Thursday September 24th 2015: 6 AM
I woke up feeling horrible, like I needed several more hours
before I could possibly be expected to function. I’d been on vacation a few
days and already my habit of waking at 5:30 was ruined, and my body wanted to
wake up around 11. But it was time to get up if I wanted to see today’s big
event.
I heard the phone ring, half of me not really understanding
the sound while the other half understood full well and chose to ignore it—“If
I’m late, so be it” said this side of myself, the usual master of my mental
reins.
After rolling around in bed a few minutes, I heard the phone
again, insisting I get myself up for goodness sake. So I did, but I didn’t like
it.
“Merry?” But it didn’t sound like Merry. In Egypt, my name
sounds like Melly, rhymes with Jelly, the “L” sound much easier for my Arabic
speaking hosts to grapple with. That hard r never stood a chance.
“Yep” I forced out, though I couldn’t find it in me to use
any punctuation.
“You are coming?” All her sentences flip up at the end, a
higher pitch letting me know a question mark was there, whether it was a
question or not. It adds a certain urgency to all situations, and can be
confusing while also endearing.
“Yeah!” I added an exclamation point this time, trying to sound
awake and match her level of energy.
“Come now? Yes? Quickly?!” I had been worried this would
happen. The time I was told to show up had been “Six and a half” and it was
only 6:05. Egyptian time flows differently than American time, in sporadic
spurts and stops. Sometimes it seems gooey and unimportant, barely moving
along, other times fluid and unexpectedly quick—and apparently right now was
time to go, our pre-ordained schedule all but forgotten.
I had agreed about a week before this to participate (or on
look as it were) in this religious event. Eid is a major Islamic holiday, and
every year they sacrifice sheep or cows (or both) in honor of the time Abraham
was willing to sacrifice his only son. While the idea of killing animals up
close and personal doesn’t appeal to me per se, I recognize my hypocrisy as an
all-around hamburger lover and self-described carnivore; so I pumped on the
breaks of my moral shock center and took a big step back from my cultural high
horse. If you consider the alternative, i.e. killing your only child, killing
and eating a sheep or cow isn’t really so bad. Plus, once they kill the animal
they cook and share it with family, friends, and the poor. Charitable, though
definitely more graphic than the typical American community service session.
When Rania, the doorman’s fifteen year old daughter, had
brought up this festival to me, the idea of seeing something so totally different
was thrilling, and the invitation to be a part of their lives heartwarming.
However, 6 am felt far too early, and my heart only felt the
burn of last night’s fried chicken.
At her panicked tone, I rushed to get dressed. Jeans, long
sleeved shirt, hair up in inevitably messy bun. Flip flops and I was out the
door, after manically knocking on my roommate’s door and shouting out the
change in plan. I was out and down the stairs to the seventh floor, the
elevator having been broken on the 8th and 9th floors basically since
we moved in a month ago.
The building we live in has a charming way of just barely
working at any given time. It’s beautiful and definitely the most interesting
place I’ve ever lived. But as it is older than me and my roommates’ age combined,
it likes to surprise us with black outs and flooded bathrooms. I feel like I’m
being tested whenever I have to light the stove, hunkering down with my head in
the opening, holding my breath to avoid the gas fumes and praying to any god
that cares to listen to please not let me leave this world like some Hansel and
Gretel witch. And don’t get me started on the low (nonexistent?) water pressure
of a 9th floor shower in Egypt. One too many times I’ve had to rush
the end of my shower, once again imploring any god above to give just one more
minute of running water. I’m usually much more forgiving of these quirks, seeing
as how I am young and just happy to be here. But again…6 AM. So at the time, I
was muttering less than flattering words as I hustled down the two already
sweltering hot flights of stairs.
 |
| The inside of our apartment, while reminiscent of somewhere Batman might live, is deceptively pretty. Just when you think you're living in luxury, BAM--no water. Cest' la vie. |
I made it down to the ground floor (that’s 1st
floor my fellow Americans) and walked the last set of stairs down to -1 floor
(or basement if you will). The smell of the cow had been faintly perceptible up
9 floors, the whole stair well connected to where it was being stored. But here
was the real deal, unaware of the fate it was about to face, munching on some
hay and looking at me with very little interest in its doleful brown eyes.
As I stood there a moment, I debated taking a picture of the
still living bovine. But I found myself thinking that if this guy was going to
be dead within the half hour, I’d rather not. It felt like snapping a shot of a
death row inmate—a bit insensitive at least. Also, “Hey look, this is the cow
that’s dead now!” didn’t seem like a thing I wanted to have to say later.
Luckily I didn’t have time to dwell on this too long, as
Rania came running into the basement, headscarf (or Talha) and long dress
fluttering behind her. She disappeared around the corner into her home, a simple two
room, open air attachment to what was essentially a basement garage. She lives
there with her mother, father, and three younger siblings. It’s no castle, but
they are always quick to invite me in for tea or some seriously mouthwatering
food.
I only had a moment to wait before Rania came back, in her
hand a black and white patterned Talha.
She shooed me up the stairs ahead of her, obviously in a
hurry but for what I wasn’t sure. Then before I had time to register what was
happening, I was being dressed in the Talha, the poor girl faced with the task
of covering a German sized head with a handkerchief aspiring to greater things.
We met her mother and friend Rahma at the door (her mother re-doing the application
of the Talha with only a little more success than Rania) and we hurried out
into the early morning street.
Now, I had not suspected even for a minute that I would be
attending an Islamic service while I lived here. Didn't even cross my mind. But as we strode hand in hand
toward the tower of their neighborhood mosque, I realized this was not going to
be the case.
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The neighborhood Mosque, right outside our building. It is a two minute walk, maybe three. The daily prayers are easily heard in my bedroom, even the 4am one! (That took a while to get used to...)
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I’m not sure how much of this I thought at the time, or how
much was afterwards. But in retrospect I wonder about the implications of being
invited to their prayers. Walking around the men’s section and entering the
separate women’s section, I could have contemplated that I was the only
foreigner, though no one seemed to respond with surprise at my presence. And
despite kicking off my shoes and kneeling head to the ground, it just reminded
me of Christian church services back home. It was a large group of people
throwing their thoughts to their higher power all at once; the hush and the
reverence, the feeling of belonging to a community, and the ritual
repetitiveness of their movements—I could see a direct reflection to Catholic
masses I attended as a child, as well as other Christian masses I’d seen. I
wonder now what the speaker was talking about, but I doubt it was very
different from a gospel reading back home, the Bible and Quran stemming from
the same Abrahamic roots. I know I certainly noticed that the Talha was
becoming hotter than I had expected it would be, and I was impressed with the
front row spot they must have saved for me. I went with the flow as best as I
could, hoping not to make a fool of myself, my thoughts probably amounting to “I
hope this is how you’re supposed to bow” and “please don’t let this be an hour
long prayer.”
My fears of an hour in a Talha went blessedly unrealized
though, as it was over surprisingly quickly. I think I had actually just made
it in time for the end, because it had been in full swing when I got there, and
probably had been going on for some time before I arrived.
Candy was passed around, though Rania, Rahma and I all gave our
pieces to Rania’s youngest sister Joudy—because any two year old who can wait
patiently through church deserves ALL the candy—and then the two girls led me
out. We walked quickly back to the pile of shoes, walked back around past the
men still listening outside, and I caught a glimpse of the Shiek, what I assume
is the equivalent of a priest or pastor.
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| Joudy, all dressed up for the special day! She was NOT about this 6 am life, which I respected. |
While the men were right in front of him as he spoke into a
microphone, the women’s section had simply been facing a loud-speaker, out of
sight. At the time I remember feeling how this separation of the sexes would be
a reason to never get into Islam as a religion for myself. Similar to how
Catholicism doesn’t allow women to be priests, it just didn’t feel like
something any creator of a universe should be bothered with. Personal religious
musings aside though, it had been a peaceful and meditative gathering, and I
had liked the chance to see behind the scenes. It made me feel connected to the
community, the part of religion I always appreciate the most.
A quick minute and we were back at our building, walking
around the side to once again see the fated cow. As a quick side note, I had
been told the name of this particular cow the night before, despite protesting
that I didn’t want to know its name if it was going to be killed right in front
of me. Luckily, it was a name I could neither pronounce nor remember, so my
personal attachment to the cow was successfully limited to “Aw, it’s cute.”
A group of men and
boys were all standing close around it, with a handful of girls standing
farther away but close enough to see the upcoming events. We were encouraged to
go closer, though I was hesitant. Mohammad, a boy of maybe 14 or 15 years old
with very good English speaking skills, proudly told me that he would be the
one cutting the cow’s neck that day. I struggled to respond with enthusiasm to
match his own, managing an “Oh wow!” Imagining the boy in front of me killing
this giant beast worried me, but I supposed this group knew what they were
doing.
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| Where we stood initially, hesitating to go closer. You can seen a gaggle of kids to the side, and that's where I stood later. |
Once Mohammad’s mother and father arrived back from the
Mosque service, it was time. The group surrounding the cow closed tighter, and
with a quick set of well-timed movements, they fought as one to trip the cow to
its side. At this point, I moved closer to see. I almost took a video, but
again was struck by how inappropriate it felt. (“Let’s watch this cow die on my
phone!” No thanks.) So I watched, impressed with the strength and coordination
of the men holding the cow down, obviously not an easy task.
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| Getting in position, Mohammad in the purple shirt. |
With a quick, slushy sound, Mohammad made the cut. I heard
the cow react with a wet groan, and the men shouted as Mohammad had to go back
in and cut some more, the first cut not being deep enough. The cow kicked and
bucked, blood flowing out of its neck all the while. It was not a quick death,
and as it continued fighting the men kept a tight grip on the ropes binding its
feet to keep it from flailing too much. It didn’t seem the best way to die by
any means, but I couldn’t say that every burger I had ever eaten had met a
comfortable death either, so again I tried not to think too deeply on possible
moral objections.
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| The cow, all tied up and bleeding out now. Mohammad circling back to watch as the older men dealt with the cow thrashing. |
Mohammad practically skipped over to me, blood on his shirt
and arm, and deliberate points of blood on his forehead where he had placed his
bloody finger prints. He told me how once you kill the animal, it is tradition
to put the blood on your face. “OH HOLY CRAP NO” was my eloquent thought as he
tried to offer his bloody palm for my own face’s application, but I think I
declined calmer than that. Hopefully.
Now, this moment, of a
smiling boy after completing something so important to him, I felt comfortable
taking a picture of. He quickly put more blood on his face before I took the
picture, smiling so happily that I couldn’t help but join in.
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| I mean...can you say HAPPY? |
The cow was still slowly dying at this point, and I walked
back to where Rania and Rahma had stayed the whole time. The big event was
over, and my body quickly remembered it was still very early. Checking my
phone, only 25-30 minutes had passed since I had woken up, yet so many new
things had happened in front of my eyes. They would drain the cow of all blood
now, making sure “the microbes and bacteria were all safely out of the meat” as
Mohammad put it, and they would cut, cook, and serve it later.
Rania was the only Egyptian person I saw that morning who
displayed any unease about killing the cow, and it was mostly her reaction to the
sight of blood, rather than empathy for the animal. This was a predominant
feeling of the day, leading up to and during, that struck me as utterly
different from American sensibilities. While eating meat is acceptable, even
praised, back home, the act of hurting any animal is generally looked at with
sadness or even guilt. Other than experienced hunters or dedicated vegetarians,
people tend to like the “out of sight, out of mind” approach when it comes to
being a meat eater. However here, where animal loving has yet to become a
trend, Egyptians were nothing but excited and eager about the act and the
following meat. I still can’t decide which mindset is “better,” or if you
should even try to compare. It was simply surprising to see so many children
shouting and cheering around a cow as it was sliced up, acting as if they were
on a carnival ride.
What I do know is that the moment Mohammad was cutting the
sharp knife deep across the cow’s neck, I didn’t see malice or an enjoyment in
the cow’s pain. What I saw was a physically difficult task being fulfilled with
pride, and the outcome helping the entire community come together and eat. I
couldn’t find anything wrong with that.
Well, other than it happening so early in the morning. No
matter what, I think holidays should be celebrated in the evening, and that is
something I won’t budge on. But I was infinitely happy that I had the chance to
experience everything I did. Waking up for a surprise Mosque visit, my first
time wearing a Talha, seeing a cow sacrificed at the hands of what I assume is
a high school freshman, then crawling back into bed after writing this blog
post up. It was definitely an interesting morning.
