Blog

Sacrifice holiday turns Turkey blood red

Cars and trucks blow up dust as they caravan their way into a barren valley on the city’s edge.    A cow groans while chained to a post.   Nearby is a field soaked in blood.  Sheepskins and various organs lie in piles, a few heads that haven’t been tossed stare up into the sky.

It’s Kurban Bayram, the Sacrifice Holiday.  Eid al-Adha in Arabic, it is the 4-day climax of the Islamic calendar. Muslims congregate in Mecca as part of the yearly pilgrimage (known as Hajj) during this time.

Observed on November 27 (the date moves back 10 days each year), the holiday celebrates the story of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son, Ishmael (Isaac in Christianity and Judaism).  According to scripture, Abraham was ordered to sacrifice his son for God.  As Abraham was about to follow through, God ordered him, instead, to sacrifice a lamb.

On the first day, Muslim families with enough money remember Abraham’s obedience by slaughtering livestock.

“It’s going to be like a big pig roast,” joked American Hugh Turner to friends accompanying him to the kesim yerine, the cutting spot.  Unlike the others, Turner spent some of his childhood in Turkey and knew what to expect.

A man walks his sacrfice to the "cutting spot."

At first glance, the holiday seems far from festive.  Men walked with six-inch blades, their hands covered in blood.   Pens of crowded sheep sat across from plastic tents, where some soon found themselves skinned. But Kurban is more than the first day’s gruesome sight.

“As a child, I always remember Bayram as a happy time,” said 45-year-old Ilhan Unlu.

Unlu’s memories included his parents giving him the traditional set of new clothes for Bayram while his family would come together.

Entire families like Unlu’s take part in the slaughter. Men cut the neck of the blindfolded offering while repeating the required prayer.  Burly village women picked up axes to cut the meat on bloody stumps.  Young boys and girls moved troughs of water and plastic bags to help their parents clear the waste and pack the meat.

The meat is traditionally divided into three parts: one for the poor, one for visiting friends and relatives, and one for the owner.  The skins are donated, many to the Turkish Airforce to make leather jackets.

Sheepskins piled high for the Turkish Airforce.

“Every part must be used for God,” said Sezari Ozgul who collected sheepskin scraps for the poor, “Nothing can be used for evil [to make a profit].”

On the way back into the city, our taxi driver stopped at a student cafeteria turned butchery.  Inside, racks of meat hung from the ceiling as families carried their kill in oversized shopping bags to be chopped into cuts.  Teenage boys wearing yellow slickers and boots pushed wheel barrels filled with guts and poured them into a garbage truck.  Some of the meat was cooked on site and given out.

“The sharing of food levels the playing field,” said Ozden Alp, a female fitness instructor,  “In the past, this was the only way.  Today, you can give directly to charities.”

With the price of livestock on the rise, more are giving to charities that include care for veterans, cancer research, and refugee aid from Palestine to Turkmens in China.  For many however, tradition still dominates.

“Normally, I give to charity,” said 35-year-old Mertan Korkmaz with a blood spotted chin, “But my mother is here, and she wants this.”

As Turkey becomes more urbanized, more debate how Turkey should regulate the practice.  Some even ask if the practice should continue at all.  In earlier years, sacrifices were made in backyards, roadsides, and in city center gatherings.

“Kurban Bayram is a rule in Islam, and it’s not going to disappear,” said the stylishly dressed Alp, “The problem is when people don’t have enough knowledge to do it safely.”

Today, most cities regulate sacrifices to approved areas for health and safety purposes.

“The city laws make it easier for us,” agreed Korkmaz, “It’s much safer now.”

Sheep wait in pens next to the "cutting spot."

At the end of the day, only a few hundred sheep remained alive in the field from what must have been nearly a thousand in the morning.   People left dirty and tired, but ready for the next three days of feasting with family and friends.

Before leaving, I asked Korkmaz if he ever felt bad for the sheep.

“Yes.  Always,” he replied.

(For complete pictures from the day, visit the “Kurban Bayrami” photoset in the Photo Gallery.  WARNING: Graphic Content.)