The streets ran red
with blood today. It was L'Eid Kibir, the Moroccan ‘Big Feast’. We slaughtered
the sheep just before noon, and its freshly cut neck hung open as the life
drained from its body. Its eyes closed as the last drop escaped and then a long
pause, no movement for what seemed like long enough to declare death, and yet,
the will to live is strong. Even when headless, the body struggled to stand in
violent kicks just before a final strain and surrender; then all was silent,
only the sheen of the blade glistening unabashedly.
The men skinned and
disemboweled the sacrifice with nimble ease, and the women cleaned the viscera
for lunch, their bare hands in plastic buckets, cold water to clean and extract
feast from save-for-later spicing, and we grilled the heart, intestines, and
liver wrapped in fat for our first meal. My family smiled contentedly as we ate with our hands from a
communal tagine, insistent upon giving me the best pieces, and delighted to
share this sacred thanksgiving with me.
I was reminded of how
closely the destructive and creative forces mingle, as one turns perpetually
into the other. A life was given to sustain mine today and I felt sincere
gratitude. I had eaten the heart of our kill, and was humbled by the purity of
being so close to the source.
As dusk settled, I
crowded into the back room with my host father and mother, staring at the
earthen walls where the rain had leaked in, quiet except for the steaming
pressure cooker and the crackling wood in the furno that heated it. As we sat
in this mud house, in this small village, in this simplicity, three souls
around a fire, waiting to fill up, and then rest our eyes for the evening, I
lay my head in my mother's lap, the warmth emanating from her weathered hands
as they found their way upon my face, our communication as base as it began, in
loving caresses.
Food is conversation, I
thought. It is what we can share authentically with each other when we have no
words.
