a poignant celebration

While I walked through the main neighborhood bazaar last month, relatively early in the day, I couldn't help but think of Christmas or Thanksgiving.  That feeling I still get at age 31, the morning of special holiday - a sense of urgency and excitement that I usually overeat my way out of just a few hours later! - I could recognize it in the air.  I felt it as I edged around crowds of men and watched them walk that funny bow-legged gate we use when we're trying to discourage our sandals from kicking up street sludge onto our clean clothes.  I felt it as I stepped out of the way of bands of youth running to catch the last of the special festival prayers at a mosque that was still offering them, or perhaps to make it to a certain house in time to watch a sacrifice.

This holiday is special for me.  It was the first one I celebrated after moving here 4 years ago.  I remember walking through the market in that city on chand raat ("moon night" - the nights before festivals, whose dates are determined by the moon), following my scurrying host sister as she weaved through the alleys to make it home by dark.  And everyone was out and bustling, and to sing "Silver Bells" would have felt both strangely appropriate and absolutely hilarious.

Yes, a special holiday...but a difficult one.  The first morning after chand raat, 4 years ago, our host brothers came running into the house and beckoned us come quickly to the neighbors' place across the alley.  We scampered over to their door and up the stairs.  We gathered with a bunch of women and children around an opening in the floor that looked down to the ground level, and saw what was probably a dozen men and boys gathering around a large, black water buffalo.  There was nervous excitement...I caught a glimpse of the large knife in the hand of one of the sons of the house, a guy right around my age.  The buffalo seemed uneasy, but still fairly clueless.

And then it was time, and it all happened so fast, yet painfully slow.  My own heart pounded as the crowd of men worked together to bring the beast to the ground...not an easy feat, and it took every one of them standing there. Then there were the adrenalized, urgent prayers of blessing, the flash of the knife as it was positioned, and finally, the cut.

I've watched several sacrifices, but have never actually seen that cut. I always have to look away at the end.  It's no simple thing, the giving of one life for others.  And it's good for me to remember that.