Warning: Graphic content
I've just arrived in South Korea, and as a dog-lover I know this journey will be a difficult one. It’s the last week of BokNal — a festival scheduled around the hottest days of summer. The traditional dish of BokNal is Bosintang — dog meat soup. These ‘dog days’ have become a political tinderbox: animal rights activists rail against the practice of eating dog, and dog-meat devotees dig in their toes — asserting their right to enjoy ‘traditional cuisine’.
On day one, I come face-to-face with the dog meat industry. Seoul’s famous Moran Market has been a hub of the dog-meat trade for more than 400 years, but today the place is almost deserted. I wander past meaty bright-red loins and ribs — with unmistakably dog-shaped legs protruding from them — to greet the president of the dog meat vendor’s association.
Kim Yon Bok tells me that pressure from animal rights activists has almost halted business here — and he’s angry about it.
“Activists should mind their own business,” he tells me. “Why do they want to change the culture we’ve had for thousands of years? They shouldn’t tell us what is right or wrong.” But in the face of anti-dog meat pressure, Kim has diversified into seafood to keep his business afloat — and in the two hours I’m there, nobody even looks at his dog meat.
Koreans are painfully aware of their international reputation as a nation that chows on canine. Many believe this reputation is unfair, and out-of-whack given the numbers of other nations around the world that also eat dog. They point out that many other Asian nations engage in the practice — as do several African countries.
The UK and New Zealand don’t have specific laws banning the consumption of dog meat; and most states and territories in Australia are the same.
Yet in Korea, dog-eating occupies a grey area, both legally and politically. While a recent survey found that 70 per cent of Koreans don’t eat dog meat, only 40 per cent agree that it should be banned.
The country is home to approximately 17,000 dog farms — which are legal, as long as they comply with relevant livestock laws. While the slaughter of dogs and the sale of meat isn’t technically legal in Korea, it’s not explicitly banned either.
With a nation so divided on the topic, it’s easy to see why politicians have decided to keep their stance ambiguous. Congressman Dr Lee Sang Don is an exception — he’s got the knives out for the dog meat industry, and has an amendment before the National Assembly to declassify dogs as livestock, which may be decided by the end of the year.
“This is the first step to banning the eating of dog meat in Korea,” Lee tells me. “As a nation we have moved on, and we are not in the dark ages any more.”
During my meeting with Lee, he echoes the popular narrative around dog-meat eating in South Korea. That it’s the domain of poor country folk; and that the modern, urban younger generation of Seoul-dwellers are dead against eating “man’s best friend”. But it doesn’t take me too long to realise that things aren’t that simple. Just about everyone I ask on the street in Seoul — young and old — has eaten dog meat in the last 12 months. It’s true that in the countryside dog-eating seems to be more widespread — but it’s difficult to cast a generational or socio-economic generalisation.
One afternoon, I take a stroll through a public park which has been partially taken over by dog slaughterhouses. The butchers don’t know it yet, but in 36 hours, activists will raid this place. I walk up and down cages, filled with large tosas — a Korean breed of mastiff, which is popular in the dog meat industry. The dogs come up to the front of their cages, tails wagging and noses pushed up against the bars. Despite having being shown little kindness by humans, these dogs still trust me and seem pleased to see me. When the raid comes, I witness some horrific scenes. Dogs are slaughtered and butchered in front of one another, but those waiting in line for the chopping block still come up for a pat — a last ditch hope that they may be shown some compassion.
It’s been a central question for me while making this film for Dateline: Why are dogs different? Why do those who oppose their farming and slaughter see them as more greatly wronged than other mammals we eat — like pigs or cows? Vegan friends who I’ve spoken to about this Dateline story tell me that all meat is cruelty and should be banned — so why does our sympathy for dogs feel so much greater? Perhaps it’s because of the trust we perceive from them. Maybe it’s because dogs have shared our caves, shacks and eventually homes for thousands of years. Perhaps the cruelty seems greater because dogs have a part of their brain dedicated to understanding us — and even when they’re at death’s door, they still seem to try.
In just one week in Korea, I experienced all sides of the dog meat debate — and witnessed an industry far more entrenched than I expected. As the president of the Meat Dog Association, Kim Jong Suk told me at a massive, 2000-dog industrial farm: “We don’t have an exact figure, but let’s say two million dogs are slaughtered each year.”
Kim tells me the banning of dog meat will have a huge effect on society.
“There are a million people working in this industry. How will you create a million new jobs and protect them? This is a large-scale industry.”
It’s a tough fact for many Westerners to swallow — but then again, who are we to judge?
This article originally appeared on news.com.au
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