Rudolph
December 24, 2003
Rudolph was alive when I bought him.
When coming to Morocco, I really didn’t think about spending Christmas here. It was clear that because this is a Muslim country, Christmas isn’t readily celebrated. But as the days inched their way to Santa Claus’ departure from the North Pole, it never really dawned on me that it was the ‘holiday season’: Christmas trees were non-existent, the city hadn’t been transformed into a red, green, blue, gold and silver shopping machine and there were no reports on the nightly news about whether consumer spending was up or down this year. In addition, the weather in my city wasn’t ripe for snow – albeit snow was visible on the mountains – mosques weren’t blaring Bing Crosby across the land five times a day, and the idea of mistletoe would be Hšumma (socially unacceptable).
I get a call on December 23rd from a volunteer that lives in a neighboring town. She needs my help. She’s supposed to create part of the Christmas Eve dinner at the Catholic Church in my city, but she can’t get all of the ingredients. She needs me to buy the main ingredient because it most likely is available in my city and she’ll pay me back, etc. etc. Because December 23rd is conveniently a Tuesday and on Tuesdays my city has a conveniently huge souq (an open-air market where everything imaginable is sold, except for chestnuts roasting on an open fire – but you can get those in Fez, something I’ve never eaten in the United States…), I decide to go food hunting with my language tutor. We walk a few miles through the souq smelling the gingerbread, eggnog and apple cider, and finally come upon the needed ingredient. Wait, this is Morocco and gingerbread is replaced with spearmint, eggnog with frankincense and apple cider with myrrh, so I guess this story does have an actual Christmas tinge to it. We talk to the salesman and he wants to charge me more than double the price that I am expecting to pay. I think to myself, “Wow, the bah-humbugs have surely gotten to him. He definitely needs some holiday cheer.” I can’t say that in Arabic yet, so instead I merely say, “No, thanks” and leave the souq empty handed as if there were no room at the inn.
My host family cracks up when I recant the story at the communal lunch. Although they don’t come outright with it, they agree with me that the salesman will be getting coal this year in his stocking. My host mother, a jolly woman with glimmerings of tinsel in her eyes, offers to help me with my missing ingredient. Because it conveniently is Tuesday, she is going to the souq to procure the weekly fruit cake, or vegetables some would say. On the second attempt, we pass Frosty the Snowman (I mean carrot man) and some of the worker elves creating toys for the children (I mean tajines for the kitchen). We pass the Grinch who charges double, and as if we were being guided by the North Star through the myriad of products and people, we magically arrive at once in front of the missing ingredient.
Rudolph the Christmas turkey was sitting next to Dasher, Dancer, Panzer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid Donner and Blitzen the Christmas chickens. (I’m sure none of the aforementioned fowl had any idea of their special decree, but they’ll be remembered in history for their martyrdom.) I asked the vendor how much she wanted for Rudolph and was quite pleased with the response. My host mother tried to talk down the price a little, but I wasn’t concerned with haggling on this special occasion. I poked and prodded Rudolph and felt instantly guilty once I heaved him by his tied legs. I’ve seen the process before, yet with chickens. The chickens gackle and cluck and writhe and wriggle all around, as if they have a chance of actually surviving. I knew Rudolph’s fate and I’m sure he new it too, but Rudolph was calm, he never made a sound and wasn’t startled when I began carrying him to the slaughter, pluck and bag station of the souq. Although I couldn’t watch, I know that Rudolph felt no pain in his last moments. All animals in this country must be slaughtered as stated in the Qur’an, which consists of merely slitting the throat: the animal dies instantly.
Carrying Rudolph the Christmas turkey out of the souq, I feel sad. But I feel as if I’m becoming more integrated into the community and into the culture and I feel that Rudolph will be put to good use. At least his body won’t be quartered and sold to various different households, thereby destroying any remaining dignity. However, if someone calls me up and tells me that they need a cow instead of a turkey, I’ll probably have to turn them down.
Wrapping this story up in an angelic manner, I do hope you’re happy and healthy on Christmas Day, and every other day for that matter. A merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!