Backstory: Donkey deliverance

"Donkeys," she adds, "are humble creatures that spend their whole lives serving man. There should be someone looking out for them."

***

Today is Lucy's first visit to Azun to establish a branch of her outreach program for Palestinian working donkeys. She knows to tread carefully: She'll only reach the donkey owners if she's diplomatic and nonjudgmental. Otherwise they'll see her as an interfering outsider.

The economic reality she's bucking is evident in Zuhir Marabi's situation. An unemployed local, he's gladly brought his donkey for vet service, noting: "The money I can make back from working a donkey - pulling a cart, digging the land - compared to how much I would spend at a vet doesn't justify the investment. I don't feed the donkey regularly ... only when I'm working, because I can't afford it. I have six children to feed."

Fensom is savvy enough to know that, in the end, her audience may just nod agreeably to get a freebie. But whatever the Azun crowd's motives, there's a huge turnout.

"One big problem," she explains, "is that we often give out free head collars to replace painful makeshift chain harnesses. But then when we come back the next week, they've sold them and the donkeys are back in the same situation."

As if on cue, one donkey owner grumbles, pointing at a farmer leading a skinny donkey away: "That guy got a newer one [collar] than mine. And his is red, mine's only blue."

As we edge around the donkeys - some looking ready to kick anyone within reach - Fensom explains that the clinic treats sores on noses and backs caused by ill-fitting harnesses, and ankle wounds from wire hobbles.

"It then takes time to make them realize that beating donkeys with sticks, pushing them too hard, inflicting injuries, or just abandoning them to their fate is inhumane," she says.

Mr. Marabi offers a matter-of-fact view of the disregard for animals: Sick or old donkeys are, he says, "taken to the zoo, where they feed them to the lions. But if we can't afford to transport it, we just take it somewhere, kill it, and burn it."

Fensom is admirably contained, adding: "I want to buy the zoo a captive bolt gun, for humane slaughter. If they've got to feed them to the lions at all, it should at least be quick."

For an Englishwoman, from a "nation of animal lovers" that's home to at least 12 donkey shelters, such pragmatism is impressive. It's bred of the difficulties - from financial to life threatening - she faces.Funding is tight: The sanctuary receives no support from Israeli or Palestinian authorities; it relies precariously on donations from the West.

And almost every rescued donkey she points out at the shelter has its own tale of danger: In the quest to save them, Fensom has been menaced by mobs, received threats of arson, and most recently one of her outreach shelters was leveled during the night by a local with a personal grudge.

***

After several chaotic hours of service, the crowd at Azun thins and the clinic is completely out of supplies.

"It's so difficult," Fensom sighs, "sometimes I feel so encouraged and uplifted and other times so desperately disheartened." Yet it's clear that her work makes an immediate difference both to the donkeys and the owners who rely on them - even if they don't always take her long-term advice.

Most of all, though, she shows that it's possible to care about animals without being a "crazy animal rights activist" and to take a hands-on approach, while still having time to apply her flight attendant makeup and smile when necessary.

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