My Father, a Sheep and Eid al-Adha
Eman Eldeeb. Illustration by Aya Kahil.
Words by Eman Eldeeb
One annoying thing about my father was his relentlessness whenever he was waking me up. He said my name in a sing-songy voice over and over again, his enthusiasm unwavering. I’ve never been a morning person. Nothing kept me in bed more than having to face the chill of dawn in my grandmother’s courtyard. Every year, I’d shut my eyes tight and lay as still as possible hoping he’d give up and leave. And that’s when he’d tickle my feet.
Beheira, the Egyptian governorate with the most agricultural land in Egypt, is situated on the Rosetta branch of the Nile river. The road trip there from Cairo always started off with my mum, siblings, and I repeating my father’s prayer for a safe trip out loud, in unison. On the way, he pointed out every growing crop, and every animal grazing in the green fields that hugged the road. It would be the last time I’d hear my dad speak in a Cairene dialect until the drive back. There, among his family, his words were almost indecipherable to me. It was another language he had under his belt, but unlike Arabic, English, and French, this language didn’t come in handy for his work as a diplomat. It was only his mother tongue.
At six years old, I wasn’t sure which of the two Eids we were visiting my grandmother for until we arrived in Beheira. Muslims have two major celebrations a year. Eid Al-fitr comes right after Ramadan, celebrating the end of a month long fast. To observe it, we eat cookies stuffed with nuts and dusted with icing sugar. Eid Al-Adha, comes seventy days after Eid Al-fitr, children know it as the feast of the sheep. Upon stepping out of the car at my grandmother’s house, I found myself face to face with a sheep. Even though I didn’t know the literal meaning of Eid Al-adha was Festival of the Sacrifice, I understood it to be the day when a friend was to live their last day. I was convinced I could speak sheep if I looked intensely enough into its eyes. “Baa” meant whatever I wanted it to mean. It meant “Hello, sheep”. It also meant “I’m sorry you are going to die”. “I hope you had a good life” and “thank you for feeding so many”. My cousins laughed at my bleating as they each fed it little bits of veggies and ran their hands through its fleece.
When my sleeping facade fell apart after the tickling on Eid morning, my dad picked me up off the bed and placed me on his shoulders. The whole house was filled with the nutty aroma of melting ghee. My aunts had been working through the night to prepare freshly baked bread and feteer meshaltet, a big round Egyptian layered pastry we tear off with our hands and dip in honey and cheese. Every child in the family was carried by one of their parents. I put my hands over my father’s head and he held on to my legs which were draped around his shoulders. When we made it to the courtyard my father and his brothers would start chanting the traditional Eid Takbir, praising and thanking God for His blessings. I had a habit of playfully covering my dad’s mouth mid-chant with the palm of my hand.
Even though I didn’t know the literal meaning of Eid Al-adha was Festival of the Sacrifice, I understood it to be the day when a friend was to live their last day.
Knowing what was coming, I tugged at my father’s greying hair as my heart pounded. He responded with a gentle squeeze of both my legs to comfort me. Everyone grew quiet as my uncle came out of my grandmother’s house with a knife he had sharpened the night before. An older cousin walked over to the sheep to help lay it on its side gently. Within a few seconds, my uncle said a final prayer and cut the sheep's throat in one quick motion. Prayers and chants rose again as my friend, the sheep, lost consciousness and died quickly. Before noon, my uncles butchered the sheep and divided its meat and bones into small equal packages. My older cousins rode their bicycles to deliver them first to the needy, and next to extended family and friends. The fleece was kept to make rugs for the house. Every bit of the animal was either eaten or stored for later use.
The jewels are the heart, liver, kidneys, and lungs…
What’s left of the sheep was always given to my aunts. They prepared the jewels, shanks, and rice sausage for lunch. The jewels are the heart, liver, kidneys, and lungs, sliced up and stewed with copious amounts of crushed garlic, hot and mild peppers, lemon juice, cumin, salt, pepper and fresh herbs. Everyone sat on the floor around a tableya, a round table with short legs, to eat the jewels with freshly baked whole wheat flat bread, pickles, and fresh arugula. If we were lucky, the intestines wouldn’t make it into the packages to be given away. They would be cleaned thoroughly and stuffed with a spiced rice and herb mixture, cooked and then fried in olive oil. The rice sausage, mombar, was always a close second if I had to pick a favourite. My favourite part of the meal was the fattaa, a dish of white rice served over a layer of crunchy toasted flatbread tossed in butter and garlic. A layer of tangy and garlicky thickened tomato sauce blanketed most of the rice’s surface. This already flavoursome dish was only complete with a tender cut of grilled or roasted mutton shank. Each bite prompted the thought “baa”. This time it meant “thank you for being delicious”.
As I grew older, I no longer fit on my father’s shoulders. Some Eids I’d just wake up and watch the whole ceremony from a window on the second floor of the house. As my father and his siblings accumulated some wealth, they chose to slaughter more or bigger livestock. The last time we were there, all of my uncles were too old to perform the slaughtering themselves. A professional was hired to slaughter a cow.
Even though my father was too gentle a man to ever slaughter an animal himself, he wasn’t confused about where food came from.
When my father passed away, I found myself in the same courtyard again fifteen years after my earliest memory of Eid Al-Adha. I thought of my father’s persistence to wake me up. I realised he had really wanted to share something with me that meant more to him than I had realised. Even though my father was too gentle a man to ever slaughter an animal himself, he wasn’t confused about where food came from. There was no looking away from it. I doubt he was fully aware of the complexities of consumption in the modern world but one thing he was aware of was what it took to keep his family and his community fed.
Before our food was mutton, it was sheep. Sheep lived, sheep were killed, and sheep were eaten. This was a lesson worth driving hours for. Beheira, where he grew up, was a place where it was still as clear as day. In 1998, eighty percent of red meat production was still done by small farmers like my father’s own family, and Cairo, slowly looking more and more like a concrete jungle, was no place to teach your six year old daughter about life and death.
‘Baa’ here feels like whispering ‘I wonder where your jewels are’.
I myself did not wrap my head around how precious this lesson was until I moved away from Egypt. It’s been four years now and it’s still eerie buying pre-packaged meat from a supermarket. The closest I could come to the animal’s face is looking at the silhouette on the label. “Baa” here feels like whispering “I wonder where your jewels are”.
Reconciling my personal understanding of the consumption of meat and being a cook living in Melbourne, Australia is tricky to say the least. At this point in time, no drive long enough from the inner north suburbs could take me somewhere where I understand where my food comes from as much as I did when I was a child on my family’s farm. What I do have is Eid Al-Adha, the day I cook the food of my father’s people.
Eman Eldeeb is a cook, writer, and recipe developer based in Melbourne, Australia. Stay in touch with her via Instagram @emanskitchenabroad.