This is the tent that will be set up for the ritual of Kaporos on the eve of Yom Kippur. The tables pictured here on the day before are specially designed to hold killing cones, a common method used in poultry slaughter in many places in the world. The cones must be the correct size to hold the birds according to body weight. If the cones are not the proper size, the birds can struggle and maneuver within the cones during the process of bleeding, resulting in a death that is supremely difficult and inhumane.

Young boys bear the responsibility of bird management during Kaporos involving the women and children at this site deep in Williamsburg just off Bedford Avenue. The boys are responsible for retrieving birds who have been pre-purchased by families for the ritual. Sometimes the boys assist in the ritual by swinging the birds over peoples' heads as they recite their prayers. Some do not want to touch the birds and these boys run the show and are generally handling the birds in the best way they know how. They are not intentionally cruel, and handle the birds the way they have been taught. In this culture, animals as pets are not the norm and perceptions about animals are not in alliance with what is considered the norm on the surface of modern society.
The birds are housed in crates, in difficult and unsanitary conditions. The crates to the right of the image are birds that have not yet been used for the transference of sins....this chicken is being walked to a family who will use it for a child. The crates pictured at the rear are those that house birds that have been contaminated by transferred sins, and ready for eventual slaughter.

Kaporos Prayers

There is bird excrement everywhere--on prayers, on the sidewalk, occasionally on people's heads. Bird cries are a big part of the sensory experience as is fecal matter, a testament to their fear and discomfort as they are gripped by the wings. There are tables, narrow, wooden and aged, lining the sidewalk, covered with laminated and un-laminated prayer sheets, and all coated with the same fearful mix of feathers and feces.

Morning

The ritual begins in the early, pre-dawn hours. I arrived just before eight in the morning on the day before Yom Kippur. I was nervous, as I had researched the day and understood that I may witness some scenes that would be hard to take in because of my own beliefs and dietary habits. Most of the furor had passed, enabling me to get into the scene and develop a narrative intimacy that would not have been possible otherwise. People are hired for this event specifically and it is a day of very hard work for those involved.

A man stands under the tent as he prays. The tent is a hive of activity. The birds are walked to a divide, a small waist high fence that separates the ritual participants from the slaughtering tables with their killing cones. Expert slaughterers stand by each table with straight razor in hand, and slit the throat of each bird as it is passed over the divide.

Bodies of dead and partially dead birds awaiting the first step in the process of being butchered on the street. Saws are used to shear the birds in half before being gutted. The workers were clearly experienced and worked quickly and without emotion other than the camaraderie that emerged as they worked feverishly to keep up with the task of processing thousands of birds in a few hours.

A bird, head first, dies of its wound. This bird fortunately was dead before being tossed into the pile of birds awaiting the saw.

The chickens are hastily and haphazardly butchered, ripped apart by workers who are pushed to their limits. The atmosphere is generally lighthearted, punctuated by occasional impatience and anger directed at the Hasidic boys who circle the event. Feathers and skin are not removed cleanly and result in body parts that are difficult to look at or imagine as being fit for consumption by anybody. Because the birds are now full of what the participants consider to be sin, the community of Orthodox will not sell or consume these animals. They are supposed to be donated to people of lower economic status or others in need for consumption, which in part serves as justification and redemption for the act of ritual slaughter.

Shopping carts are used to transport into the neighboring meat market for distribution.

Not all birds are processed and donated, as they should be according to the rules of the practice. Many bodies are loaded into thick, green Hefty lawn and garden bags, and left for sanitation workers to dispose of.

Workers form lines as they process birds at light speed.

A bird's head and feet are tossed angrily at a group of boys as they stood observing the workers. The act of death and dying was not treated with respect in the final moments of life or in the immediate aftermath. Body parts were flung periodically at observers, usually boys, sometimes during commentary directed at workers.

A much needed break from the stress and pressure of the event. Gore carpeted the streets, feathers, blood, innards and other matter creating a slippery surface.

Survivors

The last shochet left the killing tables....the event was over. These two birds sat huddled together, in a crate absolutely caked with excrement, feathers, and blood. Dead chickens were in the crate beside them, and beneath this crate were stacked two more full of dead birds. I began to photograph them, assuming that they would be left to die. As I photographed, it gradually dawned on me that there were a few lone animal rights activists a few feet away. Should I approach them? I was hesitant, because I thought it would be odd, asking if they were able to take the birds. I was suffering from asthma from the proximity to feather dust (a reaction that is still with me as I write this caption), and the birds were incredibly dirty and in poor shape. Suddenly, two young women in black materialized by my side, asking if I knew who was in charge. They were intently focused on rescuing these two last birds.

One of the owners of the meat market appeared after a few minutes. With a smile he asked the women if they would leave if he gave them the birds....they were emphatic and emotional but restrained as they said yes. Magically, he opened the crate and plucked the birds from the mire they were enmeshed in. Suddenly, there was hope. In all this shooting of pictures, I had felt an overwhelming despair and powerlessness. I knew that nothing I did would affect the outcome of the day. It was a machine, a trajectory, impervious to intervention. Until this moment, I had effectively camouflaged my feelings because my objective was to get where I needed to be in this process to take the pictures necessary to tell the story of the birds. In order to accomplish my goal, I could not allow my demeanor to shift in a way that would reveal how these sights, sounds and smells were deeply affecting me on a personal level. It was an immense relief to grasp this little piece of hope....a newly defined sort of amnesty.

Amnesty

Passerby gaped at the two women as they stood with their rescues. The birds were exhausted. As some faces passed us, I was able to detect just a bit of shame at the implied judgement on display as the birds were carefully cradled. Some were unfortunately derisive but most just observed. The two women had to wait for their driver, who would transport the birds to a temporary home before being taken to a sanctuary upstate. I felt a great deal of mixed emotions at this neighborhood that I loved to photograph. I had been consumed by the superficially picturesque as I photographed over the past two years, but I had missed something important during these forays, something just outside my perception. It wasn't the act of slaughter that was the most disturbing, a basic act of survival practiced by almost every human community on the planet. If we judge this community for killing animals for consumption then we must judge everybody who goes to McDonald's, Whole Foods, the best restaurant in the city, or any village market in any obscure crevice in the world. It was something else that disturbed me, something about their resistance and inability to comprehend that the ritualistic nature of the activity was inherently superfluous and unnecessary.....a deeply held, fundamentally human belief that our needs as homo sapiens come before the most basic rights of all of the other living beings we share the world with. The prayers exchanged for lives, the energy of the acts, the devotion to self at the expense of creatures less powerful....all of it.
I realized that I had no right to be angry at anyone in this neighborhood because we are all guilty of the same selfish acts, expressed in countless unrelated ways, acts that subjugate and demean those less powerful, those without audibility in the world, or those that we perceive, for one reason or another, to have less credibility.

On a street behind the Kaporos tent, a few live chickens left over, never used in the ritual prayer.

Rescuers work quietly to rehydrate the damaged, distressed birds. Boys look on, unable to sympathize with the birds because of the cultural perceptions of animals that they are surrounded by.

The feeling of separation was immense. I was soon surrounded, encircled by a group of eight or ten boys, all asking, justifying, some mocking, others indirectly embarrassed by the situation, defensive and angry. I tried to explain that I was a documentary photographer, making a series of images that told a story and they stared at me mutely as I did, some translating into Yiddish for boys that didn't understand my fast paced explanation in English. I talked about other cultures, mentioning magazines, magazines that I had grown up with that exemplify fine documentary image making. I realized suddenly that they had never seen these magazines, and had no idea what learning about other cultures meant. It was at this time that I finally realized what I had underestimated, and missed, about this community. I understood at once that they truly didn't have the same frame of reference that I took for granted each day as a child growing up in a semi- Jewish, semi- Protestant household. Of course, I'd had this realization before this day, but I had failed to grasp the enormity of the profound gulf that this enforced separation deepened with each passing decade.

An intensely committed rescuer works to hydrate a desperately uncomfortable and fatigued bird. I was awed by the seriousness and commitment these few displayed, making their way into this community and risking arrest....because these acts, I am told, are strangely illegal in the fine print of the law. I was deeply impressed by the importance of this scene, dwarfed by the immensity of the world, but nonetheless incredibly important for each individual involved. It's never just a chicken....a justification I heard many times on this day and one that's often repeated by many different people when the contemplation of sentience in animals becomes too uncomfortable to consider. I could see clearly that each life was distinct and intensely valuable to the one living it, no matter how indistinguishable one individual may be from another when seen in great numbers. Each living being shares equal importance in every place and in every situation. I learned about what defines true dignity for the first time, as I watched this woman whose name I still don't know focus all her energy on reviving this little bird that looked the same as hundreds of thousands of similar little white chickens. The concept that this one really mattered, and that all individuals matter, was palpable and beautiful.

Bags loaded with dead birds, offal, and bird parts are piled into shopping carts. Some are hauled away immediately by New York City department of sanitation workers and many bags wind up being left outside buildings to rot until the next trash pickup.
Just before I snapped this picture, I was surrounded by yet another group of boys and men. This time I was warned by a young woman rescue worker who was quickly exiting the area because she felt very uncomfortable as a result of the behavior of the boys. Earlier, I found it necessary to carefully watch behind as I worked on these images, as a group of boys had begun running at me, taunting me, and I became concerned about my camera. Although not criminal behavior, it was nonetheless an immature attempt at intimidation but one that I took seriously. I found myself tightly surrounded, prevented from moving forward and continuing to photograph. Although I was somewhat nervous initially, I realized that in this situation there was a hidden shame, anger and ignorance to blame for their action toward me. The boys were convinced that the activists were going to kill the chickens because someone had told them and they believed. We talked about what I was doing, and I explained that the act of saving the chickens was an important part of the whole story I was trying to photograph. I listened to them as they clearly felt maligned and did not have an understanding or acceptance of the concept of sentience in animals or why anyone would consider rescuing creatures created solely for the purpose of consumption. I think that this inability to grasp the idea of sentience and worth in animals generally, food production animals in particular, is common everywhere when it comes to chickens and pigs and cows and other animals that we humans eat. Intelligent and loving dogs and cats are widely accepted but sentience in roosters is less acceptable to all who consume them. They felt that the slaughter was being viewed unfairly because so many people outside their community go to McDonald's....they asked me why doesn't anybody go protest there? Or at the supermarket? Or Kentucky fried chicken? Aren't millions of chickens consumed weekly in these places? I didn't have an answer for them, except to say that what they were doing was in public view. I didn't have the heart or the energy to try to explain that what they were participating in was deeply distressing for the birds....or that the entire practice of transmitting sin into a population of neglected, unhealthy, dehydrated and terrified chickens was hard for outsiders to understand, a life sacrificed for a prayer. I was left wondering whether or not it really mattered....if the life is taken in exchange for food or prayer, what difference does it make why it happened once it's lost?

First Year

A young man walks out of the tent, hauling a massive garbage bag packed tightly and barely closed. Suddenly, the bottom of the bag tears open, and chicken innards pile hugely in the middle of the street. I didn't think that anything about this day could shock me anew, but this did. The guy stood, dumbfounded by the dawning realization that he would be responsible for the entire horrifying mess which would have to be picked up by hand and stuffed into another garbage bag. I came closer and managed a smile and he responded, saying that it was his first year doing this job and it had been a long day already. A smile goes a long way, and he never complained as he rectified the situation.

I noticed the boy in the background as I shot this.....he was tense and unhappy as he watched the activity on the street, and focused on a strange outsider, a woman with a camera taking pictures of his community for reasons invisible to him.

A little girl stands alone, watching the river of blood and water as it flowed in the gutter, down the street, mixing with feathers and bird detritus. Her expression reflected her discomfort and unease as she observed the startling mixture as it moved along.

Yom Kippur

Mother and daughter walk down Lee Avenue, approaching the small intersection that had hosted the Kaporos ritual the day before. All was quiet on this day, Yom Kippur....an incredibly stark contrast to the day before with all of its pain and frenzy, blood and prayer, now punctuated only by a few people here and there as they walked to a gathering or grabbed a few minutes of fresh air on the solemn holiday.

Piles of garbage smell so strongly of dead and decaying chickens that passerby sometimes cover mouth and nose. I wanted to see for myself if birds were stuffed into these bags as is commonly asserted by activists and protesters who oppose this yearly event. I was suffering from a bad asthmatic reaction to the birds I had photographed the day before and so could not dig deeply even if I had been able to weather the smell and grime, the leftover fecal matter and everything else left over from the days before. It didn't take long to uncover what I had hoped I wouldn't find as I stood on the sidewalk, trying to be inconspicuous on Yom Kippur with my camera, digging through the garbage.

Birds stuffed in a box, ironically juxtaposed with an image of devotion....these birds hadn't been slaughtered in the usual way. They had died from exposure and neglect, left in the pile of garbage sitting on the street.

Mother And Daughter

There is no doubt that this incredibly intricate neighborhood in Williamsburg is a wonderful place. I will always love it with my camera and cherish the time I've spent photographing there. I was alternately confused, disappointed, elated and angered by what I saw and photographed in this series of images. The experience was a profound one for me as a person and practicing street photographer. I felt that most of the images I had seen depicting these rituals used the peculiar, idiosyncratic practice as a vehicle for catchy image making, but had utterly failed to even allude to what was really going on even in the most casually superficial observation of the practices performed in the street. It was an interesting and thought provoking lesson for me, one that I hope I never forget and continue to learn from.