November 6th was Tabaski or "Eid al-Adha" (Festival of Sacrifice); locally known as “Seliba”.
Around 8:30 that morning, I put on my finest Malian outfit and rode my bike to a small hill in the center of the village. The whole community was there, laying prayer mats in four long rows, trying their best to avoid getting dust on their freshly cleaned holiday robes. The men stood idly, greeting one another in low, somber tones. The women were all seated in the rear rows, trading gossip and quelling screaming babies.
My homologue led me to a small cluster of houses in front of the clearing where everyone was gathering. The Imam and a few other men were waiting for the ceremony to begin. A narrow path leading to the congregation had been cut through the tall grass behind the houses. They must have been waiting for me because, as soon as I arrived we began marching down the path. My Jatigi (host father) led the procession, chanting in Arabic and counting prayer beads in his right hand. The path opened into the clearing where everyone was standing shoulder-to-shoulder, facing East. A large sheep was tethered to a tree in front of the clearing, braying loudly and, no doubt, fully aware of its role in the ritual that was about to start.
As the Imam unrolled his prayer mat, I squeezed into the front row. I could hear suppressed laughter from the women in the back row who thought my flashy, 1970s revival fabric looked a little strange on a Toubab, which, I think, was an unfair observation because, while I did indeed look a little ridiculous, everyone else around me was wearing equally eye-catching threads to the ceremony. To be fair, a man in the row behind me wore a robe made entirely out of fluorescent-orange fabric embellished with a silver reflective material along the seams. Also, a number of the women were wearing matching, Christmas tree-inspired dresses embroidered with gold sequence and red ribbon.
A year ago I learned that Seliba is as much a sacred occasion as it is an opportunity to show off and express a little fashion solidarity. After the morning ceremony is over, women and children march around the village in their best clothing to greet the men. The men give candy to the children and blessings to the women in return. It’s very similar to Halloween, except instead of parading around in scary costumes, people don their most sumptuous outfits*. As far as I was concerned, I fit right in.
The Imam led us in prayer and we bowed in unison according to the chants and cadences I learned during Ramadan (I prayed with the community everyday during Ramadan and fasted on Fridays). At the end, he announced that the slaughtering of the ram commemorates the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son as an act of obedience before god (and if you remember the story, god stops Abraham and gives him a sheep to sacrifice instead).
Several men wrestled the beast to the ground and the Imam knelt over it, mumbled a blessing and sliced its throat. The congregation suddenly rose and broke into a crowd to trade handshakes and benedictions. Between the legs and feet of the men standing around the sheep, I could see spurts of blood gushing from the squirming animal in a series of frothy, rhythmic hisses. Many people touched the growing pool of blood with their index fingers and tapped their foreheads three times. I did not.
They said the blood would prevent headaches for the next two years and I thought about all the hangovers and stress migraines I might suffer between now and the end of 2013. I figured it wasn’t even worth it to entertain such superstition and denied several bloody fingers that were ready to make an application. Besides, the blood showed up as a darker shade of black against their dark skin and I figured it might look a little more alarming against mine. I also had an inkling that they were all just trying to mess with me (as Malians are wont to do).
On another note, I think the whole fetishized blood thing comes from a local animist tradition that predates the arrival of Islam in Mali. While Kalibene is considered one of the more devoutly Muslim communities in the area, its interesting to see what fragments of the past are still alive for this community in particular…or maybe they were just messing with me…
The rest of the day played out like any other holiday in Mali. We mostly just sat around, drank tea and ate a lot of rice. The food wasn’t much better either (something most holidays in America tend to imply). The only real difference between everyday food and holiday food is the addition of meat, which is gamey and, often times, still harry. It’s also accompanied by other parts of the animal that I am not used to eating (or seeing) like the intestines, testicles, and stomach. Perhaps the biggest difference between eating meat here and eating it in America (besides the frequency) is that you always know what part of the animal you’re eating before it enters your mouth. Unlike the questionable combinations of ground beef and filler in a hamburger or even the pristine appearance of a raw tenderloin from the grocery store, prepared meat in Mali provides many clues as to its origin; namely in the form of fat, bone and connective tissue still clinging tightly around a small sliver of muscle.
Also, for Malians, the word for meat, “sogo”, includes almost everything except the hooves and the hide. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been chastised for spitting a chewy glob of fat on the ground or for throwing a bone away before sucking out the marrow. Luckily, the least appetizing part of the animal is left for the children. They make their own fire and roast the skull themselves before scooping out hot chunks of brain with their fingers. They offered me a bite but, unlike the unusual sheep blood ritual, I was certain they weren’t messing with me.
*Instead of “trick or treat” to demand candy, the children say, “Sambe, sambe!” Last year, I explained to the kids that, in America, when a household doesn’t give out candy upon request, a “trick” is in order. I regret telling them some of those good old-fashioned Halloween tricks because this year I ran out of candy and, as a consequence, found a bag of smoldering feces on my doorstep.
