The G.O.A.T. 🐐
My First Sacrifice Festival: Blood, Guts, and Meeting the Parents in Asia Minor
An Irish Guide to Culture and Death
I was 25, fresh-faced, dumb, and in love. Elif, a Turkish woman who I had just fallen in love with, had invited me to meet her parents. Six months into our Celtic-Turk whirlwind romance, she was already keen to show me off. I didn’t mind. My vanity made being shown off easy.
I arrived in Turkey in the fall of 2013 with not much of an idea as to what was supposed to come next in my life. I was slouching from deal to deal at the local language schools in a small city in the heart of Anatolia. Elif had been married to a famous Turkish musician, and somehow, somewhere, we met at one of his shows.
Elif was a rich teacher, mostly because her husband was a rich rock god with long grey hair. He was probably 40; Elif was 28; and I was 25. I won’t bore you with the details of how unlikely romance kicked off, but let's just say neither I nor her rock-god husband knew much about her early intentions.
Perhaps that’s another story for another day.
Elif had spirit, but it was obvious that someone had beaten her down. Whether it was physically or mentally, I dared not ask, but whatever had happened between them, I was convinced that she didn’t deserve it. She drove a white SEAT and had a cute dog named Mitty, who was smitten with me. Our first six months were a whirlwind.
I don’t know if you know this, but the Turks are Muslims. What makes Turkish Islam so special to me is that everyone has the right to honor God in their own way. If a person wants to go to a mosque multiple times a day, they can. If they’d rather be in the pub, well, they can do that too.
As an Irish catholic, I loved this as it meant I could drink first and pray later.
Sure, my drug days were mostly behind me, but alcohol still had a tight hold. Elif didn’t mind. I think she was just happy to be with someone who wasn’t bored with life. For her, at least looking back with an older head, it seemed she had found a new puppy that she could use to look at her country with fresh eyes. I was always energic and up for an adventure, and that seemed to revitalize her.
Soon, it was time for me to meet her parents. Elif thought it would be interesting for me to experience Kurban Bayram, (sacrifice holiday), as it was my first full year in Turkey. Being the young man about town, I wasn’t entirely sure why she wanted to bother with introducing me. After all, in my head, I was always one bad day away from packing up and flying away. Terrible, I know, but I needed that fail-safe of being able to leave whenever I wanted to truly enjoy Turkey. So I happily went with her to celebrate the holidays. I knew little of Kurban Bayram, only that it was an important holiday and everyone ate food.
I figured I could use some turkey and gravy in my belly.
Despite Elif being cosmopolitan and modern, her family was anything but. It seemed every twenty-something-year-old in Turkey was a generation away from the stone age. At least that was my first impression when I saw Elif’s hometown of Alesehir.
The town was centered in vineyard country, but no one made wine. It was surrounded by farms, but there were no animals. There were three cars per person, but there was nowhere to go.
Alesehir was and probably still is a third-rate, one-horse town in a forgotten Turkish province.
Rough, I know, but honest. To this day, it is the worst city I have ever been to, and I went to school in Limerick.
Relax Limerick, you know I love you.
For those of you who don’t know where Limerick is, it’s a city in the southwest of Ireland that is actually very pretty but has gained a name as a stab city. Personally, I have always loved Limerick.
Anyway.
Elif’s family lived in a duplex at the city's edge, near the graveyard. None of them spoke English, and on first viewing, it was clear none of them liked me.
I was everything a nationalistic Turkish father didn’t want. I was Christian, and worst of all, I didn't own a car. I would later discover that no one in his family owned a car except for Elif.
I learned this a few years later at Elif’s brother’s shotgun wedding to a dancer he knocked up. He wanted to drive off into the sunset with his plumb Turkish bride, as is tradition in Turkish backwaters, but alas, the nationalistic boy had no money. So, it was left to the foreigner to give him money so he could rent a car.
Well, I found the boy a Chevrolet and handed him the keys. We didn’t even say thank you and before I could even buckle up, the wild rat accelerated through the narrow village streets, weaving through and past cats, dogs, cars, and children. “I take you town centre!” He shouted in broken English over the screeching of tires and horns. “City center is good. Lights and Bira!” ‘Lights you say? Electric lights and alcohol? Well, sign me up. Viva Las Alesehir!’
That night, Elif's brother took me out on the town and into every mafia dive this side of Istanbul. A story for another day, perhaps. Jesus. Long story short, the rat destroyed the car and didn’t even apologize. He just left me with the bill. The ambiance that surrounded that boy was so rough and so foul that I just accepted it. That was the family I was joining. But back then, upon the first meeting, how was I to know?
Elif's nationalistic, small, and fat father led me upstairs and introduced me to the family. There was the mother, a small woman who looked like she could be Elif’s twin, and the brother, whom I just gave you a future glimpse of. We all settled around the table for tea, and Elif translated as I conversed and answered her family's questions. I was expecting an interrogation from these odd Turks, but all I got was love. They were, for all intents and purposes, the salt of the earth, except for the brother, who, even back then, scared me.
The father only wanted to speak about football, so I feigned interest. I used to be a big Manchester United fan but eventually found more meaningful things to follow like drugs, sex, and travel. Football, bloody hell! It really is the great global conversational lubricant. I lied and told the man I was a Besiktas fan only because Elif told me to. He was content with that.
Eventually, Elif tore me away from him and took me upstairs to the terrace, where I would be sleeping. On the same terrace, I would eventually sleep through a military coup. We were in the depths of summer, and even my eyebrows were sweating, so I was grateful to be sleeping under the stars. I could also smoke in peace up there and mess around on my new phone.
As the sun set over the Anatolian hills, the call to prayer rang out, but this time it was different. The call, usually so loud and fierce, was being drowned out by the baaing of a million lambs, goats, and sheep. The smell of dung swirled through my nostrils as I took one last drag before sleep.
I awoke fine and early the next day. I had slept well and was full of vigor. Elif’s mother had even left me some Nescafe to tide me over. I found this to be thoughtful, and it made me suspect that she had been a smoker in her former life.
The plan for the day was simple. We were to see Elif’s brother’s friends for a drink and have a walk in the park before setting off to buy supplies for the sacrifice the following day. Of course, we used Elif's car, and we set off down through the village streets before finally coming to an abrupt stop three streets down. It seemed his friend lived in a bungalow at the end of the street, which was blanketed by olive trees and vines. The house looked idyllic until the three of us set foot inside and were greeted by an animalistic scene.
The kitchen was covered in dried dirt, food, milk, and so on. The curtains were drawn, and there weren't any sofas or chairs. In the corner, there were two pigeons rocking 1970s flared jeans, staring at me.
To this day, I know those damn pigeons knew I was foreign.
Pretty soon, I heard ruffling coming from the bedroom and outstepped a huge Turkish man with black curly hair and a beard to match. His eyes were bloodshot from God knows what, and his belly pushed his sweatpants down, revealing more curly hair. The brother hugged him and Elif gave me a knowing look as if to say, 'I'm sorry.’ It wasn’t her fault; her brother was degenerate.
The two oddities spoke for a while as I went outside for a smoke. Elif followed. “Look, we’ll stay for another minute, and then we’ll go to the park for a walk.” She was already trying to reassure me. She knew I smelled trouble. I had seen it before. I had grown up working in bars and hotels. I knew their type. I stubbed out my smoke and went inside.
Back inside the bungalow, I saw the fat one drag a box into the center of the living room as Elif entered behind me. Whatever it was, it was heavy and the brother seemed turned on as he clinched his hands together. The fat one opened the box, and there it was. A box of grade-A Syrian grass.
I say Syrian because that’s what everyone called sh*t that was illegal back then. These days, it’s Afghan this and that.
I slowly turned to Elif and gave her the ‘Let’s get the eff out of here’ look, and she complied post haste. We left her brother to his business and went to the park, where we saw a cute squirrel and ate my favorite Turkish fast food, Kokoreç.
Well, we went to the park and got supplies, but dark clouds were forming around my eyes. Her brother had turned me off. Sure, I was no picnic, but dealing drugs during the holidays was a little too Escobar for me. Elif felt my mood change, and she promised not to take me out with her brother again.
So we returned to her parent's house later that evening after our walk, and I pulled up a chair on the terrace and lit a smoke. The call to prayer rang out again, but this time there was no baaing.
No noise.
Nothing.
It seems they knew that the sacrifice was about to begin.
Blood and 40-degree heat do not mix well. Trust me, I know. I smelled it, felt and, God help me, tasted it. The next morning was sweltering, and in a land full of fresh death, the only real sin is not owning an air conditioner.
Elif’s family was most definitely guilty of this.
I threw on my trusty pink shorts and blue shirt. The father immediately approached me and buttoned up my shirt to hide my necklace which sported a cross. It was my first real indication that my differences were noted. As we made our way down the street to the house of their extended family where we were going to eat, Elif's brother pulled me aside, and pushed an axe into my chest, and said, “You will cut!” I was a little taken aback and thought to myself ‘That’s Odd.’
Curious people.
We made it to the feasting house in good time and were met by all the relatives. I don’t mean to be mean, but I felt like I was in the movie Deliverance or The Hills Have Eyes. While Elif's family was pretty normal-looking, her extended family looked like a bunch of Daryls from The Walking Dead, minus the crossbow.
Scratch that, there was one crossbow in the garage.
After the introductions, the women went upstairs, and the men led me outside to a concrete courtyard. In the center, there was a sizable goat securely bound by its legs. It was thrashing around and making awful sounds. Next to him stood a butcher covered in blood, flies, and stagnating guts. The heat made the stench of the poor goat infiltrate my essence, and I began to get nervous. I began to feel death.
I took a step back, but Elif's brother was behind me. He blocked my way and told me, “Hadi lan, bak!” I knew that sacrificing was part of the culture, but I had always thought that the butcher did it in a refrigerated unit that was sanitized. Not outside, covered in flies and in 40-degree summer heat.
As the poor goat trashed, neighed, baaed, and shouted, the family’s dog which was a Turkish Kangal named ‘C word'. Yes, that word. But with K. Sarted barking and drooling.
And then it happened. The butcher cut the goat's throat and put a bucket under it. I have never, even to this day, seen death like that. So slow and gruesome, and, dare I say, so unnecessary. It was almost like they were trying to prove a point to the animal kingdom.
The poor beast trashed and swung itself from side to side, somehow still alive and aware of its fate and destiny. I stepped forward, grabbed a knife that was nearby, and lunged toward the animal's heart, but was pulled back by Elif's father. There was an instant uproar at my actions, and the butcher gestured to the sky and spoke more Turkish. At the time, I didn’t understand but was later informed that he said this was the religious method and to intervene would be a sin. Code for, “If you do that again, I’ll beat you to death with your flip-flops!”
Soon, the poor beast was dead, and the butcher began to skin it. I didn’t want to be there anymore, but I was stuck in this backwater with nowhere to go. They handed me a bucket and started cutting off pieces.
My job was to collect the pieces.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. The meat of the goat was still breathing and moving, as if the muscles were yet to get the death notice. Soon, they started tearing out the intestines and squeezing out the sh*t. When I asked what it was for, they said the intestines were used to make Kokoreç. ‘Jesus, God help me!’ I thought. Had I really been eating that all this time?
My favorite fast food was now a no-go.
That night, over dinner, we ate the beast. I remember only doing it out of respect for the culture, but my gums bleed like the Nile. Despite the holy act, I felt sinful and ashamed.
That night, I prayed for all the lambs that had been silenced.
On the drive back to our city, I knew Elif wasn’t the one for me. Yes, I loved her and I knew she was a good person at heart, but her brother was complicated and her father was simple. It was never going to work.
- Which makes me wonder why I didn’t dare to call it quits then and there.
- Six years later, Elif would do it for me, stating ‘cultural differences.’
- Yes, my friend. I had the chance to walk away. I got to see behind the curtain early on and still stayed.
- I am now a vegetarian
- Elif's family are fine people.
- Her brother is not.
- That method of sacrifice is not normal in Turkey. It turns out they were doing it illegally. Lucky me.
- I will never celebrate that festival again, but I respect those who do.
- Islam is a beautiful religion
- People are weird.
- RIP to all the goats and lambs.
Travel hard and travel far, my friends, but make sure you always come home.
I have been Peter Murphy and you have just read my stuff