Islam’s Bloody Celebration
Travel Stories: At the Muslim Feast of the Sacrifice in Jordan, Rolf Potts unearths the quirky, intimate face of an Islamic world you won't find on the news
Unfortunately for my notions of authenticity, however, Mohammed’s “Eid” consisted of him and two other goofy-looking 16-year-olds drinking canned beer in a tiny room on the second floor of the Petra. Mohammed introduced his two friends as Sayeed and Ali. Neither of them looked very natural as they grinned up at me, clutching their cans of beer.
I noticed there were only two beds. “Are you all sleeping in here?” I asked.
“Just Sayeed and Ali,” he said. “I sleep at my uncle’s house in Aqaba. My family always comes here for the Eid al-Adha.”
Mohammed poured some of his beer into a glass for me and put an Arabic pop tape into his friends’ boom-box. The four of us sat in the room chatting, drinking and listening to the music. After about 30 or so minutes of this, I began to wonder what any of this had to do with the Feast of the Sacrifice. “Aren’t we going to celebrate the Eid?” I asked finally.
“Of course,” Mohammed said. “This is the Eid.”
“Yes, this is the Eid, but won’t you be doing something special at your uncle’s house?”
“It’s not interesting at my uncle’s house. That’s why I came here.”
I looked skeptically at my three companions. “But isn’t there something traditional that you do when you celebrate the Eid?”
Mohammed thought for a moment. “We spend time with our family.”
“But you just said that you didn’t want to be with your family.”
“Yes.”
“So you aren’t really celebrating the Eid, are you?”
“No. This is the Eid!”
“How?” I said, gesturing around the tiny room. “How is this the Eid?”
“We’re drinking beer. Many people drink during the Eid.”
Ignorant as I was about Islam, I was positive that a true Muslim holiday would have very little to do with swilling beer.
“I’m sorry guys,” I announced, “but I think I’m going to go now.”
Mohammed looked hurt. “But you said you came here for the Eid!”
“Yes,” I said, “but I could drink beer and listen to music back home in America. I want to do something different.”
“Maybe you want to dance?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Where can we dance?”
Mohammed reached over to the boom-box and turned up the music. The three Jordanian teens leapt up and started to shake their hips to the music. There was no room to move, so they stood in place and waved their arms around. The Arabic music was as stereotypical as it could get: a snake-charming, harem-inspiring swirl of strings and drums and flutes. Mohammed took me by the arm; I stood and tried to mimic his dance moves.
“Is this an Eid dance?” I yelled over the din of the music.
“No!”
“Is this Eid music?”
Mohammed laughed. “Of course not!”
“Then why are we doing this?”
“Because it’s the Eid! It’s fun, yes?”
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