29/08/2005 - I remember
seeing a picture of a Thylacine, or, as it's
more commonly known: the Tasmanian Tiger.
In fact it had very little in common with
any tiger, apart from those zebra-like stripes.
It was more closely related to a canine than
a feline.
Notice how I say "was".
That’s because the Thylacine has been extinct
for approximately 70 years, compliments of
none other than humankind.
A species that had been around for thousands
of years was completely exterminated within
the span of just 150 years. Wiped off the
map and relegated to those musty pages of
the history books and some haunting black
and white footage which shows the last ever
Thylacine in the Hobart Zoo, Australia.
I could go on forever listing the species
which are becoming extinct due to human encroachment
on their habitat.
One after the other they are joining those
musty pages I refer to. They will be the only
place where our children and grandchildren
will be able to see them, and marvel at what
once was.
Where they will be given examples of what
happens when one becomes avaricious and selfish.
And by reading about them it will be hoped
that they will become better than those before
them.
The problem however is that by then, there
will be no reason to set examples, because
at this rate there will be very little left
of the fauna which inhabits our world.
Which brings me to the golden jackal in Greece.
A species that is in serious danger of completely
disappearing from the Greek landscape forever
– if it hasn’t already done so.
Summer 1970
The golden jackal has historically roamed
all over Greece. In fact in the eighties,
when I was growing up in the southern Peloponessian
prefecture of Messinias, they were abundant.
Their howls would fill the air even in broad
daylight every time a jet or crop-plane flew
by. You knew at once that some primal beast
had been disturbed from its siesta.
However, it was at night that one could experience
the complete majesty of their presence. Those
resonating cries would shatter the silence
of the darkness, covering you in goose-bumps
from head to toe.
Right then and there you knew you were alive
and very fortunate to be able to experience
the rawness of what some might term as God.
And that this particular God had a beautiful
voice, and one which I looked forward to hearing
every night. It was a guaranteed event...
It would take only one to begin howling,
setting off a chain reaction of cries – dominoes
in the dense darkness. One pack then the next,
then another pack. Before you knew it you
couldn’t hear yourself think. You simply revelled
in a chorus of canine cries and you knew that
despite all your delusions about life and
the environment within which you lived, you
were not Lord and Master of everything. There
was another, completely different world out
there and you just a spectator.
Perhaps the worst thing about being nostalgic
is the fear of never seeing that which you
are deeply nostalgic about; that which had
kept you going when the chips were down; that
added vibrant colour to your life when it
become mundane and pale.
Summer 2005
I recently visited Greece - just like I have
done regularly since the early seventies.
It is a place that haunts me even in my dreams.
All the time, like when you’ve got a teenage
crush and you can’t sleep, twisting and turning
in your bed. You just want the sun to rise
so that you can once again embrace your loved
one and keep them close to you, where you
can see them, smell their presence, hear the
sound of their breathing.
Greece is like that for me.
It has more however than any common crush
can offer: like the sea, the mountains, that
simmering summer sun and the deafening trill
of millions of cicadas.
But the jackals are what really make it special.
They are the reason I keep on going back.
Not because they sound so hauntingly beautiful,
but because they no longer sound at all.
I’ve visited Greece 5 times in the past ten
years and have never once heard even the faintest
cry, not even a muffled growl.
I thought I did once but it ended up being
a badger courting its mate.
I've found plenty of foxes, snakes, possums
and rats but not a single jackal.
I've asked taxi drivers, and shepherds, fishermen
and old ladies but none has seen or heard
a jackal in the past decade or so.
None has even seen a dead one. Or heard of
someone who has seen one.
There are various theories circulating by
"ecological experts" about a serious
reduction, but not the complete disappearance
of the jackal.
The people who are constantly out there,
those working in the fields, those closest
to nature, claim otherwise.
For me, the best ecologist is the local farmer:
the permanent resident of the countryside.
I have spoken to these people and according
to them, there are no longer any jackals on
the Peloponessian peninsular.
There have not been any visible signs for
a very long time.
I am now convinced that that beautiful voice
of God has been muted forever. His soul has
been ripped out of the body and cast amongst
the plastic bottles and detritus that nowadays
float along the once pristine Greek beaches.
Then I think of the Thylacine and I’m covered
in a cold sweat.
The Jackal a postcard as just a postcard?
A faded film? a musty page in one of those
books?
It cannot possibly be true!
I’m living the extermination of a species
that has roamed the Greek landscape for millennia.
A species that has featured in poetry, songs
and literature and which is quietly vanishing
forever. A species that future generations
will have to resort to dictionaries and encyclopaedias
to try and glimpse what I once marvelled at
very night.
Each one of those muted cries represents
a failure – our collective failure to appreciate
that we, like the animals around us, are tenants
and not owners of this planet.
What right do we have to presume that we
can evict our fellow creatures from a common
habitat because they are a bother or because
we can’t be bothered with them?
The Greek Jackal needs our attention now!
We must do something about it.
Write a letter immediately, tell a friend,
make some noise.
Your children will thank you one day and
you will have shown some respect to this astonishing
miracle of creation we have inherited and
should hopefully bequeath to those after us.
I don’t want to sound like an evangelist,
but it needs to be said.
Yet, while most of us sleep in our cosy beds
in the four corners of the globe, there are
people out there who tirelessly strive to
secure a future of our common ecological heritage.
They are the ones in the front line, making
all the sacrifices and changes.
The least we can all do is spread the word.
That they are not the only voice crying out.
That we follow the example set by the night
calls of the jackals all those years ago.
You see, I too have a dream!
That one day, not in the very distant future,
I can return to my ancestral land and once
more hear the howl of the jackal just like
the old days.
Till then I will twist and turn in my sleep
lamenting why the sounds in the night are
going and if, in fact, they haven't already
gone forever.
Dimitri Gonis 29/07/2005
The opinions and thoughts expressed in this
article are those of the author, and not those
of WWF. If you would like to contact Dimitri,
his email address is gonis@dodo.com.au
