This is a holiday that commemorates Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his own son to worship God. In the end he did not and God gave him a sheep to kill instead. So on this day, it is ordained that every Muslim, across the world, with the necessary means, will slaughter and eat a sheep.
That’s a lot of sheep. Herders walk from as far away as Mauritania and Mali to meet the demand in the coastal cities of Senegal.
So it’s a party. One's finest garments are dusted off and ironed, or, more often than not, new ones purchased. Throughout the weeks leading up to Tabaski every tailor shop in the neighborhood was worked busily late into the night, every single night.
Tabaski is also a time when families come together. In the case of my host family, this involved one brother coming to visit from Paris, where he has lived for 10 years, another brother coming from Kédougou city, in the southeast of the country, and other family members trickling in from other cities across the country. There were about 15 people here during this time. This may sound like a lot, but it is actually quite small compared to a typical Senegalese family gathering.
The day arrived amidst great anticipation. It was fun having so many people around. I have grown especially fond of my little host brother, Omar.
First thing we did that morning was wash the sheep. This is traditional. I guess you could say that we wanted it to die cleanly.
Then we washed up and put on our finest clothes for the obligatory trip to the mosque. And when I say ‘we’ I mean the men only, of course. Here are my host brothers, cousin and nephew looking devoutly dapper.
Left to right: Ibrahim (Ibou), Cassi, Abdoul, Papisse. Front: little Omar
The amount of men who come together to pray on Tabaski would never fit into a mosque (which are for the most part single room buildings). So the community got together and set up a big tent for the common prayer service, pitched on a soccer field (large sandy plain). We walked to the tent together, part of a steady stream of neighbors. Upon arrival everyone filed into growing rows of people and prayed briefly before sitting down. In the front of the crowd a frail old imam read prayers in Wolof from a script that he held in his shaky hands. The mic was held by a stoic assistant. Distortion, whether intentional or not, created a rather bizarre effect, and his words vibrated obtusely through the repurposed soccer ‘field’ until the effect was finally corrected. After this point, however, he only continued for another 2 minutes or so before ending rather abruptly and unceremoniously, at which point everyone simply rose, and left. We were only there for about 10 minutes.
Then we got home, changed out of our boubous and killed 2 sheep. And it happened that fast. Again, a strangely unceremonious procedure. I almost missed the first one because I was expecting incantations, and dramatics, or at least solemn prayer. In the event, the sheep was held so that it faced east, towards Mecca, and after whispering into the knife, my host dad Mamadou cut the sheep's throat, and then he cut the other sheep's throat.
I’ve probably taken more pictures of dead/dying animals than any other single subject in Senegal.
After the slaughter things got really fun. The whole family burst into coordinated action to skin, quarter, butcher, cook and prepare the sheep. I guess that when you do this every year, you get pretty good at it. Everyone knew exactly what to do, despite there being little to no explicit coordination, and the sheep rapidly became cooked meat. To give you an idea of how unprepared I was for this efficiency I will give you an example of what dining/cooking can be like here.
One time I ordered grilled fish at a restaurant and waited 2 hours. It is inexplicable. We were the only customers. There was a fish market you could walk to in 10 minutes from the restaurant and the fish required a total of 4 minutes of cooking over open flame made from sticks and palm fronds gathered on the beach in front of the restaurant shack. It was so inexplicable I almost found it funny.
The Tabaski sheep, meanwhile, were slaughtered at 10:45, and I was eating chopped liver and onions by 12:15 sharp.
Then we kept eating for the rest of the day. Mostly various parts of the sheep. There were lots of hors d’oevres going around throughout the day. Then at around 15:00 we enjoyed the main event, an elaborately prepared plate of sheep kebab things and potatos slathered in onion sauce.
Loving it.
Then we drank some juice.
I kept reflexively checking in the fridge to see if there were any more beers.
Just chilled water and guava nectar.
A good nap was in order after the meal, then the party continued. Tabaski is, perhaps, above all a social event. In the evening you are supposed to go around to see friends, and if you have the means, give away pieces of candy to children. When you see someone the first thing you say is ‘balma’ (or xaketu-ma, in Jaxanke, which doesn’t get me far around here). This means forgive me. It is a day to ask forgiveness to all those you know. Turns out it is a great conversation starter.
I swung by Assane’s place with a big bag of candy and gave a piece to every single person in the house, men, women and children. They were very into it. It was the least I could do to repay the constant kindness extended to me by these people, I am invited to lunch and dinner literally every night, although I’ve only actually eaten with them a few times.
Then I strolled over to John’s to say hi to his family. Everyone in the whole city was dressed up. No corners were cut in the pursuit of looking sharp.
Everyone was jovial on this fine day, and seemed to be especially happy to see a toubab in a boubou (traditional robe thing). Balma balma. The festivities went deep into the night, and we ate sheep for several days.
A few days after Tabaski it came time for the family to return to their respective places of work and residence. For most this meant going back to Kedougou, the closest thing to a Jaxanké stronghold in the country, in the extreme south east.
Here the extended family members wait in front of the house for a taxi to take them to the bus station. I do miss these fine people, the house is not the same without them.
L to R: Adema, holding Aisha, Camera (who did not leave), Limona, Odie, Awa. In front, Junior.
A little later on Ibou took his ride to the airport in Dakar to fly back to Paris. I was really struck by the enormous cultural divide that this man, my host brother, was straddling with such apparent ease. He’d already changed his clothes and was now dressed in indistinct European garb. Dressed as such he could walk out of a subway anywhere in Paris, or into the IT office where he works and nobody would bat an eye, despite coming directly from Senegal, in many respects a world away.
I suppose that this parting shot says it better than I can.
Mamadou, Camera and Ibo
At once Parisian and Senegalese.
Such a role, that of living in two cultures at once, is assumed by people throughout the world, and I think it makes the world a very interesting place. I think France would be mostly without dynamism absent this exchange.
The question, on a larger scale is how to make sense of these apparent dual identities. We could also ask if it is in fact a 'dualism', or rather, the merging of cultures and economies, as the barrier of spatial separation is flattened. There are surely many more profound things to be said about this subject, but I will leave it at that for now.
Also, a note: don’t be fooled by the religious garb, Mamadou lived in France for a few years studying aeronautics and then working as aeronautic technician. He reads French literature and stays up with the news.
And with that, the host family was reduced from some 15 people to five: my host parents and two brothers—Casi and Omar, who are both in their mid 20s. A dramatic reduction in dynamism. The rest of my homestay here has thus been a lot different than the first couple weeks. Less to do in the home, more to discover in the city. Very well then.
That’s a lot of sheep. Herders walk from as far away as Mauritania and Mali to meet the demand in the coastal cities of Senegal.
So it’s a party. One's finest garments are dusted off and ironed, or, more often than not, new ones purchased. Throughout the weeks leading up to Tabaski every tailor shop in the neighborhood was worked busily late into the night, every single night.
Tabaski is also a time when families come together. In the case of my host family, this involved one brother coming to visit from Paris, where he has lived for 10 years, another brother coming from Kédougou city, in the southeast of the country, and other family members trickling in from other cities across the country. There were about 15 people here during this time. This may sound like a lot, but it is actually quite small compared to a typical Senegalese family gathering.
The day arrived amidst great anticipation. It was fun having so many people around. I have grown especially fond of my little host brother, Omar.
First thing we did that morning was wash the sheep. This is traditional. I guess you could say that we wanted it to die cleanly.
Then we washed up and put on our finest clothes for the obligatory trip to the mosque. And when I say ‘we’ I mean the men only, of course. Here are my host brothers, cousin and nephew looking devoutly dapper.
Left to right: Ibrahim (Ibou), Cassi, Abdoul, Papisse. Front: little Omar
The amount of men who come together to pray on Tabaski would never fit into a mosque (which are for the most part single room buildings). So the community got together and set up a big tent for the common prayer service, pitched on a soccer field (large sandy plain). We walked to the tent together, part of a steady stream of neighbors. Upon arrival everyone filed into growing rows of people and prayed briefly before sitting down. In the front of the crowd a frail old imam read prayers in Wolof from a script that he held in his shaky hands. The mic was held by a stoic assistant. Distortion, whether intentional or not, created a rather bizarre effect, and his words vibrated obtusely through the repurposed soccer ‘field’ until the effect was finally corrected. After this point, however, he only continued for another 2 minutes or so before ending rather abruptly and unceremoniously, at which point everyone simply rose, and left. We were only there for about 10 minutes.
Then we got home, changed out of our boubous and killed 2 sheep. And it happened that fast. Again, a strangely unceremonious procedure. I almost missed the first one because I was expecting incantations, and dramatics, or at least solemn prayer. In the event, the sheep was held so that it faced east, towards Mecca, and after whispering into the knife, my host dad Mamadou cut the sheep's throat, and then he cut the other sheep's throat.
I’ve probably taken more pictures of dead/dying animals than any other single subject in Senegal.
After the slaughter things got really fun. The whole family burst into coordinated action to skin, quarter, butcher, cook and prepare the sheep. I guess that when you do this every year, you get pretty good at it. Everyone knew exactly what to do, despite there being little to no explicit coordination, and the sheep rapidly became cooked meat. To give you an idea of how unprepared I was for this efficiency I will give you an example of what dining/cooking can be like here.
One time I ordered grilled fish at a restaurant and waited 2 hours. It is inexplicable. We were the only customers. There was a fish market you could walk to in 10 minutes from the restaurant and the fish required a total of 4 minutes of cooking over open flame made from sticks and palm fronds gathered on the beach in front of the restaurant shack. It was so inexplicable I almost found it funny.
The Tabaski sheep, meanwhile, were slaughtered at 10:45, and I was eating chopped liver and onions by 12:15 sharp.
Then we kept eating for the rest of the day. Mostly various parts of the sheep. There were lots of hors d’oevres going around throughout the day. Then at around 15:00 we enjoyed the main event, an elaborately prepared plate of sheep kebab things and potatos slathered in onion sauce.
Loving it.
Then we drank some juice.
I kept reflexively checking in the fridge to see if there were any more beers.
Just chilled water and guava nectar.
A good nap was in order after the meal, then the party continued. Tabaski is, perhaps, above all a social event. In the evening you are supposed to go around to see friends, and if you have the means, give away pieces of candy to children. When you see someone the first thing you say is ‘balma’ (or xaketu-ma, in Jaxanke, which doesn’t get me far around here). This means forgive me. It is a day to ask forgiveness to all those you know. Turns out it is a great conversation starter.
I swung by Assane’s place with a big bag of candy and gave a piece to every single person in the house, men, women and children. They were very into it. It was the least I could do to repay the constant kindness extended to me by these people, I am invited to lunch and dinner literally every night, although I’ve only actually eaten with them a few times.
Then I strolled over to John’s to say hi to his family. Everyone in the whole city was dressed up. No corners were cut in the pursuit of looking sharp.
Everyone was jovial on this fine day, and seemed to be especially happy to see a toubab in a boubou (traditional robe thing). Balma balma. The festivities went deep into the night, and we ate sheep for several days.
A few days after Tabaski it came time for the family to return to their respective places of work and residence. For most this meant going back to Kedougou, the closest thing to a Jaxanké stronghold in the country, in the extreme south east.
Here the extended family members wait in front of the house for a taxi to take them to the bus station. I do miss these fine people, the house is not the same without them.
L to R: Adema, holding Aisha, Camera (who did not leave), Limona, Odie, Awa. In front, Junior.
A little later on Ibou took his ride to the airport in Dakar to fly back to Paris. I was really struck by the enormous cultural divide that this man, my host brother, was straddling with such apparent ease. He’d already changed his clothes and was now dressed in indistinct European garb. Dressed as such he could walk out of a subway anywhere in Paris, or into the IT office where he works and nobody would bat an eye, despite coming directly from Senegal, in many respects a world away.
I suppose that this parting shot says it better than I can.
Mamadou, Camera and Ibo
At once Parisian and Senegalese.
Such a role, that of living in two cultures at once, is assumed by people throughout the world, and I think it makes the world a very interesting place. I think France would be mostly without dynamism absent this exchange.
The question, on a larger scale is how to make sense of these apparent dual identities. We could also ask if it is in fact a 'dualism', or rather, the merging of cultures and economies, as the barrier of spatial separation is flattened. There are surely many more profound things to be said about this subject, but I will leave it at that for now.
Also, a note: don’t be fooled by the religious garb, Mamadou lived in France for a few years studying aeronautics and then working as aeronautic technician. He reads French literature and stays up with the news.
And with that, the host family was reduced from some 15 people to five: my host parents and two brothers—Casi and Omar, who are both in their mid 20s. A dramatic reduction in dynamism. The rest of my homestay here has thus been a lot different than the first couple weeks. Less to do in the home, more to discover in the city. Very well then.
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