Michelle Betz's Dispatch from Morocco #3
Rabat MoroccoJanuary 22, 2005
Yesterday (Friday, Jan. 21) was my birthday. The day also saw some 40 million sheep slaughtered. My colleague, Audrey McLaughlin (yes, the former NDP leader for you Canadians) calls it "sheep week" while my husband Paul has formally dubbed it, "The Silence of the Rams," while at the same time wishing me a happy baaathday!
In fact, Friday was one of the biggest Muslim holidays of the year - Aid al-kabir (Translation: the big holiday), otherwise known as Aid al-adha. It's the celebration of Abraham who was about to sacrifice his son when an angel intervened and told him to sacrifice a lamb instead. As a result, every year hundreds of millions of sheep are slaughtered across the Muslim world. We were invited to spend the holiday with my landlord, who lives here in the Kasbah as well.
Paul had arrived for a visit the night before and he appeared to be excited about the prospect of seeing what the Aid-al-kabir was all about. I hadn't been sure about the time; Hassan had told me to come around 1 while his wife, Fatna, had said around 10:30. We first went for a walk down to the ocean and watched the waves break against the lighthouse foundations, then headed back and had a snack. I kept waiting for the sound of sheep screaming as another colleague had said would happen... I never heard anything.
We decided to head to Hassan's around 12:30. I had stuffed a couple packs of Marlboro lights in my pants pockets for him. We showed up and found Fatna just outside their door, sitting in front of a little BBQ grill cooking something. I wasn't sure what it was but it looked vaguely like the horns of the rams. I gave her a kiss and we went in to the courtyard. Many of the houses here in the Kasbah are constructed in a traditional way in which there is a central courtyard with all the different rooms surrounding it. As a result, the courtyard plays a central part in the lives of people here - it is a gathering place, a dining room and, for this particular day, a slaughterhouse. As we entered, we saw one carcass hanging from the gnarled old tree that grows helpfully on one side of the courtyard, its trunk bending conveniently over the middle of the courtyard, making it easy to drape or hang things from. I'm not sure which came first, the tree or the house.
So, while one skinned and gutted ram was hanging from the tree, two others were on a low wooden table. Khadija, Hassan and Fatna's daughter, quickly met us. She had a blood stain on her white shirt and had been washing the courtyard floor. She welcomed us like we were long lost family, pulled out a couple of chairs, and chatted while she bent from her waist to clean the floor.
I looked around me and was actually relieved when I was told that we had clearly missed the celebration (and the slaughter of these three poor animals) that Fatna had wanted us to be there for. But I was also strangely curious. I saw buckets of entrails -- and god knows what else -- as well as some kind of innards strung on a line just above our heads. No sign of the sheepskin, but over in a corner were the heads. I quickly averted my gaze.
After some time, Hassan showed up. I slipped him the cigarettes and he quickly disappeared to put them somewhere. Fatna came into the courtyard carrying the little grill. She got some string, pushed the ladder up against the tree and threw the lines over. She headed over to the two carcasses and called for Hassan to help. The two of them grabbed hold of what I'm sure was a slippery skinned ram and hauled it a few paces to the tree yelling for Khadija to come and help.
Khadija appeared and her parents thrust the upside down carcass into her arms, Fatna helping to hold the poor dead headless beast. Hassan managed to tie a rope around the animal's hind legs and they let go. It hung upside down. This was repeated with each carcass until there was a trio of skinned, gutted (and clearly male) sheep hanging upside down from a gnarled tree trunk in a courtyard in the Kasbah of Rabat. I thought to myself how many times this same scene was playing out across the country.
Fatna then made herself comfortable on the ground and pulled out a bucket of organs. She threw the livers and a couple of hearts on the grill then expertly cut out the third heart from its surroundings and threw it too on the grill. Using an old plastic lid, she fanned the coals, periodically turning the meat.
I was a bit concerned, as I knew we were going to be expected to eat something but I didn't see them cooking anything other than the livers and hearts. I hate liver...haven't eaten it since I was a kid when I would be forced to at least try it. Paul isn't a huge fan either.
Once the organs were cooked a neighbor and her 3-year-old son appeared. We all plopped ourselves on the floor. The two women started chopping the meat into bite-sized pieces and at one point Paul and I were each given a piece. There was NO way we could decline. We chewed and swallowed and were grateful for the blend of spices that had been sprinkled on the meat. I was worried that we would be offered more since we clearly enjoyed it so much . Little did I know.
Once the organs were in their bite size pieces, out came the skewers from the kitchen and off came the intestinal lining (according to Paul) from the string that had been hanging above us earlier. Hmmm, what could they be doing with that? Well, they took the intestinal lining, cut it into strips, grabbed a piece of the lining and wrapped it around the liver/heart and speared it onto the skewers.
At this point Paul and I were wondering how we could politely take our leave. We explained that he was tired and jet lagged. But they all insisted we stay and we were instead ushered into one of the sitting rooms off the courtyard and told to rest there. We sat for a few minutes when suddenly we were smoked out. The women had put the fat-covered brochettes onto the grill and the smoke was overwhelming...not just in the smoky sense, but the smell was overpowering...and not pleasant. My gag reflex definitely works.
After a few more minutes, Khadija brought us a tray complete with olives, water, bread and a plate covered with 4 brochettes. Paul and I looked at each other and both thanked Khadija who thankfully left us on our own to try and strategize. I knew I would have to take at least a bite so grabbed the smallest piece of meat I could find, a huge hunk of bread and crammed it all into my mouth. How I wished I'd had a glass of wine to just wash it down. Instead, I grabbed another hunk of bread and just prayed that I could get this down.
That was all I could do. Paul was having the same issues as I was, but was a true gentleman. After I said I couldn't possibly eat any more he said, "just remember this later and give me some credit". He then, somehow, proceeded to finish off one 4-piece brochette of intestine lining-wrapped liver/heart. He's my hero!
Then Khadija arrived with yet another plate of food, set it down and scolded me for not eating anything. I explained that I had eaten earlier and really wasn't that hungry. I'm not sure she bought it.
She had brought a plate of tagine, a traditional Moroccan dish usually of meat and/or veggies in a broth and often with prunes or other dried fruit. It cooks for hours and hours so if there is meat it's usually incredibly tender.
There were no knives or forks so Paul asked how we were to eat. She showed us. Grab a hunk of bread and with that soak it in the broth or grab a piece of meat. Then chow down. I complied and just had some bread and broth. Paul grabbed the meat (it was beef) and ate it. He said it was really good, but by this point the thought of meat was just making me feel nauseous. He polished it off leaving behind half a dozen prunes on the plate.
We left three of the four brochettes and headed back into the courtyard where the family was starting to eat. We sat with them for a while and finally took our leave.
The short walk home took us past what looked like a kind of communal gathering and grilling of sheep. The path was lined with rams horns and some heads. I tried not to look as I made my way through this impromptu obstacle course. By this time the air was impossibly thick with the smell of cooking mutton; I couldn't wait to get home. Little did I know that once I opened the doors to the house, the smell was everywhere. I desperately wanted some wine so we popped open a bottle of Moroccan wine and went onto the terrace. The skies of Rabat were smoky and you could see smoke wafting into the sky from all over the city. The smell was just too much so we went in and lit a lovely, Tuberose-scented candle that Paul had brought from home.
I am writing this the next morning wondering what today will bring in the way of sheep. I just caught a whiff of someone starting to grill their meat for the day.
