L-3id Kbeer (some animals were harmed in the making of this blog post)

“L-3id Kbeer” literally translates to “Big Holiday”. “Kbeer” is the Arabic word for large, and of course “3id” is Arabic for “holiday”, with the “L” tacked on in Berber communities as a definite article identifying that the word has been borrowed from another language (this, by the way, has always reminded me of the way American hicks are portrayed in the movies when they say things like “do you listen to the rap”). Anyway, it is an appropriate name as the holiday proves to be a unanimous favorite among people in our community. Not unlike the American Thanksgiving holiday, the centerpiece of “L-3id Kbeer” is the slaughter and consumption of a delicious beast; in this case, ram. In rural areas, like the village I live in, getting a ram is in some ways easier and in other ways more difficult; easier because nearly every household has an animal pen and the means to take care of livestock; but harder because rural Moroccans are not wealthy and rams are incredibly expensive (of course the price goes up exponentially as the holiday approaches). Some people buy their ram months in advance, housing and feeding it all that time to avoid holiday prices. Conversely, some families breed sheep and ram all year in the hopes of making a good profit during “L-3id Kbeer”. In the city, things are a bit different. I spoke to a friend who lives in Rabat about his experience. He said he didn’t really care about the tradition of buying a ram, but his wife insisted that he buy one. Unfortunately, they live in an apartment, in a modern city, with not so much as a shared courtyard. Where is the ram going to go? Thousands of urban-dwelling Moroccans find themselves in this situation each year. The solution is to pay the ram dealer not only for the ram itself, but also for the continued care of the animal until the fateful day. On that day, the ram is delivered to the butcher of choice, and dispatched for the eating pleasure of the entire family.
We happened to be traveling the week prior to “L-3id Kbeer”, and what we witnessed from the seats of our bumpy souq bus was both impressive and hilarious. In every town we passed, from Marrakech to the smallest farming community, rams were everywhere. Rams with their hind legs held up, being pushed forward like wheelbarrows; rams bound and crammed into plastic crates on the backs of scooters; rams tied to city light posts and park fences; rams being walked on leashes down sidewalks; rams strapped to the hoods of cars atop mattresses and other goods; rams being carefully arranged in car trunks; even rams slung around necks like over-stuffed scarves. Imagine if everybody in America bought their Thanksgiving turkey live. Now imagine the Cost-Plus parking lot the week before Thanksgiving. That is what we were witnessing.
In our village, the real festivities began the day before. As if to work themselves up to the solid week or more of a strictly carnivorous diet, people buy some type of red meat on the eve of “L-3id Kbeer” (also known as “L-3id n Tifiyyi”: “the Meat Holiday”) and make delicious meat skewers. The meat is cubed and marinated in chopped onion, minced cilantro, salt, pepper, and generous amounts of cumin. Then it is slid onto skewers and placed onto a “mjmer” (clay brazier) filled with glowing coals. The coals are fanned with a stray piece of cardboard until the meat is browned and glistening on both sides. Finally, the meat is served with bread and sweat mint tea. In a day and a half, we were unknowingly invited to four meat skewer meals; two of them, the morning of “L-3id Kbeer”, before the ram ceremony. Already full of meat, our host mom sat us in front of the TV to relax. The TV displayed visions of men in golden robes holding down a majestic ram. Before I could reflect on the oddity of the programming choice, the suave Moroccan king, atypically dressed in a tradition Moroccan tajllabit (hooded robe), sauntered out to where the other men were, and from behind a white sheet, with a shaky but resolute one-handed motion, slit the ram’s throat. This was our sign. The rule is that you may begin the slaughter of your ram once the king has done the deed. Before long we were ushered out to a common field around which all the neighborhood people had gathered in their finest, most pearlescent cloths. People were taking turns walking around the giant circle of people greeting and being greeted. We fell in line greeting all our fancily clad neighbors and wishing them a happy holiday before being taken over to a lengthy impromptu photo session, for which, as it turned out, I was the photographer. After taking pictures of every possible mixture of people, a beautiful black ram was walked past us. I turned to find that the large common field was in fact full of rams. Probably 15 rams in all, some of them had already been slain, others were at this moment being coddled into their taking their final resting places. Though it was surprising to see so many animals being slaughtered in one place and time, I was not disgusted or disturbed as I thought I might be. These acts were celebratory and reverent, family-oriented, and shared with the whole community. Most of the families cared for their ram for months before this moment. And you can be sure, that in a country where meat is expensive and highly values, these creatures will not have died in vain. In fact, I now know that nearly every part of the animal is salvaged and utilized.
After the animal is dead, a slit is made in the skin near the ankle. Someone will plow into this hole until the skin puffs out like a balloon and separates from the muscle. Then the animal is skinned, starting at the base of the tail. At this point the animal is opened and fully cleaned, saving every organ including the colon. Only the digesting contents of the stomach and intestines are left to waste on the ground when the act is complete.
For the next two weeks or so, we continued to eat pieces of the rams we had seen off that day. One day we had the traditional “head couscous”, a meal which draws strong mixed emotions among PCVs and Moroccans alike. Though the skull was given to our host father to eat, I enjoyed the mild head-flavored couscous and vegetables in my section.
On another occasion, we were invited to a meat breakfast at the huge adobe compound shared by our host sister and the large family into which she was married. The meal started with sweet mint tea and the meat skewers mentioned above. Then, they brought out a tagine sloshing with indiscernible meat stew, laden with a vast variety of chunked meats, so that every bite was a new and surprising consistency. It was delicious! Exactly like menudo, though perhaps gamier; each bite transplanted me to a run-down café in Hatch, NM. Of course, in Morocco, the success of each meal greatly depends on the triangular section of the meal placed in front of you. That day, Amber’s section was visibly less appetizing, making us both wonder, “How many weeks are these rams gonna last”?