Tabaski

(Excerpt from my journal, Tuesday Dec. 9)

This morning I watched our neighbor Biram Ndiaye kill our sheep by slitting its throat with a machete, practically beheading it, while my brother held it down with the help of another neighborhood boy. They had dug a small hole in the sand to let the blood pool down into the earth, and after Biram had finished, he wiped the blade on the sheep’s cheek as it was still convulsing in its last breaths.

I watched as the animal pulsed and spurted blood, helpless and all but dead, my brother Pape calmly pressing it firmly to the ground, his knees on its stomach, his hands on its neck and rump. And then it was still, lifeless. No longer a creature with needs but a piece of meat ready to be butchered. I stood there one more long moment in morbid fascination, then turned away.

Today is a holiday to celebrate man’s devotion and absolute obedience to God. Understandably, it is one of (if not the) most important holidays for these Muslim Senegalese. Tabaski means "sacrifice" in Wolof, as the story goes, God asked Abraham to kill his only son, Ismael, and Abraham was ready to do it, when at the very last instant God replaced the baby with a ram - hence the reason for the killing of the sheep. I believe the holiday is called Eid al-Adha in other Islamic countries, and it takes place approximately two months after the end of Ramadan. In many ways it was very similar to Korité, the end-of-Ramadan fête: the preparation of the meal, the greetings of family and friends, the ritual sayings of forgiveness and blessing, the wearing of one’s best and finest to visit loved ones, and the giving away of what one has enough of to spare.

Today somehow, though, I am missing my American family more than I did on Thanksgiving. Perhaps because then I was surrounded by my peers and we all felt the same way. Here I am among family too, but as the “adopted” child I feel the odd one out especially on holidays like this one. I’ll put on my fancy clothes later and go out, but where I want to be today is thousands of miles away and an ocean apart.

1:30 pm. Haven’t eaten lunch yet, though it’s just about ready. I’m not really hungry, especially after watching my sister Deanor slice apart the sheep’s heart, and Rama and our friend Sophia saw through the tendons of its knees. All I could think about was how it would feel to have someone slice up my knees, and as they grappled to separate the tightly stretched muscles, I decided to leave the kitchen.
I think I will eat mostly fries for lunch, as potatoes are a tuber with no possible human resemblance.

I’d like to stay in my room for the rest of the day today but as I’m not actually sick, I know that’s not an option, and even if I were throwing up they’d probably try and make me come out anyway. Maybe I’ll feel better once I take a shower.
The house still smells like charred flesh. Lunch is over now, and I could hardly eat any meat. I had fries and four pieces of bread, and they just kept telling me to eat, eat! as they sat there gnawing on fatty bones. “Thanks,” I said. “My stomach was kind of unwell this morning.”

I finally got a hold of my village sister from Thiès on the phone, and she was happy to hear from me. “Naka Tabaski bi?” (How is Tabaski?) “How is the family? Are they all in peace?”

And now I can hear my family here shouting at each other - now it feels like a real holiday. It’s not a holiday without family stress and drama… Some things are universal.

1 a.m. Ended up putting on my new Senegalese clothes and going out around 7:15, stopping first at my counterpart’s house, then meeting up with my sitemate at her friend’s house so we could go around town together. After greeting everyone in that house, we went on to pass her house (no one was home but the kids), stopped by our ancien volunteer’s host family, but they had gone to Fatick to spend the holiday, so then I suggested we go visit Kinne Ndiaye, who is the president of the PTA for the school where I spend most of my time. She was home, wearing a beautiful bazin fabric boubou, and was delighted to see us. I accidentally almost sat on a darling tiny sleeping baby on the bed, but otherwise it was an excellent visit.

After Kinne’s we walked to my sitemate’s counterpart’s house, then another work friend’s place, and finally ended up at my namesake (Mame Ngoné)’s compound around 11 pm, an obligatory stop but nevertheless a pleasant one.

Everyone was glad to see me, and admired the red choup fabric of my embroidered long-sleeved top and pants. It felt good to know that I know people here now, that I have family and friends, and people know me. When I finally got home just before midnight, I was happy and tired, and content that despite all my annoyance at the earlier part of the day, it had turned better than just fine after all.