The empty streets stank. The sweet scent of shit wafted down alleys, across boulevards, up staircases and through windows. Tunis had changed, it’s ascetic shifted. My walk to school, over light rail tracks, past butchers and bakeries, thoroughly modern optometrists and hazy, thriving cafes now had a new element. The sheep were here.

Like Cairo, Rabat, Damascus, Amman, Jedda, Tripoli, and Algiers, Tunis was now in prepration for Eid aDha. Coincidentally coinciding with America’s Thanksgiving, Eid celebrates the end of The Hajj or pilgrimage to Mecca with massive caloric feasting and immediate family time. It is the responsibility of the devout to buy at least a sheep for the ritual slaughter. A third of its flesh is to be given to the destitute, a third to friends, a third for the family.

I was invited graciously into my friend Sofiene’s family Eid. My friends Rachelle and Paola and I were picked up by his brother Anise in predawn hours of the morning. The streets were empty as we cut our way south out of Tunis proper. We pulled alongside a house which Anise entered. He came out leading a sheep, baying in protest to the eviction. I helped him, awkwardly as a novice, throw the a’loosh to the ground, tying its legs together and locking him in the trunk. We drove back with the bays of the sheep audible over the radio, the sun turning the sky purple, golden and blue.

Anise’s backyard was big enough to host the slaughter. We tied up the sheep, oddly complacent, while someone dug a hole in the ground for the sheep’s blood. Sofiene came back with the knives after the prayer, glinting with fresh sharpeness.

The day before, my friend and fellow neo-Seattlite Byron Murphy and I wanted to see the sharpener. We had heard through friends of the men who wield grindstones in preparation of Eid. We laced up and hit the streets, compiling sentences of Arabic in our heads. Immediately, we saw signs of Eid: sheep on balconies, sheep being led down streets, and bleats audible through thresholds. The open understanding of food’s bloody orgins, the children playing with the doomed sheep and the unregulated mass slaughter and corral contrasted starkly with my American heritage. Does anyone slaughter their own turkey for Thanksgiving? How many of my friends and relations know how to render living animals into meat?

Somewhere in the alleys behind Halfaouine, a tomato dropped from the sky and hit me in the heart. The unripe, red fruit left a dull ache and slight befuddlement followed by suspicion and anger. I offered up a thanks to God and walked on down the twisting, teeming alley, past small cafes, electronics shops, patisseries, second-hand or fripe clothing stores and fruit carts. Eid is also a time of gifts: people were out, shopping in force, and again I was reminded of American holidays.

Above the hum we then heard the sparks. We had arrived at a madh-hab, a sharpener of blades. Hundreds if not thousands of men take to the streets of Tunis every year to make a quick dinar with grindstones and electric buffers. Who knows how many take up the practice in the Dar Islam? We approached the madh-hab and started asking questions.

Mohammed was a hydraulic or pneumatic engineer at the airport. His jumpsuit had his company logo, and it was stained with oil and ash. His son was nearby, playing with the family sheep tied to the wall of the alley. Mohammed expected to sharpen 500 knives, charging one to two dinar per blade. We asked him about the different knives, mostly above the length of a hand, normal kitchen affairs. But one caught our eyes: a huge black cleaver which curved into a point on its back. When I attempted to discern its purpose, Mohammed dropped it to the ground, planted a boot on its handle, and revved up the two-handed electric grinder.

The noise defeaned the din of the city. Red and orange sparks showered our shoes. He flipped the cleaver over with his boot toe to expose the dull side. He worked for twenty minutes as a hundred people or so passed, staring at Byron and me and not the awesome spectacle of shaving metal. An old, craggly-toothed man approached during the cleaver sharpening, and broke into the story of the Angel Gabriel, the son of Abraham named Isaac, and God’s test of a father’s faith. This was the story of Eid: the demand of Abraham to cut the throat of beloved Isaac, who after his father’s faith was proven, was swapped for a sheep.

Back at Anise’s, the brothers assembled and held down the sheep. With a pile of incense burning nearby, Youssef sunk the blade, symbolizing the readiness of Abraham, and the life of the sheep bled into the brown hole. Hot, red blood poured out steamy into the cool morning as the sheep twitched. Drained, it was then carried over to a plastic tarp to be skinned and disembowled. The head is chopped off and laid aside with the hooves near the burning incense. These are taken either to the home stove or outside to numerous entrepreneurs with big grills. For a fee, they char the hair off the heads and hooves. Black and crispy, they can then be cooked.

Next, a small hole is cut in the back leg as a blow hole. Inflating the sheep separates skin from muscles, easing the rest of the butchery. Knives then run across the taught belly of the beast, castrating and skinning. Removing the skin took about fifteen minutes, culminating in a final tug resembling taking off a wooly sweater. The sheep is then hung by its legs and a bucket placed underneath it. The stomach is cut open and the liver, bladder, kidneys, stomach, intestines, lungs and heart are plopped into the bucket. These are saved to cook with again. The whole body of the sheep is roasted, baked, grilled, stewed and fried for a week straight. Again, like the post-Thanksgiving glut of turkey sandwhiches, pumpkin pie for breakfast and stuffing and cranberry snacks.

As the final stages of the butchery progressed, Anise beckoned his guests to the family apartment. We arrived and relaxed as he grilled testicles and liver for us. The balls go on like poached eggs, but puff up like marshmellows. The taste is delicious, if the texture is concerning. Lightly salted and peppered, the liver went down easier. We stayed and ate a huge bowl of couscous with fresh lamb chunks. I gorged myself. In the kitchen, mother and daughter stuffed the sheep’s stomach with stewed small intenstine and vegetables, sewing the whole thing together. I regrettably did not get to try o’sban, but they promised it was divine. Grateful, and stuffed, I waddled home to nap the calories way and ponder the meaning of friendship and true hospitality. How lucky I am.

“Eidik mabrook,” or happy Eid.