Tabaski 2008 - In loving memory of Chi Murakami

December 24, 2008

When I was in Granada, Spain, I demurred long and hard as to whether or not I should buy a ticket to see the corrida, or bullfight. On the one hand I love animals and hate cruelty, but on the other hand I was visiting another country and wanted to try and see the beauty and pageantry in what the Spaniards consider to be a prized art form. It is true that the spectacle of man versus beast is riveting and that the matadors move most elegantly, brandishing their red capes with a flourish, but I had not realized beforehand to what extent the bull was driven out of its mind by the picadores chasing and circling it and drawing the first blood of the fight, followed by the banderilleros who antagonize and maim the hapless beast still further.

To the consternation of the cheering Spaniards around me, I cried when the first bull went down. To help me over the hurdle, they encouraged me, offering me sips from their hide-covered flasks of (thankfully very potent) alcohol.

Flash forward to Dakar, Senegal, at Tabaski, or sheep killing time. This major Muslim holiday requires every adult Muslim male to sacrifice a sheep in commemoration of the Biblical story of Abraham and Isaac. Last year after the men’s morning prayers I cowered indoors and did not venture out to witness the killing and dissection, but strangely enough, I shed not a tear this time around: the sheep would inevitably be killed, yes, but every single bit of it would be used to feed multiple families, and even the animals’ skins would be collected by the Mauritanians to cure and make prayer rugs or other items. The young boys of the family are eager to become of age and assist in the process – they are impressed by the flashing of the sharp knives in the bright morning light, and somehow fascinated by the very goriness of it all. The family I celebrated with split even the skulls of the sheep down the middle so that the flesh from the animal’s face could be stripped of its fur and eaten, thus preventing waste. These bits would generally be served with couscous on the second day of the feast.

At lunchtime, I sat in front of an inviting platter of mutton and potatoes and tucked right in without regret – it was absolutely delicious. Further, I was proud as Punch because I was the one who had ground the spice mixture containing peppercorns, piment and garlic using the traditional tall wooden mortar and pestle, giving my right arm quite a workout in the process – you have no idea how strenuous it is until you’ve tried it, believe me, and my lack of stamina caused some hilarity among the women of the family. (It occurs to me in passing that it is the very lack of a Kitchen Aid that might help to explain the beautifully molded upper arms of most Senegalese women…) As most villagers do not have refrigerators (or even electricity, for that matter), the mutton must be consumed as quickly as possible, so that everyone eats his fill and a great deal is given away to one’s less fortunate neighbors. The idea of the holiday is also that one forgives past injuries and extends best wishes to everyone: ‘Deweneti’ in Wolof.

Having eaten all the mutton my relatively small frame could hold, in the evening I attended a soiree senegalaise, the highlight of which was supposed to be sabar dancing,  very different from the flamenco I had enjoyed in Granada once upon a time, though they are similarly energetic. The sabar dance form requires amazing leaps and contortions I could never have managed even on an empty stomach. Unfortunately the live drumming did not even begin until 4 a.m., which is simply not a schoolteacher’s best hour. At five a.m. all activity stops because the men have to go home to prepare for their early morning prayers anyway, so I did not feel too bad about leaving before the end.

The day had been full of new impressions, I had seen parts of a sheep I never expected to see, and literally and figuratively, I needed to digest.

 About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com