A moving story from Palestine

Greetings,

At the conclusion of the holiday season for Muslim, Jews, 
and Christians alike, the story below provides a comforting
call for justice for the people of Palestine and other sacrificial
peoples of the world, the oppressed, the poor, the wretched
of the world.  -- KS
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The Eid Lamb
Copyright: http://www.iviews.com
Published Thursday, December 28, 2000

I could not believe my eyes. Uncle Basem knocked at our door in
Shufat-East
Jerusalem and called us to come look in his car.
"I have a surprise for you," he said.
Uncle Basem opened the back door of his car and tugged on a small a
rope. Out came a lamb, cuddly, cute and eager to meet his "new family."
He "baaed" a hello to us. I ran over to him and with all the energy and
joy of my six years, hugged him and welcomed him, thrilled by this
living gift, the greatest present anyone could give us.
"Here is your lamb, dears," said my uncle. "Happy Eid to you all."
The Eid is an Islamic holiday carried out to celebrate the end of
fasting Ramadan
and the pilgrimage to Mecca, Hajj. The Eid is a day of joy and family
and love. While
we may not hang green garlands tied up with red bows, we come together
to delight
in each other very much like Christian families I know in America who
wade through
snow to get to their grandparents homes on Christmas. In both cases,
there is
feasting, song, warmth and sheer delight especially for the children.
For me, getting a live lamb on Eid was a very special occasion.
Nevertheless, the
rest of my family did not seem very interested in the lamb. Instead,
they were
preoccupied with other Eid gifts: clothes, goodies and sweets.
My older sisters, Manar, said, "He is dirty and will mess up our yard."
My other sisters grabbed Manar . Giggling, the three ran back inside the
house. But
not me, I wanted to prove that the lamb was not dirty and would not ruin
our yard. To
me the lamb was as clean and lovely. I was sure I could make him tidy so
he would
not foul even a spot of the place where we played. I found a bucket and
with the
energy only a six year old could muster, I filled it with warm water and
lugged it up to
"my lamby." I brushed that little lamb so clean the coils of his fur
became fuzzy and
delightful to the touch. As I poured water on him, he started to shiver.
I didn't like that,
so I snuck into the house, took a towel from our bathroom (imagine what
my sisters
would have said if they had caught me doing that) and with towel and my
mother's
hair dryer in hand, I "saved" my friend from what I supposed would
become a
serious cold.
I nurtured my lamby with grass and grape leaves from our garden. "If
this isn't my
lamby, at least, he is our family's guest, and I will make him welcome,"
I said to
myself.
Later my father came out into the yard and picked me up saying, "Come
on, Samah, leave the lamb. It's time for bed," I did not move from the
lamb's appointed place. It did not dawn on me that this happy, sweet
creature, passively licking my hand and enjoying my little fingers
integrating themselves into his coat was tied to our fence and ignored
by everyone but me because he was, in effect, our prisoner.
The next morning, I woke up to the melodious Eid chanting coming from
our
mosque. I could smell Mom's coffee brewing. I jumped out of bed when Mom
called
to me to get my hot milk and date-cookies, a specialty of the holiday. I
didn't wait to
eat my holiday breakfast, but ran straight out into the yard, bare feet,
pajamas and
all. I went straight to the fence to see my lamby. He was not there. I
ran into the
house where Mom and my sister's caught me up in hugs and kisses.
"Where's my
lamby," I asked?
"The lamb is our Eid sacrifice," my sister said. Uncle Basem and Dad
took him to
the butcher to be slaughtered. Many families do this at home in front of
the whole
family, but we preferred not to do this, especially in front of you,
Samah." I ran to my
room in tears. When Dad came home, he and Mom tried to explain the
religious
significance of the slaughtering a lamb. That is a commemoration of the
story of
prophet Abraham and his son. My parents spoke of sharing the lamb with
the needy
people. They told me that the killing was done in a very humane way so
that the little
lamb would not suffer at all and that his death would nurture all of us
as part of our
Eid feast. They told me it was an honor for the lamb to feed the people
rather than to
die from sickness.
Mother promised to get me another lamb to have as a pet, but I did not
want another
lamb. Nothing my parents could say absolved them of their "crime"
against the lamb
and against my love of that particular animal.
As I saw my family gathering at the dinner table eating the spicy tender
meat of "my
friend," I learned a lesson I have not since forgotten: that pain is the
loneliest feeling
in the world, particularly, the pain of loss.
I took my salad and bread and went off alone and very sad. In time, I
began to eat
and enjoy meat again, although I never quite learned to appreciate the
Eid sacrifice
that involves the destruction of a living being. There are times when a
hint of guilt
surfaces as I enjoy a good meal of meat. I well understand that lambs
must be
slaughtered to feed us and, at Eid, to provide a sacrificial reverence
we humans
need in order to maintain our relationship with a greater Being than
ourselves. My
head tells me that the meaning of a lamb's life is to die for human
benefit and so it
is fitting and right that this occurs. My heart, however, reflects on
what it meant to me
to lose a friend and a momentary loneliness returns, quickly eased by
the busyness
that awaits me beyond my table.
On every Eid for years, my family would bring up the story of the lamb
and my sisters
would chide me and make fun of "my sentimentality." But this year, the
Eid is
different. This year, our people are the sacrificial beings of our
world. We
Palestinians seem to be born to die like lambs, sacrificed to feed the
security
needs, the righteousness and resentments of our oppressors. They tell
the world
that taking our land and our lives is God's ordained plan and that,
along with
weapons provided by people far from our domain, makes their actions
right. Few
interfere, now that so much is said and done. Some watch and wait as our
lambs
are led to slaughter carried along by our own people's determination not
to give in or
accept apartheid and loss that will leave a bitter loneliness in
thousands of hearts
for centuries to come, a repetition of our oppressors claims, but worn
by us instead
of them. I stop to think. As our young people die, do we, in reality,
give in to our own
selfishness in terms of resistance. Have we lost all sense of the value
of our own
humanity?
Now justice is no more than confusion for me. My lamby died in honor to
feed my
family, the needy and allow us to thank God along the way. That was our
sense of
justice toward the animal.
It appears that the Israelis see killing us as right and just, a
sacrifice they willingly
make. We are the scapegoats used to honor their sense of what God, not
to
mention humankind, wants. Evidently, destroying our world and killing us
eases the
pain of segregation they say they've experienced throughout the ages. It
does not
seem to matter that they often choose to be apart from all the others
and that they
readily kill us to maintain that separation today. It does not seem to
dawn on many
of Jewish faith that they have the ability to use religion for evil just
as much as any
other group. Many Zionists say taking Palestine is their retribution
against the world
and they deserve to have this place.
To them, we Palestinians are the sacrificial lambs, the
scapegoats-acceptable
deletions from a world supposedly given to all of us, but now claimed by
certain
members of the Jewish faith.
On December 22, Hanukkah began and Jews all over the world lit candles
to celebrate their connection with God and remembrance of their past. On
December 25, my Christian friends celebrated the birth of Jesus Christ,
the greatest advocate of love and revolutionary forgiveness many of us
know. On December 27 and 28, we Muslims celebrated the end of Ramadan,
honoring the God who se,nt this man of peace to make human life more
meaningful than that of my little lamb.
Followers of all three of these monotheistic religions will, in their
own ways, open
gifts, enjoy feasts and sing about the Holy Land. How many, however,
will wake on
their holiday morn aware of our pain? I'm quite sure that my family will
not joke with
me this year about the death of our sacrificial lamb or the bitter taste
of being alone
and in pain.

                              _____________________________________

Samah Jabr is a seventh year medical student and a life long resident of
East Jerusalem.  This Article was written with Betsy Mayfield, Iowa.