Upon entering the park, the first thing that caught my eye was the wild animal area. A caged car slowly pulled in. Outside the window, lazily lounging Siberian tigers appeared, their fur gleaming golden in the sunlight, their eyes hollow and empty. Occasionally, they stood up and paced, their steps devoid of the majesty of the kings of the forest. Instead, they seemed programmed machines, repeating their aimless movements. Fellow tourists excitedly clapped at the window, trying to attract their attention, but the beasts, accustomed to such interruptions, didn't even bother to raise an eyelid.
Turning a corner, several black bears awkwardly bowed and begged for food. Tourists fed them, laughter filling the air. I suddenly thought of Jack London's Buck, longing for the wilderness. If these bears knew, what kind of wilds would they dream of? The primeval forests deep in the Qinling Mountains, where their ancestors once roamed, or this eternally impassable fence?
The herbivore area seemed much more peaceful. Giraffes gracefully munched leaves, and zebras strolled across a simulated grassland. The fences here felt less stifling, and the animals seemed more comfortable. However, a closer look revealed that their behavior still bore the hallmarks of captivity—repetitive pacing patterns, conditioned responses to food, and social interactions distinct from those in nature.
The bird garden moved me most. The colorful parrots had their flight feathers clipped, forcing them to hop from low branches. A peacock spread its feathers, and visitors raised their phones, yet no one noticed its repeated attempts to fly over the seemingly endless mesh fence. I stood there for a long time, watching it try and fail again and again, and suddenly understood the cruelty of this design: it gives you the freedom to see the sky, but deprives you of the ability to touch it.
Wandering into the primate area, the moment I locked eyes with an elderly gorilla, I felt a familiar emotion. Sitting in a corner of a rockery, its eyes revealed a nearly human-like contemplation and melancholy. We were only a few meters apart, yet we belonged to two different worlds. Did it dream of the African rainforest? Does it miss the days of swinging through the treetops? No one can answer these questions, only the deep wrinkles at the corners of its eyes seem etched with silent stories.
In the late afternoon, the zoo's broadcast announced the upcoming animal show. I followed the sound, but paused at the entrance. Through the crack in the door, I saw a black bear riding a bicycle and a monkey doing math problems in clothes, as the audience erupted in laughter. Ultimately, I didn't go in, suddenly feeling that this kind of entertainment, which domesticates wild animals into clowns, smothered in an unspeakable sadness.