I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed. I want the cultures of all the lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any.

Young India (1921), Mohandas K. Gandhi

Mauritius must allow terminal animal studies. Without them, life-saving research cannot flourish.

Among the most remarkable of Jain practices is that of monks sweeping the ground ahead with a soft broom, gently brushing aside even the smallest of creatures from being trampled. As a lifelong student of religions, I find this gesture quietly radical and deeply moving.

Jainism is one of the world’s oldest living religions, whose ‘modern’ founding goes back to Mahavira, who lived and taught in what is now Bihar in the 6th-century BCE. The tradition rests on three core principles. Aparigraha, or non-possessiveness, means letting go of both material things and emotional clinging. Anekantavada, or non-absolutism, is the belief that Truth is many-sided, and no single perspective can capture it entirely. And ahimsa, or non-violence, is the foundational ethic of harmlessness towards all living beings. It is in the spirit of ahimsa that Jain monks sweep their paths with soft brooms, so as not to crush even the smallest insect.

Mahatma Gandhi grew up in Gujarat among the Jains, absorbing their teachings into the very soul of his movement for India’s independence. How different his boyhood was from mine, among the sun-drenched lulling sugar cane fields of Northern Mauritius, where no harvest came without pesticides we now suspect are dangerous to humans even, and where animals were lovingly raised for their milk, eggs, their labor, and, in some cases ultimately for their flesh.

Growing up, nowhere was this interconnectedness between humans and other animals more vivid than spending New Year’s holidays at my maternal grandmother, my nani. For all intents and purposes, my grandfather, my nana, was a fall flower. I remember him always sitting in some corner of the compound on a rattan chair, a box of yellow Matinée cigarettes by his side. He would take long puffs until the burning end nearly kissed his fingers, hands trembling slightly as he brought the filter to his lips. He rarely spoke, only nodding and smiling, observing his clan with a kind of satisfied detachment. Sometimes, he would tap the Matinée box against his thigh, maybe in rhythm with old birha songs sung at Holi. In his younger years, he had been an accomplished performer of this bawdy, rollicking art form. So, it was my nani who, in practice, led our people.

New Year’s Day was for strict vegetarian food and hawan, Vedic incantations chanted around a sacred fire to welcome new beginnings, usually at my older uncle’s place. My sister and I would then visit our extended family in the village to pay our respects to elders. We were warned to keep our thoughts pure. Surely, if we had bad thoughts today, we’d carry them for the rest of the year. It was, after all, 1er Janvier. The prospect of being stuck in a bad-thought loop for 364 days terrified me so I did my best to conjure only good ones.

By the afternoon, a hum of anticipation of excitement began to build as we rode the bus to the Rivière du Rempart terminal. From there, if we missed the next line that passed near my nani’s, we’d splurge and take a taxi straight to her place.

As soon as we arrived, quick kisses to our uncles, aunts and cousins we were glad to see, my sister and I would dart off to find nani, usually in the back kitchen, shouting, “Nani, nani, where is the goat?!” And there it would be, the goat, tied by the neck in a small enclosure at the back of the courtyard, by the boulders that separated nani’s property.

“Nani, why didn’t you get a sheep this year?” I would ask.

“Not this year, son,” she’d reply. “The animal broker didn’t have one in the size we wanted.”

The goat would stand there chewing from the manger, would bleat now and then, unaware that it was already condemned to its inevitable fate.

One year, when I was maybe seven or eight, my mother woke me up on the morning of le 2, as we called it. All of us cousins, gathered from across the island, had fallen asleep on the floor after staying far too late, whispering and giggling until the grown-ups finally silenced our banter and sent us to bed. My mother leaned down and whispered, “Be quiet. Don’t wake up your cousins. You must see this.”

“See what?” I whispered back.

“Come with me. And don’t make a sound. Men must learn these things.”

It was already daybreak, and I remember only in flashes. My mamoo, maternal uncle, a couple of older male cousins, and nani, were already up. She was lining up the pots and pans with calm precision. Then the kasai arrived, the butcher we had whispered about the night before, wondering how large he would be and how strong his strike. He was smaller than I expected, pot-bellied, with an easy laugh. A broad cleaver hung in a worn leather holster on his hip. The cleaver gleamed in dawn’s early light, an instrument of deliverance.
The goat was led to a square of tarp spread out under the big mango tree. At one edge, there was a chopping block. It continued to bleat, thin and irregular. The men gathered quietly around the goat, the kasai at the center, directing the proceedings. He murmured a prayer, offering thanks to the Gods and the goat itself. Then he sprinkled water from a lota, a brass ceremonial goblet, over the animal, making it flinch and yank the rope held taut by my cousins.

I do not remember the slaughter itself, only the weight of my mother’s hands on my shoulders as we stood facing the scene.

The bleating turned frantic.

“Shut the muzzle,” the kasai said to someone, not unkindly.

Then, there was the silence of the goat. The carcass was hung from a branch above the tarp, skinned and quartered with brisk, practiced strokes.

When it was done, my nani handed the kasai a wad of cash. He thanked her, mentioned the four houses he still had to visit that morning, and then, with surprising agility, stepped across the courtyard boulders and disappeared.

When I think about my staunch advocacy for terminal experiments on laboratory animals, I reflect on the spectrum of practice that has shaped my own life: the soft broom of the Jain monk, the insouciant bleating of my nani’s condemned goat, and the gleaming cleaver of the kasai at the back of the courtyard. I have come to my position sincerely, but I hold it with humility, guided by the Jain principle of anekantavada: no single human perspective holds a monopoly on Truth.

Building on what I’ve shared earlier in l’Express Dimanche (and supported by Mr. Sushil Kushiram’s economic analysis), I’ve found in conversations around terminal animal research that people tend to fall into five broad groups. Each of these groups, except one, brings legitimate concerns and deserves to be heard with respect.

The Lovers. There are animal lovers, like me, who feel a deep emotional connection with animals and want assurance that such research is truly necessary, humane and held to the highest ethical standards.

The Curious. There are the curious and unsure, perhaps the largest group. They seek clarity, not confrontation. They deserve honest answers, offered with humility and respect. We need to engage them in conversation, not argument, and invite them to see the larger canvas with us.

The Scientists. There are dedicated researchers, whose quiet, persistent work has underpinned nearly every major medical breakthrough we know, from insulin for diabetes to immunotherapy for cancer. This is my group too. As a physician-scientist searching for treatments for devastating diseases, I cannot do this work without terminal animal experiments. One day, artificial intelligence may reduce or even replace this need. But today, the path to understanding a drug’s effects on the human body still runs through laboratory animal studies.

The Absolutists. There are principled activists who reject all use of animals in research. I respect their moral clarity, even as I fundamentally disagree with their stance. I will always fight to ensure their voices are heard. Later this afternoon, I will sit with patients with neurodegenerative diseases in my clinic. Some will carry quiet despair. Others will be accompanied by spouses whose tears speak for them. I believe that through responsible, humane scientific research, including terminal animal experiments, we can bring relief to suffering that has no other answer. It is my karma as a physician and healer.

The Corrupt. In the last group, there are bad actors, on both sides, who distort the truth, exploit suffering, or evade ethical responsibility. These are small but corrosive minorities. They must be called out, held accountable, and removed from any role in shaping our research future, but always with moral discipline, not vindictiveness. Our national dialogue must welcome the sincere, challenge the dishonest, and remain rooted in compassion and facts.

I believe Mauritius has an opportunity, and an obligation, to participate meaningfully in global research and innovation. To do so, we must include terminal animal experiments under the highest ethical standards. This is how we begin building a life sciences sector worthy of comparison to Switzerland. But the case is larger than economics: it is about Mauritius becoming a respected member of the global community of nations working to find cures, restore dignity, and bring hope to those suffering from devastating diseases.

I invite you to join the national dialogue to engage every voice across the ethical spectrum, and support amendments to the Animal Welfare Act to include terminal animal experiments. Contact your member of Parliament. Share with them your hopes for a Mauritian scientific community and people that honor both ethics and excellence. We can and must build a better tomorrow through responsible science. And in doing so, honor both life and lives yet to be saved.

Dr. Shivraj Sohur, originally from Espérance Trébuchet, is a leader in the global life sciences industry, a practicing neurologist at Massachusetts General Brigham Hospitals in Boston, and part-time faculty at Harvard Medical School.