In this general opening, we wanted to transmit this writing that allows “also” to relocate the church a little in the middle of the village. This hunter was disgusted with the attacks, with the anti’s state of mind, but he finally got the better of him since he was made to drop his weapon. Let’s keep fighting for our passion and our traditions.
“For the first time in years, I didn’t do the ‘opening’ and I didn’t even get a hunting license… My old rifle was stored in the armored closet. Alongside my poor dad’s and grandpa Eugene’s. However, from an early age, it has always been a long-awaited moment. A bit like what we can discover in “The Glory of My Father” with Marcel Pagnol… I followed the tradition of my father, my grandfather and those who preceded them. I never saw myself as a stupid, mindless predator.
A hare, a few thrushes… every now and then a wild boar or even a deer and that was enough for us. We didn’t feel like we were attacking the Earth’s balance. But times have changed. The heirs of an essentially rural society became townspeople. Little by little, they broke all the ties that kept them close to their true roots. They now maintain a clientelistic relationship with Nature. They demand that it belongs to “everyone”, thus disrespecting the right to property.
Because the patous bothers them on their walks, they have come to hate the shepherds, calling them lazy and alcoholic. They ignore (willingly or not) the fact that the shepherds have rented entire mountains for summer pastures and that they are at home there. Professionals forced to seek help from big dogs who are not always friendly simply because animal lovers prefer wolves to lambs.
The death of a wolf puts them in a trance, the slow agony of thousands of sheep does not affect them, as it is necessarily the shepherd who, according to them, is not doing his job. Very busy, he is playing cards while drinking pastis, according to greenish or vegan ayatollahs. And this directed hatred emanating from the new “owners” of nature (or claiming to be) has inevitably drifted towards the hunters. They are the target of attacks below the belt, the uprooted townspeople dragging them through the mud because they don’t understand the rules and customs of hunting.
The slightest hunting accident triggers stupid and aggressive vociferations in them. The stupidest even want the hunters to shoot each other. They have no limits, they are not aware of the gravity of what they write on social media. And they never attack femicides or sprinters. They obviously have selective outrage…
And so, I got tired of being called a bloodthirsty psychopath, a “badger with a small dick” (sic), an alcoholic and uneducated… I can’t stand the dictatorship of “animal friends” who still don’t hesitate to eat a deer for New Year parties. I’m sick of people insulting me while stealing my cherries or my mushrooms. I hate these perverts who have ignored the right to hunt linked to the right to property for centuries.
And the worst, see? It’s just that, among friends I esteem, some are now fully in this movement. With them, the insult gives way to a dubious humor, but the criticism is very present. They’re so close to calling me a freak for hunting. Hate is a little polite with them, but we feel it’s there. They must imagine me with two grams in my blood ready to shoot a mountain biker, hiker, or mushroom picker.
Anything outrageous is ridiculous, but they don’t seem to notice. They have carefully fenced in their little garden so that no one will come to disturb them at home, but they claim to prohibit hunting for those who hunt on their property or those of their friends. The paradox does not frighten them. Are they even aware of this? »