This is a small story from my childhood.
When I was little – somewhere between the ages of six and nine – my family took me to celebrate this holiday. At first, when I saw goats be-e-e’ing and then getting their heads chopped off, I whined and told my parents I would be converting to Christianity as soon as possible because of this animal cruelty. Long story short, we also “sacrificed” two goats and got their meat cut into cubes.
I vividly recall everything even to this day.
We first gave a piece to the man who cut the meat for us. He seemed a little tired and thanked us for sharing our meal with him and wished us a great day.
Then, we gave a little meat to those less fortunate in the area where we sacrificed the goat (we were far from Baku, the capital city). Skin colors of those less fortunate were also a little dark: one could see they were often outside, earning money for their family – the same way the man above did. They also seemed exhausted, unmoved by the beauties of life. The mothers looked at us, thanked us, wished us God’s mercy, the best, and a good day.
What broke my heart was this notion: imagine you’re a woman in your late 30s with a little child; you’re left alone with a kid, unable to work. And God forbid that you are sick or injured; what’s worse – the kid. What a horror. And yet, those courageous women found the strength within themselves to keep living and working hard for themselves and their kids.
This teaches gratefulness.
I pray they are doing well.
- Nihad Badalov