In my childhood, during the summer, we used to go hunting for frogs, in the middle of the night. The frogs croaked placidly at the edge of the pond and remained motionless, surprised by the light of the lamp. They were easy prey for harpoons equipped with tufts of sharp metal points, which pierced their backs. Frogs are a delicacy in my region, so hunting for frogs was not an evil useless activity. We then ate those frogs. However, in the memory of those nights, I have kept only a sense of cruelty and a pity for the suffering of those animals. Even today, frogs sometimes crop up in my dreams. Here they are always mute, almost alien creatures, unable to induce the feeling of compassion.