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.