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aka Kym Ciftci
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2 days of Bayram
Sadam & The Sorba:
Today is an important day, one that will be written up in the tomes of history never to be forgotten.
Switching on the TV, the first thing I saw was Sadam Hussein, pale face, white shirt, black overcoat, surrounded by men in balaclavas. It is an image that I viewed with the rest of the world today. I watch as masked men place a black scarf around Sadam’s neck and lead him to a modern day version of the gallows, placing the noose over his head. The image changes to that of a female news reporter talking in a language I don’t understand, then back to a white shroud on the floor and the lifeless face of a man that will never be forgotten, a tyrant a monster but just a man like any other in death.
I am not a political animal. In fact, I have never voted in my life. I don’t keep up with current affairs, I have no interest in them and I stopped reading newspapers many years ago after reading the tragic story of Rachel Nickels death on Wimbledon common. It upset me so much that I stopped reading or watching the news. Therefore, I have no idea of Sadam Hussein’s crimes, what he did or what he was sentenced to death for and as shocking as that may seem to some, I don’t care. I try to keep horror, sadness and tragedy out of my head if I can. Shallow? Maybe but surely, that is my prerogative.
For me, today is a happy day because today is the day my sorba arrives to banish the perishing cold from my house and laugh in the face of the power cuts!
Murat has collected it and called from the car park, Jordan has gone off to help him bring it in and I quickly move everything out of the way. The box is huge and I panic a little, they empty it between them and I jump out of the way as a dead cockroach makes an appearance and lands face up on the carpet. It’s the traditional type, about 4ft by 3 ft, with 4 lids on top; the large round one that covers the metal drum of fire, 2 small round ones on the top to the right and a small oblong one, far right. I have no idea what the small ones are for. There is a small oven front right and plenty of tubes which will form a that twists and turns at the top hopefully fitting the existing hole in the wall of my kitchen. Murat asks for the hammer and starts banging at the wall so I decide its time to go for a shower as I can’t bear to witness the potential demolition. I can hear them from upstairs “no she wont like it there” Jordan, and then a “Uss lan” from Murat. I let them get on with it.
When I get back downstairs, the sorba is in place but the pipe is not straight, it angles outward as it makes its way to the top of the wall and reminds me of the Titanic for some reason. Normally I would throw a hissy fit but I guess I’ve relaxed a little in my quest for perfection as my need for heat far outstrips the Lawrence Llewellyn in me. I pull off lids, push in knobs and hold grates for closer inspection. None of us knows what goes where but we manage to light some paper and stand back to watch the effect. Small wisps of smoke filter from the pipes so Murat gets the hammer out again and starts banging them at the join. Jordan rushes upstairs, remembering he has a vent in his room and sure enough smoke is wafting out of the hole. I go up to the roof terrace and check the chimney, its fine and seems to be doing its job so all we need to do is get some wood and a cover for the vent and Ill be in happy heaven tonight!
It’s also market day today so we go to the village to pick up Anne but she has already left. We get aunt Safiye instead and of course, on seeing me, her son Baron insists on coming too. The market is heaving, its Bayram tomorrow and the whole of Altinkum are out buying their goodies for the holidays. We leave Safiye and Baron to it and go to the main shops to look at a jumper Murat has seen. 2 days before he had asked the price and was told 35 lira, today, the day before Bayram it is now 49 lira which makes me angry so he doesn’t buy it. Instead we go to meet Uncles Hasan and Hussein who are eating Kokorech in a backstreet café. Murat orders a Kockorech kebab but I refuse this delicacy and they all laugh at me. The waiter is bringing in a fresh stick to be put on the rotisserie. Wrapped around the large skewer is layer after layer of intestines, creamy white and to me, repulsive looking. Murat is given his in a tissue wrapper and he devours it with relish. I spy a few rubbery looking tubers and my stomach turns. From what I can make out, the conversation has been about the sorba and they are now discussing “Oden” (wood), a bag of which will be given to us from both uncles, plus a bag from Anne’s house. We will be warm indeed!
I leave them to it and head into the heaving market. It’s hard to move, a sea of multi coloured scarves, their trolleys heavily laden with vegetables are pushing and shoving their way through rolling wheels over feet, bits of iron from the handles indenting thighs. I hear an English man “don’t bloody push you bitch”. Fortunately, the woman concerned doesn’t understand him. It’s not really anyone’s fault, we are all just struggling to walk in one big crowd.
I myself am laden down with potatoes, tomatoes, spinach, broccoli, carrots and onions so I make my way back to the car and off load them in the boot. Back into the thong I buy cheese, black olives and crude olive oil, 2 bras for me and 2 vests for Murat, some socks a set of small glasses to replace the broken ones in my bathrooms and a metre and a half of the sponge matting for the bathroom floors. Another trip to the car finds Anne sitting on the floor with her trolley, just waiting and Safiye, Ramsey and Baron heading toward me from the opposite side of the market. I’ve half filled the boot already I realise as I look around; 2 trolleys, 3 laundry type bags, 6 bulging plastic bags, 4 women, one child and a Punto. Hmmmm.
Murat is still in the Berbers so between us we cram and squash bags in then ourselves, me driving and Anne in the front with Baron on her lap. No seat belt of course. Just as I’ve pulled out of the car park Anne remembers she needs meat from the butchers. The street has cars poking out of every orifice with no space to be seen so I indicate right into a side turning and move forward just enough for cars to get past me. Safiye gets out of the back to run into the butchers and I get beeped for a full 5 mins for sitting with the puntos bum sticking out on the main road. We make it back to the village in one piece, head scarves slightly dishevelled from rubbing on the roof and windows but happy not to have travelled by dolmus! I wave goodbye and go back for Murat who has bumped into Jordan and they both hop in the car. I think we are heading home. Wrong! We battle our way down a side street and park in front of a wood seller where Murat buys kindling then takes the driving seat. We then go to the Tailors to pick up his shirt then he dives into another shop as we watch from the car till he emerges carrying a big silver lidded jug. It’s for filling with water to sit on the top of the sorba to be used for cay and washing up. It has an additional use in his house however, in place of a shower as they have no hot running water.
We take Jordan home and off load the bags leaving him scowling at the thought of unpacking, then go to the village. Anne has made Cig Kofte and we are expected for dinner. I, as usual, end up with a lot of it on the floor cloth but I’m not bothered by that these days, they are used to me by now and I’m sure one day I will dip and pick as deftly as they do. It’s a quick meal and after cay we load the car with a couple of bags of wood and a bag of dried grass for kindling and soon we have fired up the sorba and are basking in its heat like Lizards in the desert.
The next morning, 8:30 I’m awake, its “sacrifice day”. I make Tea (English) and grabbed my clothes from the icy bedroom taking them back down with me intending to dress in front of the sorba. Last nights pyjamas are half over my head when I hear the key in the door. The latch is on so I yell at Murat to wait as I pull it back over my head so I can let him in. We exchange gunaydins and iyi baramlahs and he goes off upstairs to change his clothes while I continue with my striptease for the sorba. We are out of the door by 9 and head off to the village, stopping at the market on the way so I can get some change for the kids.
I can see from the road leading into the village, the group gathered on the farmland opposite the houses, all men by the looks of it. We park behind the dolmus and I get my first glimpse of the cow. They are tying lengths of rope to its feet. I count 6 men struggling with the cow and groups of teenagers on the sidelines. I’m greeted and welcomed and I Iyi baramlah and stand poised, pen in hand, preparing myself for the event. One Man is wearing bright red wellies and I realise it is Anne’s cousin Yilmaz, the others in workman clothes totally appropriate for the dirt land and task ahead. The cow is covered in mud, its struggling and the men are grappling with the rope, they are trying to pull it down onto its side. The boys rush in to help and grab rope and horns and uncles, they are laughing. Anne is here now and she has called me to her side, a young boy to her right says something and they all nod and make approving noises, I look at him and he holds the knives up for me to see, glinting in the winter sun.
15 men and boys now pull, the rope stretching it to contain the cow that has no choice but to topple over on its side. I realise I want to pet it. There is a small boy of about 9 standing just to one side of the group, he is wearing smart black cords with orange stripes on the pockets, a black stripped blazer, pink t shirt and shiny black shoes which I can see clearly under the ever so slightly short trousers and I imagine his excitement this morning getting dressed just like little boys in the UK a few days ago at Christmas. Some things never change no matter where you are.
20 men now surround the cow whose eyes are glazed and rolling in their sockets. Uncle Hasan calls for the knife which he checks for sharpness before handing it to Yilmaz. All the men now are holding rope, stretching the bonds tight, holding the cow in position. They start singing. A young a boy brings over a rock which I assume it is to knock the cow unconscious but instead he places it under the cows head tilting it up to the right angle. Yilmaz grabs the fleshy neck between his fingers, then with the other hand, he make a slicing motion and blood gushes forth hissing and splashing onto the damp terracotta earth gathering in a foaming pool of bright red and pink. The cow gives one last groan, its eyes roll to show only whites and its tongue lops sideways hanging out of its mouth but Yilmaz doesn’t stop. He keeps slicing and slicing and I cant take my eyes away as each bit of sinew, fat or gristle appear and the head is gradually cut off. 2 boys to my side are nudging each other and looking at my reaction. I’ve put my hand up to my mouth a few times wide eyed and contemplating chucking, but I don’t. In fact, I am not as repulsed as I expected to be.
Murat is by my side now, “canim, you sad”? I realise I am fine so I say no and he nods his approval “this happens everyday” he continues, “people eat this meat every day, this is normal. This animal knows today is Bayram and he is a present to god”. I’m not sure if the cow knew or not but I accept what he says, I’m not here to judge.
We head off to Safiyes now to see the kids, 2 of which open the door with their hair hanging down in fresh braids. Belfin grabs my hand and drags me down the corridor into the salon where Nana and Uncle Hadair are sitting and I spot Baron curled up in the corner crying. I’m piled full of sweets and cake and I dish out 2 lira each to the kids in different denominations. Mistake! Baron now thinks I’ve given more to Belfin but Fatouche doesn’t seem to care, she has put her money in the zip pocket on her jean skirt and is dancing around the room listening to it jingle. It’s a flying visit and we are soon in the car making the 2 min journey back to the cow to check on its progress. We pass a village family on the roadside, smiling and waving with their sacrificial sheep hanging upside down from a lamppost, blood trickling into the road.
The cow has now been skinned and all I can see is a white layer of fat. “What happens to the skin” I ask Murat and he tells me the council will come along in a few hours and gather up all the hides. These are then given to a company who sells them off and gives the proceeds to the poor in places such as Afghanistan. The rest of the animal will be divided between 7 families and some of the meat will also be given to the poor in the village. The women of the family are squatting by a heap of firewood having a chat and I see Anne now has a chopper in her hand ready to help divide the meat. We don’t stay to watch, instead we go off to see baby Helin.
Helin is sleeping when we arrive but within 30 seconds, Murat has pulled the cover off of her crib and she is happily gurgling in his arms. “fistik benim” he is saying as he kisses her chubby little face, eyes wide open now and looking around. I grab her off him and stick my nose against hers rubbing either side. I am rewarded with a smile and a gurgle and she sits contentedly on my lap as we drink cay and eat the compulsory sweets. Its time to go as the car is due back at 12 so we smother Helin in kisses and say goodbye to Ayfare. As we leave, the family from the house upstairs are in the garden struggling with a fawn colour goat. I look over just as the blade is slicing through its jugular. It mews and I feel sad.
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