Freedom is not a bird

Oh to be free as a bird, people often say.

I watch the gulls flying in formation high over the sea as the sun disappears. First they appear as an arrow in the sky, with one bird leading. Like dancers they morph gracefully into a straight line, not missing a beat. And then yet again the form changes before they vanish together into the mists rising from the water.

I watch the little magpie robin in my garden singing so lustily.

And the solitary kite circling slowly in the blue sky.

And the woodpecker banging its beak on the trunk of a coconut palm.

A flock of angry crows is squabbling in the giant mango tree beyond, cawing loudly.

A hidden koel calls plaintively from the coconut grove.

For days I watch a bulbul sitting patiently in its tiny nest, built in the crook of a tall, delicate plant. Every time the breeze blows, the plant sways and the little nest shakes like a tiny raft in stormy waters, the bulbul hanging on for dear life. Finally, the egg hatches. A neighboring cat kills the fledging bird.

I watch a tiny green bird dip its long beak into pink fragrant flower, a cat stealthily pad behind a great coucal in the undergrowth.

Why do we imagine all these birds to be free?

They’re not free from hunger or the fear of predators.

They’re not free from the vagaries of the wind or the rain.

They’re not free from the instincts that nature has given them.

They’re not free even to make a simple choice, as we are.

We are free to choose not to be slaves and bigots and liars and oppressors and thieves and murderers and traitors and scoundrels and terrorists and whiners and cowards and cheats and drunkards and fools –

If it was free to choose, maybe the bird would wish it could be free as a human being. But then again, maybe not.