Witnessing the Sheep Slaughter

“If slaughterhouses had glass walls, everyone would be a vegetarian.” ~Paul McCartney

I woke to the sound of the kids pounding on my door. The moment I stood up, I knew what was about to happen. I open the front door, and there are the kids.

"Come on, it's happening."

They ran back to my landlord's house. I grabbed my camera and followed them. The night before, I had promised my landlord that I would take pictures and get them developed as a gift. I told him that I make not have a sheep, and I may not be able to make good food, but I can help give them something.

I made my way to the front porch of my landlord's house. A pool of bright red blood already stained the cement from the first sheep. I looked at its body as it lie still on the cold porch. I watched as they dragged the second sheep to the front door of the house.

"Come on, get a picture." The kids said, laughing and pointing at the sheep as it struggled to stand against the weight of the two men holding it down. I held up my camera and pointed it at the sheep.

"In the name of God." My landlord said.

He dragged the knife across the sheep's neck. I heard a gurgling sound, like some thick fluid passing through a straw. The sheep's eyes widened, the blood immediately ran down the wool and pooled onto the cement. I watched as it trembled for a moment, and was then still. It kicked around again, its hind legs thrashed in every direction possible, and then it was still again. I watched as its eyes darted form side to side, and then came to rest on me. I tried to move to get out of its glare, but its eyes remained fixed in mine, as though it knew I was an intruder there.

"How long does this last?" I asked.
"About ten minutes." he said.

The children pointed at the sheep and laughed. I looked at one of the older boys and thought to myself, "Had the Bible story of Abraham and Isaac (or in this case, Ibrahim and Ishmael) been a little different, you wouldn't be the one laughing, oh firstborn." I turned back to the sheep, whose flailing continued to grow weaker as minutes passed. I heard the air pass through its windpipe.

I thought of my grandfather's breathing machine. In Kentucky, I would always sleep in the parlor right next to it. I knew that as long as the machine worked, he lived.

I watched as the sheep's eyes became still. It was as though a thin cloud suddenly formed over it. The eyes glazed over, and its pupils expanded until all that was left was blackness.

The kids came over to me and looked through my camera at the pictures I had taken. They were especially fond of the ones I had taken of them with the flailing sheep in the background. My landlord and the neighbor began to prepare the sheep. They grabbed the legs and sliced open the knees. I heard the snap as they broke each of its legs in half so that they could hang it easier. I heard the sound of the skin detaching from the rest of its body, the sinews stretching out like thin spiderwebs. I never realized just how thin and frail a sheep's body was, nor how much of its heft was attributed to thick wool.

I watched as my landlord began to tear open the sheep and pull out the organs. The small intestines burst through the opening at its stomach, as though they had been unwillingly trapped inside of it. He pulled them out, little by little, and coiled them around his hand like a rope. The stomach emerged, as did the liver and other organs, until all that was left was a hollow being.

Flies had arrived at this time, and the smell of fresh flesh and entrails filled the air. Streams of feces puddled onto the floor. I pulled out a spare bottle of hand washing soap to utilize this experience as a need for proper hand washing.

The entire process to kill, skin, and disembowel a sheep takes about an hour. But when it was all done, the women took the remains into the kitchen and began to make lunch. I went back to my house and uploaded the pictures onto my facebook profile.*

I went back to my landlord's house for lunch. The women brought out a large plate of couscous. On top of the couscous was a large hunk of freshly killed meat. I found myself dipping my bread in the sauce and picking up the beans and potatoes, but for some reason, my hand didn't want to go near the meat. After repeated entreaties from my landlord, I finally picked up a piece of meat and put it in my mouth. I tasted the skin of the sheep, and the pieces of flesh separated in my mouth like bits of string. But my throat refused to swallow. I had to smile and nod my head to hide the gagging that was taking place.

I have always known, where meat comes from; I am not that naive. But there is a difference between seeing little packages of red colored substances in plastic wrap in a supermarket and watching the process itself. Even the photographs don't do much justice. They don't allow for the sound of a sheep drowning in its own blood, or the rapid movements of the eyes. They can't quite capture the flailing as it move slower and slower, and then stops.

I am going to Paris soon. When asked about what I wanted most, I used to respond, "Bacon cheeseburger and pork." But now, I think I'll settle for a nice glass of white wine and a fresh salad.

I have chosen, due to the nature of the pictures, not to post these pictures on the general website.

Peace Corps 2.0

I remember when I first applied to Peace Corps I kept imagining myself either on some deserted island, teaching people about water purification or helping them cope with some foreign disease that travelers brought to the indigenous people, or in an African grassland, running from lions or teaching about AIDS beneath a large tree to children excited to see an American. When I had my interview and was told that I would be placed in a Middle East program, which would have either been Jordan or Morocco, I was torn. Morocco sounds cool, and is near the desert, so I would be helping nomads and perhaps teaching women about literacy. Jordan, on the other hand, was near so much Christian history; not to mention I would have had an opportunity to witness the Israeli-Palestinian struggle firsthand. When told I would go to Morocco, I looked up more details on it, and decided that living the desert life would be cool. I imagined no water, no electricity, and certainly no internet. Little did I know that the 21st century was embedded everywhere around the world. Nowadays, not even the smallest mountain village escapes the ongoing updates of facebook and twitter.

I was doing laundry and dishes when I heard the sound of knocking on my door. I opened it, and there stood Majid and Ismael. They asked how I was doing and whether or not I could help them with something.

"Sure," I replied, "But I need to finish my housework first."

By this time, I know why the men laugh when I say that I, a man, need to do dishes and laundry. They said to meet them at two at Ismael's house, and to bring a camera.

I arrived at Ismael's house, where I was advised as to how I would put my Peace Corps service to good use.

"We need you to take pictures of us for our facebook account."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Yeah, we are having difficulty with that."

At that moment, I was happy to know that my skills at noting irony were bring put to good use in the Peace Corps thanks to the taxpayers. Technically, this falls under the category of goal one, which is to provide technical skills to local citizens of the developing country. And what is more important nowadays than having a profile to serve as a means of networking? This is something that I've learned to tell myself every time I go to someone's house to upload video games for the local children or to create profiles for the young men, though once I did manage to help my host mother find information on how to sew her own jellaba.

Anyway, I took them around the village, and that's when it started. Back in America, I loved taking fun pictures of people and nature. I think it is because I secretly wanted to be a photographer. The two men were confused at first with how seriously I seemed to be taking the project, but once they saw the pictures, they were more than excited to put them on their facebook. Here are a few samples:









Quick update, also: this is the week of one of the biggest celebrations in Morocco. Eid Kibir, the reenactment of the slaughtering of the ram by Abraham in the Bible. I will have pictures of that, as well, so keep in touch.

Cleaning House

Ichram told me to take her picture as she held up her newest drawing. She had been coming to my house for the past few days to draw while I worked on cleaning my house. As she finished her drawing, I was flinging out the last bits of sand and corn husk from the cement floor into the courtyard. Ichram came out of the salon.

"What do you think?" I asked. "Did I do a good job?"
"Yes," She replied, "You sweep very well."

My landlord's wife comes in.

"Yunz," she asked, "why haven't you come to get bread?"
"I'm sorry, I'm still trying to eat all the bread you gave me last time."
"All right."

She walks out, with Ichram following behind her moments later. I'd say community integration level is set to indispensable.

Opening the Door

Whatever you do in your life, know this. The door of my house will always be open to you.
~Ajahn Brahm, on loving kindness

I returned home from IST at three o'clock in the morning after riding in a souk bus for about ten hours. I had two volunteers stay the night with me so that they could get some rest before finishing their travel to their sites, which would have taken another three hours. The two of them awoke to hot tea, omelettes, and fruit. They left, and I was left alone.

As I stood at the doorway and watched them hike up the hill to the main road, I looked around my village. The dried husks from the corn were blowing around in the wind, and the sun had risen but was covered by a string of gray clouds. My freshly shaved head, not used to exposure, tingled. When asked by other volunteers why I shaved it, I would reply, "I was too attached to it. It's a Buddhist thing; you wouldn't understand." and then laugh.

At IST, I was in a group dedicated to discussing maternal health. I was in that group because I wanted to get ideas on how to speak with the women in my village. I was the only male in the group; but rather than give me advice on not being threatening to women, the other volunteers instead told me that I have a unique opportunity to speak with the men.

I began to think about that again, as I stood at the open door of my house. Would the men be receptive to the message? Would I be able to convince them that pre- and post-natal health was important for men, also? I wasn't sure, but I began to feel better knowing that I finally had a goal to reach in my service; it was something for which I could actually see results, instead of the vague notions of the "second" and "third" goals of Peace Corps.

I went back into my house, but I decided to leave the front door open. I went around my house and opened my windows that were covered in spider webs from me being gone for the past week. I opened my back door, and the entire house was filled with air and light. corn husks blew in and through the main foyers. I started with my dishes that I had left unwashed when I left for Marrakech.

I little while later, I heard a knock on my door. Two little girls, Ichram and Selma, stood at my door, looking down at their feet.

"May tramt?" I asked.
"Chips." they said.

I looked back to my kitchen and decided to let them in. I told them that I didn't have chips but that they could have fruit. I sent them to my salon and set out a bowl of fruit, colored pencils, and a large piece of paper and told them to draw while I finished working. Once the dishes were clean, I returned to the parlor, where I found that they had traced their hands multiple times and filled them in. They looked around the room and pointed to another poster that I had been working on. It was my poster of the food pyramid, and so I took the time to teach them about the five food groups and why it was important to eat the fruit I gave them. Their mothers knocked on my door and took them back, but I secretly think they were relieved that I had watched them for that time. It was late afternoon by that time, and it was beginning to get chilly, and so I started to closed my windows again for the night. I watched as the mothers hiked up the hill with their daughters in tow.

It's funny how completely different a village acts towards me once I simply open my door. Before IST, I would usually have my front door closed. People would pass by it and pass by my windows, sometimes greeting me, but most of the time, not. I thought about how much I had just felt like part of the community, to where the mothers didn't get angry, upset, or frightened by the fact that they little daughters stayed at the foreigner's house. Had my door been closed that day, I'm sure the girls wouldn't have knocked.

There were times before IST that I truly worried if I was going to do anything productive; I had made a vow that if by May of 2011 I still felt like I was wasting taxpayer money I would return home. But now, I know that I have been productive. Moroccans trust me with their children. Just that one action lets me know that I have changed their opinion about Americans. I don't think their opinions were negative, but maybe if they hear another Moroccan talk about how bad Americans are, they'll think of me and confront him.

That's how you change the world. That's how you create peace. That's how you keep the door to your heart open to everyone.

P.S.: My camera disk was destroyed by a virus, but I have another one, and will get a picture of the drawing the girls made.