animal abuse – Hearts Still Care

I watched a disturbing video yesterday involving an animal activist who had allegedly just learned that a rescued dog she cared about had died after being brutally assaulted. The injuries described were horrific — a broken spine, shattered legs, a helpless animal beaten so severely that it did not survive. Standing near what appeared to be a police station, she confronted the man accused of the act and physically lashed out.

And what frightened me was not the activist’s anger.

What frightened me was understanding it.

Because there was a time when people believed institutions would intervene before human beings reached emotional breaking points. There was a time when the law felt like an authority citizens could turn towards rather than a maze they had to emotionally and socially exhaust themselves navigating.

But what happens when people lose faith in that protection?

What happens when acts of cruelty towards animals are repeatedly trivialised? When FIRs become uphill battles? When enforcement feels inconsistent, delayed, indifferent, or absent altogether? When ordinary citizens begin to feel that vulnerable beings have no meaningful protection unless someone physically stands between them and violence?

That is the point at which societies become dangerous.

Not because activists are angry, but because institutional trust has eroded so deeply that anger begins replacing faith in due process.

And perhaps the most demoralising part is this: I already know what will happen next.

The activist will be dissected more thoroughly than the cruelty itself.

People will analyse her rage frame by frame. They will call her unstable, hysterical, uncivilised, aggressive, emotional. Endless debates will emerge about whether she “went too far,” while far less energy will be spent confronting the suffering that triggered the reaction in the first place.

That is the pattern now.

The person who breaks emotionally under the weight of repeated brutality becomes easier to scrutinise than the brutality itself.

Because outrage against cruelty demands moral participation. Outrage against the activist is safer. Cleaner. More socially comfortable.

Anyone involved in rescue work in India already knows this emotional fatigue intimately. Feeders and rescuers are constantly told to “follow the law,” yet often find themselves struggling simply to have cruelty acknowledged with seriousness. Meanwhile, street animals continue suffering through beatings, illegal relocation, starvation, dehydration, and neglect while much of society either looks away or actively resents the people trying to help them.

And perhaps that resentment reveals something deeply broken in us.

Because no one carrying food and water through burning summer nights for thirsty animals is doing it for power or profit. They are responding to visible suffering. They are filling a moral vacuum left behind by public apathy and institutional weakness.

Yet increasingly, compassion itself is treated as provocation.

People complain about feeders while ignoring the conditions that create suffering in the first place. Cities expand without ecological thought. Heat intensifies. Concrete replaces shade. Human beings create brutal urban environments and then grow irritated at the sight of animals trying to survive within them.

What disturbs me most is not isolated cruelty, but the emotional climate surrounding it. The normalisation. The numbness. The speed with which empathy is dismissed as impractical sentimentality.

I used to believe very deeply in patience, dialogue, and peaceful civic engagement. And I still believe societies cannot survive if citizens abandon law altogether. But I now understand how dangerous it becomes when people feel the law has already abandoned the vulnerable.

Because once citizens stop believing institutions care, they stop emotionally investing in institutions at all.

That is the real warning sign.

Not one activist losing control in grief and rage, but an entire culture steadily losing confidence that justice, compassion, and accountability still function in any meaningful way.

And if that trust collapses completely, we will not merely have failed animals.

We will have failed the very idea of civilisation itself.

I didn’t set out to write about anxiety today. But like most days that begin gently and gather weight, yesterday left me with a churning restlessness I couldn’t shake off. And now here I am, trying to name it.

It began with animal abuse videos flooding my Instagram feed—violent, horrific glimpses into a world I wish didn’t exist. I know we’re all supposed to just scroll past or log off, but I can’t. That’s my weakness, maybe. I can’t look away when animals are in pain. I shared many of those videos to my story—perhaps to shake others awake, perhaps because I didn’t know what else to do.

In India right now, there’s been a surge of hostility towards stray dogs, after a tragic incident where an athlete and animal lover died of rabies—because he didn’t take a post-bite vaccination. That one lapse has turned into widespread panic. Dogs are being relocated, mistreated, even culled. And while his death was tragic, it was also preventable. But instead of addressing that, society’s instinct has been to punish the voiceless. It’s breaking my heart.

On top of that, I’ve been rehearsing for a dance performance—something very close to my heart. A friend invited me to perform two songs I’ve loved since childhood. One of them being physically gruelling as it involves about 6 minutes of continuous dancing – and I’ve poured myself into it: choreographed it, envisioned it, even arranged for the costume. But my body… it’s starting to feel like it’s turning on me. My right shoulder’s frozen, and after Saturday’s long rehearsal, my left knee’s in real pain again—echoing an old injury that once had me limping for months. It frightens me that my mind is dancing ahead, full of rhythm and joy, while my body is buckling, unsure it can carry me through.

I felt like Mary Carson from The Thorn Birds, bitterly remarking to Ralph that it’s God’s final cruelty—to give us hope and desire, while letting our bodies decay. I understand that sentiment too well today.

I’m going to see my physiotherapist again, hoping for answers or at least reassurance. But the truth is, I’m scared. I’m anxious that I won’t be able to perform, or worse—that I’ll damage my body even more trying to prove something. My family doesn’t want me to do this. But I do. I want it so badly because I know I can do it well—if only my body holds out.

Then, as if all that wasn’t enough, I ended up scrolling through old photos—of people who are no longer in my life. And the weight of those absences returned, quietly and cruelly. Some losses never announce themselves again—they just slip back into you, uninvited, and take up space.

The day was dark, grey, and rainy. And I felt that same heaviness. A familiar bleakness.

I’ve written so much about anxiety on this blog before, and yet, here I am again. Because anxiety is not a one-time visitor—it wears different masks, speaks in different voices, shows up at different doors.

But what I do want to say—what I need to remind myself of—is this: sometimes, anxiety walks hand in hand with longing. With courage. With hope. When you’re anxious about doing something, and yet you still want to do it—and you try anyway—that’s the human spirit. That’s what matters.

I just hope I don’t end up hurt. And I hope I don’t hurt anyone else while trying. So I’ll move forward—but with care. With awareness. With as much wisdom as I can muster.

And if you’re feeling like this too—heavy, restless, caught between desire and doubt—please know you’re not alone. Some days will be like this. And that’s okay.

…

I must add this note: I finished writing this post a few minutes ago and I went on Instagram to check up on messages. The first picture, I happened to see was a quote from a page I follow. I must share it here.

I take this as a sign from the universe. This quote speaks to the essential truth of transformation: that before renewal, there is pain. The imagery of “rising from the ashes” is that of the myth of the phoenix, a magnificent bird that dies in flames and is reborn from them. It so happens I have it tattooed on my left arm. Kalen Dion’s words remind us not to romanticise the rebirth without acknowledging the fire.

Suddenly I find the quote being a balm for the anxious, grieving, aching, and the hopeful me — and in fact, all of us who are in the middle of our fire. It says: Yes, you’re hurting now. But you won’t be ash forever. You’re becoming. Stay brave.

And I intend to.