populations are pretty much all suboptimal. Since Orsi didn’t seem to share it, I asked him how he thought hunting harmless birds benefited society. To my surprise, he quoted Peter Singer, the author of Animal Liberation, to the effect that, if every man had to kill the animals he eats, we would all be vegetarians. “In our urban society, we’ve lost the relationship between man and animal which has elements of violence,” Orsi said. “When I was fourteen, my grandfather made me kill a chicken, which was the family tradition, and now every time I eat chicken I remember that it was an animal. To go back to Peter Singer, the overconsumption of animals in our society corresponds to an overconsumption of resources. Huge amounts of space are devoted to wasteful, industrialized farming, because we’ve lost a sense of rural identity. We shouldn’t think that hunting is the onl
y form of human violence against the environment. And hunting, in this sense, is educational.”

  I thought Orsi had a point, but, to the Italian environmentalists I spoke with, his rhetoric proved only that he was skilled at handling journalists. Behind the national push to liberalize hunting laws, the ambientalisti all see the hand of Italy’s large arms and munitions industry. As one of them said to me, “When somebody asks you what your business produces, do you say, ‘Land mines that blow up Bosnian children,’ or do you say, ‘Traditional shotguns for people who enjoy waiting at dawn in a wetland for the ducks to come’?”

  It’s impossible to know how many birds are shot in Italy. The annual reported take of song thrushes, for example, ranges from three million to seven million, but Fernando Spina, a senior scientist at Italy’s environmental-protection agency, considers these numbers “hugely conservative,” since only the most conscientious hunters fill out their game cards correctly, local game authorities lack the manpower to police the hunters, the provincial databases are largely uncomputerized, and most local Italian hunting authorities routinely ignore requests for data. What is known is that Italy is a crucial migratory flyway. Banded birds have been recovered there from every country in Europe, thirty-eight countries in Africa, and six in Asia. And return migration begins in Italy very early, in some cases as early as late December. The EU’s Birds Directive protects all birds on return migration, permitting hunting only within limits of natural autumn mortality, and most responsible hunters therefore believe that the season should end on December 31. Italy’s new communitary law goes the other way, however, and extends the season into February. Since early-return migrants tend to be the fittest of their species, the new law makes targets of precisely those birds with the best chance of breeding success. A longer season also shields poachers of protected species, because an illegal gunshot sounds just like a legal one. And without good data nobody can say whether a region’s annual bag limit on a species falls within natural mortality. “The bag limit is an arbitrary number, set by local officials,” Spina said. “It has no relation to actual census numbers.”