OAKVILLE, Man. – Every day at 8 a.m., Debbie Nissen comes home from working the graveyard shift at her local hospital.
After a quick breakfast, she begins several hours of work with no pay, little thanks and lots of frustration.
Nissen works her phone, fax machine and electronic mail gathering information, making contacts and trying to raise government and public awareness about her concerns about the hog industry.
She never expected to become an activist. She grew up on a cattle farm and married Glen, a grain farmer. They had a son. They concentrated on making a living.
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“Life was pretty much put into place,” she said.
But eight years ago, Nissen started seeing a different kind of hog operation. She started asking questions, and wasn’t satisfied with the answers. With help from her neighbors, many of whom are also farmers, Nissen has waged local hog barn battles.
Now, she has moved her sights to the provincial arena.
Nissen is part of The Organization, a group of 80 to 100 people from 22 communities in Manitoba with concerns about the hog industry.
They’ve read about pollution from hog operations in the Netherlands, Taiwan and North Carolina.
They’re worried about the potential effects here of hog manure on water supply and soil. Some members have animal welfare concerns. Others don’t like the trend away from small family farms toward corporate ownership and joint ventures. They think the provincial government is too much of a booster for the hog industry, and not enough of a watchdog.
The group has been around for about three years. But lately, The Organization has been getting more organized.
It has a board of directors. It charges an $18 membership fee, and members seem determined to get the government to listen to its demands for stricter regulations and monitoring of the hog industry.
The Organization plans to write letters, protest at the legislature and Manitoba Pork offices and attract media attention.
These are the “meek, mild-manned, politically correct things,” said Nissen. But there’s more. She said the group has considered starting a boycott of pork, but sees that as a last resort, since it would hurt small family farms too.
“What we have to do eventually is take someone to court,” said Ron Dalmyn, the group’s adviser.
Dalmyn, 69 and retired, has been working on hog barn issues for six years from his small Winnipeg office in the corner of the sewage treatment business operated by his son.
He clips newspaper articles, letters, editorials and reports, filing them in binders that line his walls, recording each in a database on his computer.
“I don’t say things that I don’t have proof of,” he states, flipping through a binder. “If that paper lies, then don’t blame me. But that’s the facts I got from Holland or Quebec or wherever.”
Peter Marykuca also believes he’ll find vindication for his beliefs in the courts.
Marykuca and his wife Cecily, both salespeople, moved to Silver, Man., eight years ago, with plans to eventually retire on their property. In 1993, a large hog barn moved in less than two kilometres away, and the Marykucas started gathering information about manure, which Peter calls “a known pollutant.”
They spend up to $500 per month on phone bills, networking with others who share their concerns.
Acting on tips, Peter has taken photos of manure being applied close to roadways. He’s gone up in planes to take photos of lagoons he suspects are leaking.
He frequently lodges complaints with environment department officers. He called the RCMP when construction workers at a hog barn worked through Remembrance Day. Once, he blocked a road with his car so manure spreaders couldn’t pass.
Detailed records kept
Cecily keeps a calendar of manure spreading in the area, writing in red pen the times, locations and odors.
Marykuca said so far, The Organization has had little impact, other than to make more people aware of concerns. But he has no plans to back away from his mission.
People have told him to move from the area: he just added 1,300 sq. feet to his house. People have told him to get a real hobby.
“I got a hobby,” he said, removing his glasses for emphasis. “It’s called living.”
