Kidnapped At Birth | Draw My Life

Dear Momma. I’m trying to remember you.

You come to me in parts. Never the whole of
you at once. Just parts.

Like your eyes. I remember your eyes. Those
impossibly big, round, sad eyes.

The first thing I ever was those eyes. I opened
mine for the first time and met yours. I could

see myself reflected back in those eyes. I
could see my own eyes, and my face, brand

new and so small.

And I could see them. I could see them coming.

They came and they took me away.

And that’s when I started forgetting you.

Momma, I remember your tongue. As big as my
head, that tongue. So rough but so gentle.

I was born slick and wet and you cleaned me
with that tongue. Or at least you started

to. That tongue was the first thing I felt.
And it felt like love.

And then I felt them. I felt their hands grab
me. Rough but not gentle. No love in those

hands.

I remember your smell, Momma. Warm and earthy.
My first breath was of you.

But there were other smells. Filth and fear.
And them. I could smell them. Their scent

overpowered yours. They took you from me in
more ways than one.

The sound, Momma. I remember the sound of
you breathing. That was the first thing I

heard, that breathing. Deep and steady. Measured
but labored.

It seemed such a task, breathing. A low, rasping
hum, in and out. The whole of you expanding

out and collapsing again. I could listen to
you forever.

But then there was yelling. So loud, that
yelling. It hurt to hear it, Momma.

And then they were there. The Takers. They’d
come for me with their loud yelling and their

strong smells and their rough but not gentle
hands.

They came and they took me, Momma and I started
to lose you.

And now I don’t know where I am. It’s
small and dark and I can’t move. There’s

something around my neck and it hurts. I can
hear others around me. They’re hurting too.

We’re all hurting.
The Takers come sometimes with their rough

not gentle hands and their yelling so loud
it hurts to hear. And they take again. They

take some of us away. I don’t know where
they go.

I’m trying hard not to forget you, Momma.
Please know I’m trying.

---

My dear child. I’ve lost you. They came
and they took you. It’s happened again and

I can’t stop it.

I carried you inside me, just like your brothers
and sisters before you. I could protect you

then. I wanted to keep you there forever.

But then you came. You came and you were beautiful
and you were mine. So small and brand new.

So fragile.

I cleaned you up for your new world. I tried
to keep you close and quiet. But they knew

you’d come. They always know.

I wanted to hide you back inside me and keep
you safe always, but they came, my child,

the Takers came for you. They always come.

My body’s so tired, my child. I couldn’t
fight them away. I tried the first time. And

the next. And the next. And the next. And
the next. And on and on and on. And now, my

child, I have nothing left.

I’m empty again. And I’ve lost you. Again.
And soon they’ll try to fill me back up.

But I’m so very tired.

I cried for you, my child. I yelled your name
for days. Did you hear me? I wanted you to

know I was here. I wanted you to find me.
But now I have no voice left. And you’re

not here.

You must be hungry, my child. I have milk
for you but they take it. Every day they take

it.

It hurts so bad. The cold, hard suction. I’m
swollen and aching. And I’m empty.

What will I feed you when you come back?

I have nothing left to give, my child. I’m
so sorry.

They’ve taken everything. My children, my
milk, my fight, my life. The darkness is coming,

my child. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.
Please know I tried.

---

Momma I’m tired. They’re coming again.
They’re coming and this time it’s for

me.

I see them, Momma, with their small cold eyes.
They’re coming.

They take me again with their rough not gentle
hands. And I think of your warm tongue.

I’m upside down, Momma. We all are. I smell
blood and fear. Something’s wrong.

I’m moving, Momma. There are Takers all
around us. And the noise. It’s so loud.

I can’t even hear my own scream.

Can you hear me? They’re coming for me,
Momma.

The Taker has something shiny. And there’s
blood. So much blood. I’m getting closer.

And I can see myself, Momma, in the shine.
My own face, still so small and brand new.

And I think of your impossibly big, sad eyes,
the first thing I ever saw.

And then, Momma, and then…darkness.

---

This is the story of a dairy cow and her baby
sent to the veal industry. This is where your

milk comes from. This is not an isolated incident.
For more information, please see the videos

linked here as well as in the video description
below. You can find all the resources on the

blog post for this video, which is linked
below in the description as well. Please like

and share this video to help give a voice
to the mothers and children of the dairy industry

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Now go live vegans, ditch the dairy, and I’ll

see you soon.

Subtitles by the Amara.org community