• archives
• Home
• gallery

10 June 06

Aqiqa: The Sacrifice - The Celebration

Aqiqa

It is customary in Islam to sacrifice a lamb or goat for the birth of a child. This event is known as Aqiqa, which is the prayer that is spoken before the blade does its work. The Aqiqa is a very desirable thing to do, but only expected of someone having the financial means to do it. However, for many Muslims, especially those living in western countries and particularly in the cities where the practice is more than a bit…foreign, the bigger issue is finding the animal at all, and having a place to slaughter it.

Strasbourg (France in general, really) is pretty remarkable in this respect. Here you have a city (albeit not a big one) that is immediately surrounded by great distances of beautiful, agricultural lands, dotted here and there with animal husbandry; if you know where to go, you can get a lamb for Aqiqa no problem. Furthermore, because of the large Arabic population in France, farmers are generally not too surprised (and for the most part quite happy) that people show up to make such a purchase. As it turns out, Hanane’s father, Hajj Muhamed (Hajj M for short), knows exactly where to go, and before Elyas was even born, he made it clear to me that we would be doing Aqiqa.

Aqiqa is to be performed on the seventh day following the child’s birth, so if you’ve been keeping up with recent articles here and do the math, you’ll realize that the 17 May is when we did the Aqiqa for Elyas. I’ve been meaning to write about it sooner, but Hanane and I have had our hands full with the little booger (for you French readers, “little booger” is a term of endearment for small children).

Anyway, before I give you the story of Elyas’ Aqiqa, let me get something out of the way right now, something that I’m very disappointed about. I took my camera with us to capture this event on film…and…well…I left the camera in the car. You would think I would have remembered at some point, but I guess I just don’t have that photographer grit. I wish I was better at that.

The Story of Elyas’ Aqiqa

As I mentioned, I knew about the event some days before Elyas was born. One thing that surfaced in the awareness of it all is that the father of the child—that being me—is to do the slitting of the sheep’s throat. As is typical in my family life here, due to my weak abilities in communicating with anybody in practical fashion, the details were more or less communicated from Hajj M to Hanane by telephone, who then broke it down for me in person, in English. (Yeah, yeah…read this.)

When Hanane first talked with me about the Aqiqa, and particularly with regard to me being the knife wielder, she did so tentatively. She was quick to assure me that I didn’t have to be the one that cut the the sheep’s throat, that Hajj M would happily do it. Well, I didn’t want to look like a pansy by not rising to the occasion, especially as it was expected of me, so I assured Hanane right back that I was more than down with it. Truth was, however, I had never cut the throat of anything other than a big fish, which is hardly the same thing, so the idea of cutting the throat of a bleating sheep with a large, sharp knife was more than a bit curious in the back of my mind. Yet if a sheep needed lanced in the honor of my son, by heavens I was going to do it. In any case, Hanane touched the subject a couple more times before the day came, just in case I wanted to change my mind, but I didn’t budge.

When the day came, we packed up Elyas and made our way to the Mtafi abode. We were a bit late getting there (about 20 minutes), as tends to happen with a new child, and as we came around the corner, there was Hajj M, already in his car and driving away. Apparently he had tired of waiting and was heading out to take care of things himself. He spied us, though, as we came around the corner. He had a funny look on his face like he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I thought it was indeed too late for me, as he continued down the street, but he simply went around the block and picked me up after we parked our own car. If we had been even another minute, he would have already been gone.

I haven’t done it a whole lot yet, but I always enjoy the drive out into the Alsacian countryside when I do get to do it. I often think how satisfying it would be to have a house in the Vosges Mountains and become a hobbyist tomato farmer (or something), but since you can’t get Internet connection out there, that’s out (hey, I’m a Web designer, what can I say). Anyway, the drive to the farm didn’t take long, about 30 minutes, maybe a bit more.

The Farm

When we arrived, there were plump, blond girls of varying age working here and there at various farm tasks. They were all a bit soiled, red in the cheeks, and wearing rubber boots. I kept expecting to see a couple of men, or at least a boy too, but none ever appeared. We got out of the car and the chickens scattered across the lot. A woman gleaming with sweat and pushing a old wood, cart filled with something heavy came out of one of the barns. She was clearly the mother of some of the younger lasses, as they all had the same look, and apparently the same diet. She addressed Hajj M, and he presented our business. I couldn’t follow any of it, but she seemed to understand our objective without surprise. She gave a quick nod over her shoulder with a bit of indifference and went on about her work.

Right about that moment an older man came driving around the back side of the barn on a tractor, from the same direction that the woman had nodded to. He looked like he could be the grandfather of some of the girls. He saw us, pulled up, and slowly stepped down without a word. Hajj M again presented our business and we were joined by another plump, young woman around 30 years or so, and clearly the muscle of them all. She looked a lot like the first woman pushing the cart, so I’m guessing perhaps her younger sister; both certainly the daughters of the old man. As it turned out, the old man was the only man on the farm. His entire family was all girls, and they were all busy.

The four of us made our way into the barn where about 150 sheep were all penned up and divided by what appeared to be an age class of sorts. Hajj M and the old man made small talk while the woman hopped into a pen where the largest animals were gathered. One of the sheep had its head stuck in a wire divider, and she kicked it loose without much tender loving care, yelling and cursing the whole time. I just hung back and took it all in. I only had one thing on my mind, and that was counting the moments until I would be cutting the juggler of one of these lively animals running around in front of me.

Within moments, Hajj M pointed out a nice plump male, not a full ram, but much larger than a lamb too, I would guess a teenager of sorts. His choice was a bit interesting; it was the only sheep in the lot that had mottled black and white fur on the face and feet. The young woman was already in the pen and it didn’t take her long to snag the unfortunate beast and drag him over to us to be hauled out to the wet zone. We tossed it into a wheelbarrow on its back. It started to kick wildly and had to be held by two legs as we rolled it outside and over to a place where I noticed a few meat hooks were hanging on a beam.

There was a metal-framed bench of sorts sitting by a hose. We rolled up to it and the old man and girl quickly flipped the sheep from the wheelbarrow to the bench with an ease that comes from having done it many times. The bench was crafted in such a way that while on its back the sheep couldn’t move anywhere on its own, no one even had to tend to it, it was stuck. A bucket was brought out and casually kicked under the end where its neck stuck out. The sheep just looked around quietly at this point, I guess not knowing what else to do, nor what was about to happen. All this time Hajj M and the old man casually gabbed and laughed about this topic or that. I never really followed any of it. I just kept waiting for the moment when Hajj M would give me direct instructions and hand me a knife.

The Slaughter

As casually as you please, the moment arrived. The men kept talking about one thing or another, and the young woman walked to a counter where she fiddled with something. I didn’t really pay her much attention until she turned around I saw the 14-inch carving knife in her hand. The blade glinted in the sunlight and hit me once square in the pupils. Still not sure what to do, I kept my ground waiting for instructions from Hajj M.

The instructions never came. I had noticed in the minutes leading up to this moment that Hajj M had a funny way about him, kind of a suppressed excitement; very subtle, but it was there. It soon became clear there was never any intention on Hajj M’s part to let me cut the sheep’s throat. The opportunity wasn’t offered, nor discussed. He was handed the knife, and as soon as he took hold of it, he walked straight to the sheep, pulled back it’s head and put that big, sharp blade to the base of its adams apple.

To be honest, I was more than a little relieved, and I know that Hajj M was kindly sparing me the deed as he knew I had never done it before. In comparison, Hajj M has been cutting sheep throat for most of his 58 or so years. Also, there is an Arabic prayer, the Aqiqa, that needs to be said just prior to cutting the throat, and this is something I had not memorized either, thus it would have been awkward to try and cover that base via recital from Hajj M with everyone waiting. Hajj M didn’t speak the prayer outloud, nor did it appear that he took a moment to say it to himself, but I have no doubt that he did. He’s a just and forthright man, and I’m very lucky to have been accepted into his family.

Nevertheless, I had spent the last two weeks mentally preparing myself for the moment, and actually considered it a challenge of sorts. Hence, there was a small sense of disappointment when it didn’t come to pass for me; mainly because I now wondered what I was going to tell my son, my first child, when he got older…”sorry son, I was green; didn’t have what it takes to honor you into this world.” Hopefully Elyas will look past it and realize I was new to all of this, in many respects.

Hajj M gave a quick look to the old man for confirmation. The old man quickly nodded back and Hajj M began to forcefully saw into the sheep’s neck. Blood began to instantly squirt and spill into the bucket underneath. After four, quick, deep slices that nearly decapitated the animal, the old man nodded the situation sufficient. The sheep’s head dangled now, at a backwards angle that opened the gore up wide and allowed the blood to drain quickly. As the animal continued to bleed out, attention was shifted to writing up a sales slip. Not my attention, however, I was transfixed by the sheep. I watched it to see how much life, or not, was still there. At one instance, the sheep starting kicking violently, all four legs swinging circles in a strange, rhythmic manner. This made me uneasy and I looked to the others, but they didn’t seem to pay it any mind. I suppose this was the final departure, or perhaps nerves, I wasn’t sure.

The old man and the young woman took over the show from there. First she removed the sheeps head completely and hung it on one of the meat hooks by a flap of the neck’s hide. She then began to slice the skin right off the skull, starting with the lips, cutting through them like cheese, making her way around and down to the stub of the neck. When it was just the freaky, skinless head hanging there, she took it down, put it in a plastic sack, and gave it to Hajj M; apparently we were taking that with us.

As for the old man, he retrieved a smaller knife for himself and set to work on the body. The first thing he did was slice the skin around the knee joint of each leg to expose the bone. With another slice that seemed easier to do than one would expect, he severed a bone in each joint, bent the knees backwards, and removed each foreleg with a slight snap. The old man then began to peel off the hide, starting with the underside of the animal at the headless end.

For a while he worked on this while the sheep’s body was still braced in the slaughter bench it had been resting in, but after making some headway, which didn’t take too long, he lowered one of the meat hooks, this one being attached to the end of a winch cable. He snagged a stout piece of the neck meat and hoisted the body into the air, just high enough to comfortably continue peeling off the hide. The old man made his way around and down the body to the ass end. When he got close, which wasn’t as close as I thought he would need to be, he grabbed a firm hold of the hide and gave the works a few hard yanks downward. The hide ripped off completely and the body was left swinging there with muscles, mesentaries, and bloated belly exposed.

The belly, of course, and all the other viscera were next. With a careful hand—actually two hands, one to cut with and one to pull the dermal skin away from the guts underneath—the old man slowly sliced down the sheep’s belly. As he went, the organs and intenstines began to spill out in a slow, methodical manner. The old man was good, like a potter at a wheel; he had done this a few times before to say the least. There was no blood or foul-looking fluids; it was all very clean and slippery, not a single organ or tube was nicked. The wheelbarrow was positioned underneath it all, and when the old man reach the hind end of the carcass, he made two, little precision cuts of the knife and the whole mass dropped out in a heap.

There were a few things from the pile that Hajj M wanted to keep: the heart, liver, a particular set of mesentaries from around the organ cavity (I think that’s where it came from). Also, much to the surprise of the old man, and my discomfort, Hajj M wanted to keep the stomach. As Hajj M made his selections clear, he asked the old man with a bit of humor in his tone if he also ate the stomach. The old man responded with an emphatic gesture of no. Hajj M then turned to me, and with an increasing smile on his face (because he already knew what I would say), Hajj M asked me the same question. I responded with the only French word that came to mind—“jamais” (“never”). “Jamais! Jamais! Jamais!” Hajj M just chuckled.

The sheep had been eating well, the stomach was full and bloated. The old man sliced it open and a heap of half-digested grass dropped out like a huge pile of elephant dung. After a few more careful slices to cut the stomach free, the old man handed it to the woman who washed it off in the hose and oddly folded it up like a wet rag. Let me tell you, the inside of a sheep’s stomach is a strange looking place, and not something that should be eaten, in my opinion. I can only imagine what the stomachs of larger, herbivorous animals look like. (By the way, Hanane’s parents are the only ones in the immediate family who eat the sheep’s internal things; none of the children do.)

Finally, the sheep’s body, now completely trimmed and ready to go, was wrapped in a cloth that Hajj M had brought with him, put into a larger plastic sack and I loaded that into the car too. Hajj M quickly paid the bill, and off we went.

As soon as I climbed into the car and buckled up, it was then I looked directly at my camera, sitting where I had left it in the dashboard console. Needless to say I went into a bit of silent rage with myself. I had just lost all those golden opportunities for some interesting photography. I pissed and moaned under my breath the entire trip back.

Epilog

I had to edit this story from it’s orginal draft. Tradition has it that for a new boy child you are supposed to sacrifice two sheep, while just one for a girl. In fact, we had planned to go back to the farm to buy a second sheep for Elyas’ baby shower—Morrocan style ;)

Whether or not I would have cut the throat this second time, I don’t know, but I certainly intended to get proper photographs of it all this time, and even shoot some video too. Unfortunately, everyone’s schedules were too busy when the time came, and we ended just getting a sheep ready-done from the Turkish market in the region here. Hence, no photos at all.

However, getting a sheep is done for many occasions, such as the important Eids as well, so I’m sure there will be another time for a good, grisly photo set. I just wish it had really been the one for my boy, Prince Elyas.

1. Nathalie :: 11 June 06 :: #

   Nice story really, I enjoy it even I have to improve seriously my english.(I have seen such an event before, it helps). But I didn’t know about the two sheeps for a boy and only one for a girl!
   And I deeply cross my fingers of course.
   See you soon with Hanane and Elyas.
   Nathalie

2. Nathalie :: 11 June 06 :: #

   By the way, did you taste the sheep stomach? As a matter of fact, I don’t like it a lot but actually the best one I have ever taste is Hanane’s Mum cooking.
   Nathalie.

3. isabelle :: 11 June 06 :: #

   eh bien dis donc, quelle aventure !!! it’s riveting ! Thank you for sharing that = I’m learning a lot with you, what about saving all you write and try to publish it as a book (once you’ve published the first one and have a foot on the door with some publisher ….) ... have you heard of Peter Mayle ? A Britt whose books were all the rage in the UK 10 to 15 years ago when he wrote about his settling in Provence … Your style of writing is just GREAT !

   En Ecosse ils mangent du Haggis (des bas morceaux cuisinés dans de la panse de brebis) ... y’en a même en vente dans les fish and chips, c’est pas mauvais … mais bon, mon père mangeait du ragoût de poumon de mouton et nous a fait goûter enfant andouillettes, gésiers de poulets et compagnie, écoute, si c’est bien cuisiné, ma foi, pourquoi pas ne pas essayer ???? (Mais alors, orgnise quelqu’un pour te prendre en photo pendant la première bouchée !!!!
   Isabelle.

4. Destry :: 11 June 06 :: #

   Yes, I did try Nouhza’s sheep stomach dish once in the first months I was here. At first, she and Hajj M kept trying to convince me it was good, as it was sitting there on the table, but my nose kept telling me something else. Nevertheless, I gave it a try, it didn’t look bad after all, all chopped in small pieces and simmered for hours with tomatoes, olives and Morrocan spices, yet even with all that embellishment it still tasted like it shouldn’t be eaten. One small taste and that was all for me. No, I’ll stick to the regular muscle meat, thank you very much.

5. isabelle :: 13 June 06 :: #

   well, then, ... don’t suppose you’ve fancied trying snails or forgs’legs ???(the first time I introduced Jonathan in my family, we ate at 6 houses in 4 or 5 days and he was presented with snails at 5 of the meals ….. luckily, he’s OK about them …. Are there any dishes in America, or your part of America that is not commonly eaten elsewhere ????

6. Destry :: 13 June 06 :: #

   By the way, Isabelle, thanks for the writing compliment. I like to write. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly good, but it makes me feel good to do it.

   As for frog legs, I don’t recall that I’ve ever had them before. However, I’ve eaten snails many times. I like them fine. As well, I am a seafood lover, sushi lover, and on two of my several voyages in the Bering Sea abourd a Japanese vessel, I ate various sea snails and other interesting things that the Japanese fisherman would pull right from the net and clean and devour on the spot. When they first offered me some they all grinned like I would gag, but in fact I ate it up readily and asked for more, much to their surprise. Raw sea snail is quite good, if not a bit chewey. Clean protein.

   I have many stories about my trips at sea, I would like to write about those some day. Just a matter of time. And no, I was not in the Navy, nor a fisherman. Fisheries research.

   Where I’m from in the U.S. (Seattle) there isn’t anything challenging, we’re big salmon lovers, and Thai food eaters. Fairly international cuisine, actually.

Copyright © 2004-07 Destry Wion. All rights reserved.  |   Social Disclaimer  |   Site Details  |   Contact