Sacrificial Dinner.
It started with a date change. Originally to be held on a Thursday, Bajram, also known as Eid-al-Adha, was moved to Friday. Not since 1939 when FDR changed Thanksgiving’s date, have people been so confused on when to celebrate a holiday. Originally, I thought the date change was because the Ayatollah wanted a three-day-weekend; come to find out, it was a different Mufti’s Fatwa that was the basis of all this confusion.
Bajram, no matter what day it takes place on, is one of the most holy periods on the Muslim calendar. When following the lunar Muslim calendar, it falls at the end of the Hajj and lasts for four days. If you were to use the Gregorian calendar, the placement of this holiday changes every year. It’s a similar kind of confusion that let the Russians have an October Revolution in November.
The holiday, many will tell you, is functionally Muslim Christmas. It is a chance to head back to your family’s village, eat, celebrate both the pinnacle of your faith and each other, all while taking a needed break from the chaos of Pristina. And that is exactly what happened.
Laura and I don’t have a village to go back to—or Muslim heritage for that matter—so, we were left in the city. Our landlords brought us homemade baklava and sweets to start the day. Besides that, it was quiet. That is to say, Pristina was calm for the first time since our arrival in September. The streets were clear of both static and kinetic cars. Pollution wasn’t billowing out of our neighbors’ chimneys. It was so calm that you could watch nature slowly reclaim the city as evidenced by sheep roaming the empty streets.
OK, they didn’t roam as much as paced about where farmers had tied them up to posts and guardrails. For 100 Euros, you could have your own sacrificial lamb. Literally. As I walked past these sheep, I made an objectively unfunny, hackneyed, and obvious joke about the future of those sheep. Laura politely chuckled as she silently rolled her eyes. Moments later, as we approached the Italian Park, which is a city park by any other name, we saw four sheep hanging from a single tree.
With rusty knives and axes, three men bled, skinned, and butchered sheep from the makeshift market below. Not only was this scene unexpected, but it was the clearest flout of health regulations I’ve seen in Kosovo. Where better to create a biohazard than next to the swing set? Luckily for the not-yet-sacrificed sheep, a small apartment building and some brush in the park obscured their view of the massacre. At an opposing park exit was a dumpster with a bloody sheep skin hanging over the side; a waste of good sheep skin, if you ask me. Back at the ad hoc butcher, a family of six watched expectantly. In a nation where the average income is two Euros a day, this was going to be a feast to remember.
The family, in fact, will only eat one-third of the sheep. On account of tradition, one-third will go to a neighbor, and another third to the poor. Due to this charity, there seemed to be a higher density of Roma in the neighborhood. Some walked around with drums, looking to be invited to play during the festivities, others were, best I could tell, looking for work, and some were simply looking for their third of a sheep.
This desire for charity continued throughout the weekend. The following day, Laura and I were reading in the living room of our third floor apartment as noise grew from outside. Being that there was a violent protest earlier this week, I was concerned that they found out where the Americans lived, and they had come for their heads. Remembering that Laura and I are not the Americans in Kosovo, nor are we that desirable to an angry mob, I headed to the front porch to have a look for the clamorous source.
On the street was a tumultuous crowd of 30 or 40 people all of whom sought entry into a store I’d never seen opened before. As this group pushed their way against the glass of the building, they were both breaking the peaceful silence of the holiday and, of course, the traffic laws by parking in the street with no acknowledgement of other drivers. In fairness, I’ve only assumed the latter exists; I’ve never checked. Certainly, if traffic laws do exist in Kosovo, they are rarely and poorly enforced.
The huddled masses yearning for free stuff shifted and shoved beneath our porch. The store opened to give out household goods and some food to those in need for Bajram. People had brought their wheelbarrows just incase the gettin’ was really good. I was touched by the store’s charity, but the mob was having less of an effect on me. Watching a bunch of people in the rain push and shove old women who were given priority for tin foil and tooth paste hardly seemed in the vein of Bajram. Yet, this selfish approach to receiving selfless charity persisted.
Even though this one needy crowd broke the calm wake of a serene holiday weekend, Bajram was evidence that even Pristina can be subdued by the holiday season. It was a reminder that a culture is at its best when it comes together to celebrate and give. Something to remember as Laura and I prepare for our American Thanksgiving in Kosovo. When we have a date, we’ll let you know.
Bajram, no matter what day it takes place on, is one of the most holy periods on the Muslim calendar. When following the lunar Muslim calendar, it falls at the end of the Hajj and lasts for four days. If you were to use the Gregorian calendar, the placement of this holiday changes every year. It’s a similar kind of confusion that let the Russians have an October Revolution in November.
The holiday, many will tell you, is functionally Muslim Christmas. It is a chance to head back to your family’s village, eat, celebrate both the pinnacle of your faith and each other, all while taking a needed break from the chaos of Pristina. And that is exactly what happened.
Laura and I don’t have a village to go back to—or Muslim heritage for that matter—so, we were left in the city. Our landlords brought us homemade baklava and sweets to start the day. Besides that, it was quiet. That is to say, Pristina was calm for the first time since our arrival in September. The streets were clear of both static and kinetic cars. Pollution wasn’t billowing out of our neighbors’ chimneys. It was so calm that you could watch nature slowly reclaim the city as evidenced by sheep roaming the empty streets.
OK, they didn’t roam as much as paced about where farmers had tied them up to posts and guardrails. For 100 Euros, you could have your own sacrificial lamb. Literally. As I walked past these sheep, I made an objectively unfunny, hackneyed, and obvious joke about the future of those sheep. Laura politely chuckled as she silently rolled her eyes. Moments later, as we approached the Italian Park, which is a city park by any other name, we saw four sheep hanging from a single tree.
With rusty knives and axes, three men bled, skinned, and butchered sheep from the makeshift market below. Not only was this scene unexpected, but it was the clearest flout of health regulations I’ve seen in Kosovo. Where better to create a biohazard than next to the swing set? Luckily for the not-yet-sacrificed sheep, a small apartment building and some brush in the park obscured their view of the massacre. At an opposing park exit was a dumpster with a bloody sheep skin hanging over the side; a waste of good sheep skin, if you ask me. Back at the ad hoc butcher, a family of six watched expectantly. In a nation where the average income is two Euros a day, this was going to be a feast to remember.
The family, in fact, will only eat one-third of the sheep. On account of tradition, one-third will go to a neighbor, and another third to the poor. Due to this charity, there seemed to be a higher density of Roma in the neighborhood. Some walked around with drums, looking to be invited to play during the festivities, others were, best I could tell, looking for work, and some were simply looking for their third of a sheep.
This desire for charity continued throughout the weekend. The following day, Laura and I were reading in the living room of our third floor apartment as noise grew from outside. Being that there was a violent protest earlier this week, I was concerned that they found out where the Americans lived, and they had come for their heads. Remembering that Laura and I are not the Americans in Kosovo, nor are we that desirable to an angry mob, I headed to the front porch to have a look for the clamorous source.
On the street was a tumultuous crowd of 30 or 40 people all of whom sought entry into a store I’d never seen opened before. As this group pushed their way against the glass of the building, they were both breaking the peaceful silence of the holiday and, of course, the traffic laws by parking in the street with no acknowledgement of other drivers. In fairness, I’ve only assumed the latter exists; I’ve never checked. Certainly, if traffic laws do exist in Kosovo, they are rarely and poorly enforced.
The huddled masses yearning for free stuff shifted and shoved beneath our porch. The store opened to give out household goods and some food to those in need for Bajram. People had brought their wheelbarrows just incase the gettin’ was really good. I was touched by the store’s charity, but the mob was having less of an effect on me. Watching a bunch of people in the rain push and shove old women who were given priority for tin foil and tooth paste hardly seemed in the vein of Bajram. Yet, this selfish approach to receiving selfless charity persisted.
Even though this one needy crowd broke the calm wake of a serene holiday weekend, Bajram was evidence that even Pristina can be subdued by the holiday season. It was a reminder that a culture is at its best when it comes together to celebrate and give. Something to remember as Laura and I prepare for our American Thanksgiving in Kosovo. When we have a date, we’ll let you know.
