From Dad’s journal:
(Holy day of Ghorban)
February 7, 1971
In the still dark of early dawn the black lamb was made ready. The craw of a crow sounded in the cold early light. Tied and bound, the lamb laid on its side awaiting the hired man with his knife. Quickly his blade cut through the throat as the lamb now unable to cry as he broke the cord with all his might. Held down in the struggle, the knife deeper still severed the life of the black lamb. A long hollow metal rod was then thrust in the hind leg of the lamb opening a deep channel into the body. The man brought his lips to the opening of the rod and began to blow his breath into the rod as the lamb began to swell and swell like a balloon. For fifteen minutes he blew until the lamb was twice its normal size. He then proceeded to cut away the lambs black fur as easily as removing a coat. The naked meat of the lamb was now steaming in the cold morning air, ready for the deeper incision to lay bare the intestines and stomach sack. I could see Lygeia and Roia, with their noses pressed to the window as they watched this religious rite with open eyed fascination. The severed head and hoofs of the lamb lay nearby. Now in a heap upon the skin lay all the soft inner life of the sacrificial lamb. The meat of the lamb was now carried to a ladder scaffold and hung, awaiting the carving knife. In a nearby pan the lamb would fall in pieces ready for the beggars and the poor–a thanksgiving offering. That night, we too, feasted.
Tadjrish, Iran
February 7, 1971
The window was cold against my nose, but I kept it pressed there still. There were strangers in our courtyard, and after breakfast they had appeared there with a bleating black lamb, its tongue hanging from its mouth as it struggled against the rope tied tightly around its neck. The snow was in patches around the yard, and the men outside were taking steamy breaths between puffs of their cigarettes. My sister and I stood at the window, while my father and uncle stood outside watching as the two strangers offered the animal a bowl of water. It planted its hooves wide and brought its nose down into the faded plastic bowl. For a brief minute the animal was silent as it drank.
“Mommy!” I called over my shoulder. There was a muffled rattle of shaking dice behind me, followed by an open, sharp crik, crik, crack! as they hit the backgammon board. I turned back in time to see the lamb bring its nose up from the bowl. “Who ar’ dey?”
“Roia joon, come away from that window,” my mother insisted, patting her lap. “Come sit wit me and watch me play wit your grandpapa. You want to tro’ deh dice?”
My eyes were locked on my father outside who was snapping pictures of the strange men posing together. One of them was showing a long metal knife to my father’s camera. My breath was leaving a fog on the window making it difficult for me to see and I wiped it away with my hand, briefly distracted by the drips making their way down the glass to the sill.
“Wow,” my sister exclaimed at the window next to me. “Did you see that?” I looked up at her profile and the fear laced in her voice sent a chill through me. Is this scary? Are these bad men? What followed was like nothing I had ever seen before. Dark blood spilled on the courtyard floor and the lamb was put to sleep in the puddle. Sissy squirmed and groaned and my mother made more attempts to pull me away from the window with her voice, but without success. After a few small jerky movements the lamb moved no more, and my father snapped pictures and smiled jovially at my uncle next to him. To the sound of my mother and grandfather chatting over their game, I watched one of the men blow up the lamb with a pipe, “The lamb’s a balloon!” I exclaimed, and my mother came and joined me at the window for a few minutes.
Instead of bobbing in the air at the end of a string, this black balloon stayed anchored to the ground, misshapen and awkward.
Hiccup
My sister looked down at me and giggled, and I felt a brief moment of calm wash through me before, hiccup, the shudder went through me again.
I felt my mother’s fingers wrap around my hand and I let her pull me in the direction of the game table. I was lifted up and placed on her lap, and I looked across the board and its round pieces up in to my grandfather’s lined face. He smiled.
“Hold your breath,” she said softly in to my ear. Hiccup. I turned to glance at my sister, framed in the window, still glued to the events outside, and drew in a breath to hold.
“Hold it… hoold it…hold it,” her voice went up like Uncle’s car. Hiccup, and I let the air out in a short blast, briefly remembering the last blue balloon I’d gotten at my sister’s school carnival back in California, bobbing from the delicate knot around my wrist. I squirmed around to bury my face against my mother’s breast, feeling her warmth on my cheek.
“It’s my turn?” she asked my grandfather, her voice rumbling through her chest, and I heard the crik, crik, crak and the jerk of my mother’s body as she threw herself back in to the game, taking me along for the ride.
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