The Expat Life

The Slaughter

If you haven’t read Part I, click here.

Part II

The sheep’s head was being tilted back. It looked at us in that brief moment, its eyes twitching, dancing sideways rapidly, betraying its fear. It bahed its last bah, and with its head tilted all the way back, Za’s father uttered a “bismillah”, and with a quick motion, he sliced down into the neck of the sheep, slicing deep, one, two, three times. Bright cherry red blood was squirting out onto the floor of the balcony and onto the towel. The sheep kicked and twitched and shuttered and groaned, a groan I had never heard before. After a few minutes, it stopped convulsing and everyone stepped in to begin the dismantling process.

 The moment of the sheep’s sacrifice is the most anticipated, yet is the quickest moment throughout the day. The rest of the day is spent skinning, gutting, cleaning, and cutting apart the sheep. The first thing Za’s father did was to poke a small hole in the back leg where the leg started to flesh out.

“Why are you poking a hole?” I asked.

“Watch,” was the response.

He started blowing air into the hole. We snapped pictures as the sheep started to puff up, an absurd-looking balloon taking shape. Once the sheep had sufficiently become balloon sized, it was sliced down the belly, the skin peeled away, banana style. But to peel the skin off the entire body, the whole family had to get involved: each family member literally took a different part of the body and pulled in opposite directions. Imen pulled at the front legs; Ashraf took the back legs; Za took the neck while his mother and father pulled at the skin around the neck. The neck stretched like taffy and then finally, snap! It came off.

A knife was taken to the hindquarters, aiding in the action as well. Nathalie and I giggled to each other. Za looked at us and laughed.

“Heehee look at his balls!” he giggled.

The sheep’s testicles were dangling free of their skin, and looked like little white globs of fat.

“They taste soooo good,” he assured us.

“Ooo Za likes balls!” I teased.

Za and Ashraf lifted the sheep off its former covering, and the skin was discarded to the balcony. On the table lay the sheep, in a form we are more familiar with: skinned, beheaded, and delegged….except it had yet to be gutted.  To remedy that situation, they cut down the center of its stomach, exposing the glistening viscera inside. Za’s mother brought over a bucket to the table, whereupon the sheep was tipped over, and the intestines slid neatly into the bucket. The outside had been removed, and finally the insides too, leaving only the cavity. Za’s mother took the bucket of innards to the balcony, and began the process of cleaning them.

“It’s not easy; they take a long time to clean. But after we will make couscous osban,” Imen said.

Couscous osban takes the national dish – couscous – and combines it with stuffed stomach. The stomach is stuffed with herbs and other organs. It is a dish that I, unfortunately, can’t appreciate. 

As Za’s mother and Imen were outside on the balcony cleaning the intestines, the dismantling continued simultaneously. Za castrated the sheep finally, displaying its prowess (or lack thereof) on the table for all to see. He, Ashraf, and his father then cut across the middle of the sheep, dividing the bottom half from the top where the ribs end. With Za’s father at the helm, and with Ashraf and Za holding each side of the ribs, he sawed down, the saw’s raspy voice grating against my ear and my bones, the sheep’s bones severing from each other. I kept clicking away: it was like watching a horror movie, except these were no special effects. Then, the ax came out: a small, but nevertheless potent looking ax, was brought out, and Za’s father hacked away at the ribs, separating the meaty part from the boney part (what we are used to, which are lamb chops).

“Let’s go outside for a bit and take a break,” I said to my sister.

She grabbed the camera, and we stepped out onto Za’s balcony, where we had previously seen all the sheep bahing in futility to their neighbors. The sheep bahed no more, to say the least.

“Oh my God, look,” Nathalie said.

Each balcony that had been tarped earlier to protect against the blood spatter was crowned with a hanging sheep, dangling like a bizarre sort of pendulum in a grandfather clock. Neighborhood kids were playing in the streets, happy to be free from school with the long holiday ahead of them and also from their parents, who were rather occupied with the carcasses hanging in their homes to care much. Nathalie and I went back in. Imen and her mother were still cleaning the intestines.

“Can we go for a walk?” Nathalie asked Za.

“Of course, let me wash my hands and we’ll go.”

We descended the staircase, and stepped out into the bright light of that Thursday morning.

“Let’s go this way,” I suggested. As we ambled down the street, we saw a door cracked open. We craned our heads and peeked in: dangling all the way down at the end of the courtyard was a sheep, making its star debut on that glorious morning. Water mixed with blood was splashed all over the floor, trailing up to the doorway.

“Can we come in?” I asked Za, looking at the man, who also happened to be his neighbor. Za checked with him.

“Of course! Welcome, welcome! Eid Mubarak!” he cried out. Nathalie and I hesitantly walked through the door way. Two women were all the way at the back, cleaning the sheep out. Nathalie hesitated.

“Is it ok if we take pictures?” she asked.

“Of course it’s ok. They are my neighbors!” Za assured her. Nathalie stood and posed while I snapped photos of her with that afternoon’s lunch.

As we left the house and toured the rest of the neighborhood, we took pictures of the neighborhood sheep, some of which had not met their doom yet. However, I was certain they knew: the odor of blood, while not apparent to me, must have most certainly been lingering in the air, enough so that the sheep had full knowledge of the future awaiting them. One thing that struck me the most was the amount of sheep skins piled up on the street, discarded like candy wrappers on the side of the road. The camera in my hands, I snapped happily away, capturing everything happening in the street.

“Let’s go back,” Za suggested. “We’re going to eat meshwi (grilled meat) soon and we can’t let Ashraf eat it all!”

While the meshwi was still being grilled by Ashraf, the next-door neighbors were only just beginning their day. I saw a heavy-set woman open the door and let in a middle-aged man and a young man.

“What are they doing?” I asked Za.

“Oh, they are bringing ‘The Butcher’ to kill their sheep.” I was surprised. “People ask butchers to kill their sheep? They don’t do it themselves?” Za answered, “Yes. We do it ourselves, but some other families don’t know how or they don’t want to do it. So they call someone from the neighborhood to come and do it.”

He continued to tell me about how these people are not really butchers; they are actually just guys from the neighborhood who know how to slaughter the sheep quickly and halal, all done for a price, of course.

“Come, let’s go next door and you’ll see,” Za told us. We went to the apartment, where the sheep was waiting on the balcony. This one had nice horns on his head, ones that under normal circumstances might have been used as a weapon. The middle-aged man and the younger man I had seen earlier were on the balcony, tying up the sheep’s legs. Now that I was closer to them, I could see a resemblance – a father-son team were about to tackle the beast on the balcony. They made quick work of it – legs tied up, the son held down the sheep while the father sawed down its neck. The butcher, as experienced or not as he may have been, cut its throat with less finesse than Za’s father, I noted. But, the sheep kicked its last kick, its blood splattered on the balcony floor. The father and son team stood triumphantly over the carcass so we could take their winning portrait.

We returned next door to Za’s place, where the meshwi was being finished up. The smell of grilled meat, and the faint smell of baking bread drew us in to the kitchen, where lying on the kitchen table were round, golden spheres, taunting us to eat them. Za’s mother set out plates of red harissa floating in a pool of greenish-gold olive oil. Everyone tore into the bread and dipped it into the olive oil and harissa. While we were enjoying the bread, Ashraf came into the kitchen, the plate of grilled meat held reverently between his hands. All eyes were fixed on that plate, the centerpiece of the day’s work, which, once it hit the table, was launched upon with the savagery of lions. Never had grilled meat tasted so good before – so…meaty. So lamb-y. So fresh. That being said, those lamb chops were the most succulent pieces of meat I have ever eaten in my life.

                After decimating the plate of lamb chops, Nathalie, Za and I went outside again to walk off our newly gained weight. Makeshift tables and barbecues were set up along street corners, smoke rising and billowing up and away, obscuring the faces manning them. Nathalie’s curiosity was piqued.

“What are they doing?” she asked Za.

“They are burning the hair off the legs and heads of the sheep,” was his reply. He continued, “You have to burn off the hair in order to cook them. These teenagers do it for everybody in the neighborhood, and they pay them 10 or 15 dinars. I used to do this when I was young.”

We came up close to the first makeshift barbecue. A teenager, about 16 years old, was wielding a blow torch. With a pull of a trigger-valve, a blast of blue flames shot out and burnt the hair into a molten black crust. Another stand had the skull of a sheep roasting in a hollowed out section, the horns of the sheep’s head just barely visible through the smoke.

“Come on,” Nathalie said. “I want to go to the beach.” Our detour had us turning right onto the “boardwalk” – not really a boardwalk in the American sense, but very similar. A long walkway, facing the sea, was studded with small restaurants, cafés, and stores, all closed, of course. We walked up the boardwalk a bit before turning onto the beach. A mountain of red clay pots greeted up.

“Those are used for octopus,” Za informed us. “The fisherman put them in the sea, and the octopus like to climb inside and hide there.” Ingenious, I thought to myself. We ambled over to the rocks jutting into the sea, and sat on them. Za hunted around for a little while, and then finally found us a little crab to play with. We breathed in the fresh sea air, then turned back and walked to Za’s place again, where Nathalie and I promptly commandeered Za’s bed and couch for a nice nap. It was, by the way, about 10 A.M.

I woke up a couple of hours later.

“Saha nom!” Za’s father said to me. “Saha nom” means literally “health to your waking,” but in general it means “Good morning.” “Did you sleep well? You slept for a long time…” he teased me. I felt much better though. Having woken up at about 5 A.M., and having experienced some very intense morning activities, I felt it was very much deserved. Za bounced in.

“Let’s go to the café, my friends are there,” he said. I was a bit surprised. “Cafés are open? But it’s a holiday,” I said questioningly. He replied, “Yes, but the slaughter is quick. After an hour or two, people are back on the street, and it’s up to the mothers to clean the sheep and do the cooking.” I shook my head at him. “Of course the women are cooking. Typical!” His only response was to laugh. So, down the stairs we went, and around the corner to his local café. His friends Marwen and Ahmad joined us, both of them talking to me and Nathalie and acting like complete douches to the waiter, who they apparently knew well and teased often.

Our day’s activities ended not long thereafter. Going home in Za’s van and driving through the fairly quiet and dark streets felt surreal. Once inside my apartment, I thought back to how I felt this morning – cranky, tired, and not entirely sure if I wanted to actually be awake for the morning – and I agreed with myself: this was definitely worth it.