There are dogs here that get loose from time to time. Usually about five or six of them are on the prowl and I don’t know where they live. They rule the top of the hill.
Other times an unruly group of boys takes their place – none of which are my brothers. The other day I saw them all throwing rocks at a target up on the hill. They were trying to kill a snake. The dogs are dealt with by sticks; the boys with stern shouts.
There is a woman here who is the mother of eight, and she chops wood like it stole something. One rubber-loafered-foot holds that log down, while the other is solidly planted on the ground as she whacks away with the axe. She pulls and splices the log apart piece-by-piece, stopping now and then to greet a neighbor and insist the neighbor stay for tea.
And there is this holiday here that I had never heard of before. It’s happening now, and I’ve somehow found myself in the very middle of it. Holidays, exhausting as they are, now compounded for me by a family that’s five times the size of my own, all excitedly chatting in a language I barely understand about things that I have never known, like painting hands, and new pretty caftans, and killing sheep in the street.
Yesterday we slaughtered a goat, and tomorrow we’ll slaughter a sheep. A short prayer was said before my father slit the goat’s throat. Our mother held the animal’s legs to keep it steady. Blood ran down into the dirt, and we all agreed, “ishqal”. It’s difficult. My father skinned and cleaned the animal. Carefully cleaning and separating each piece as the boys watched or chased one another. One daughter cleaned out the stomach in a bucket.
The goat hangs from a beam in the kitchen of the house now. All the different parts neatly cut, cleaned, and separated and spread out on the table. Last night, as I helped my sister bake cookies, we ate kababs of liver, kidneys, and so on wrapped in fat that my mother had prepared. I was so relieved by how good they tasted, dreading having to swallow down something unbearable during the festivities! The boys were so excited, fighting and counting out the kebabs among themselves, promising me much more “tifiyi” to eat as the holiday continues. With visions of cookies, caftans, and the busy holiday season three-weeks earlier than I’m accustomed to, I fell asleep last night very curious for what’s to come.
Other times an unruly group of boys takes their place – none of which are my brothers. The other day I saw them all throwing rocks at a target up on the hill. They were trying to kill a snake. The dogs are dealt with by sticks; the boys with stern shouts.
There is a woman here who is the mother of eight, and she chops wood like it stole something. One rubber-loafered-foot holds that log down, while the other is solidly planted on the ground as she whacks away with the axe. She pulls and splices the log apart piece-by-piece, stopping now and then to greet a neighbor and insist the neighbor stay for tea.
And there is this holiday here that I had never heard of before. It’s happening now, and I’ve somehow found myself in the very middle of it. Holidays, exhausting as they are, now compounded for me by a family that’s five times the size of my own, all excitedly chatting in a language I barely understand about things that I have never known, like painting hands, and new pretty caftans, and killing sheep in the street.
Yesterday we slaughtered a goat, and tomorrow we’ll slaughter a sheep. A short prayer was said before my father slit the goat’s throat. Our mother held the animal’s legs to keep it steady. Blood ran down into the dirt, and we all agreed, “ishqal”. It’s difficult. My father skinned and cleaned the animal. Carefully cleaning and separating each piece as the boys watched or chased one another. One daughter cleaned out the stomach in a bucket.
The goat hangs from a beam in the kitchen of the house now. All the different parts neatly cut, cleaned, and separated and spread out on the table. Last night, as I helped my sister bake cookies, we ate kababs of liver, kidneys, and so on wrapped in fat that my mother had prepared. I was so relieved by how good they tasted, dreading having to swallow down something unbearable during the festivities! The boys were so excited, fighting and counting out the kebabs among themselves, promising me much more “tifiyi” to eat as the holiday continues. With visions of cookies, caftans, and the busy holiday season three-weeks earlier than I’m accustomed to, I fell asleep last night very curious for what’s to come.
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