Karama

Our Colloquial Arabic - English/ English – Colloquial Arabic, A Concise Dictionary says that a Karama is, “1. Sacrifice to get a blessing (slaughtering of a sheep) 2. Alms Giving 3. Miracle done by holy man or saint.”

Around here a Karama is an event, sometimes big, sometimes small, but never without the slaughtering of an animal. Karamas are most often held after the birth of a child or the acquisition of some great new thing like a car or donkey cart. It is a way to give thanks for God’s generosity, and to reflect that generosity in turn towards one’s neighbors and friends. You invite people over, tell God thank you and then sit around and eat a lot of meat and drink a lot of coffee together.

As our houses neared completion we were inundated with questions of when we were holding the Karama, who all we were inviting, how many goats we would buy. And the whole notion of a Karama started feeling a bit intimidating. For starters, it’s awkward being the richest people your friends know. The thought of flaunting the cinderblock mansions we have just built at a party that seemed a lot like a “Look at this awesome thing God has given me!” kind of party, felt weird, especially when all your guests are refugees who live in tents. And then there was the whole issue of navigating, hosting even, a cultural phenomenon that is still a little fuzzy to our American minds. We have baby showers and house warming parties, not Karamas. How do you do a Karama, and do one well?

Yesterday we found out.

Despite the fact that we had all been sick for well over a week (and when I say “all”, I mean all four Harrisons and three Graves, sick sick) we finally buckled down and decided to muscle our way through the week to hold our Karama on Saturday. Upcoming travels and holidays and funerals of local friends meant that there was no other obvious time to hold a Karama without the opportunity just slipping away completely. We had already sensed a touch of mild confusion or disappointment that we hadn’t held one already. So after we sought out some counsel and a few pointers from our friends, we spent a couple of blurry days doped up on antibiotics and advil, running around and buying mountains of food in the market, borrowing dozens of chairs from our neighbors and handing out hastily-written invitations (and here when I say “we”, I mostly mean Bryan).

The morning of the Karama itself started early. Mahmun and Omar arrived when it was still cool and hazy and led the two nervous sheep and one oblivious goat to the back corner of the compound. With my black-handled Faberware kitchen knife they gently traced a cross in the goat’s forelock and then lightly tapped the taunt throat three times before slicing down and I had to turn away. Annabelle, barefoot and still in pajamas, stood at a modest distance and giggled at the goat’s death throes with callous innocence. As the carcasses were hung on a small tree and carefully skinned and dissected and reassembled into neat piles on broad aluminum platters – meat, fat, liver, intestines – hawks began to circle overhead and their shadows wove patterns across the yard all day.     

The women arrived late, at least two hours past their promise, but came hauling pots and pans, babies, kettles and charcoal stoves. Despite my open door, they settled comfortably into the shade along the side and back of the house, casually arranging stones to encircle cooking fires and greasing the heavy kisra griddles with something grey in a dish, all the while talking and managing babies like an unnoticed extra appendage. The whole compound was filled with the sound of their laughter, the clink of ceramic funjal shuffling for space on a tea tray, the chalky crack of breaking charcoal, the swish of a hababa breathing life into a fire, the steady pulse of coffee being pounded in a worn wooden funduk. Dust began to rise as young men swept dead leaves out from under the Baobab tree and arrange chairs into a wide circle.

As guests began to arrive David and Bryan gathered with the men under the Baobab. Lydia and I naturally fell into hostess duties; she welcomed guests and made sure everyone had a glass of juice or piece of toffee while I followed the directives of my cooking friends and hunted down an extra pan to roast coffee or soap to wash hands. For the first hour or two we flitted about like nervous birds, scurrying to get an important man’s wife a glass of tea or trying to round up another big spoon somewhere. But somewhere along the way, probably far earlier than I was aware of it, the whole day took on a life of its own, and I quickly realized I was not a part of moving anything forward but simply caught up in the warm current of the occasion.  And I found myself sitting on a mat outside my front door with a dozen other women and kids, drinking scalding clove tea, talking about the weather, laughing with my neighbors, hollering half-heartedly at my kids and daydreaming about the food that wafted out of big pots bubbling on open fires nearby.

We did this for hours. 

There was an official program of sorts. Bryan and David each said a few words and a handful of elders also spoke. There was a scripture reading and an Islamic holy man sang a song he played on his robaba. Then the older men all offered prayers and blessings inside each house. But other that we just sat around. And talked. And drank copious amounts of caffeinated hot beverages. And ate.

Food came out on the typical huge circular platter, heavy with mounds of purplish kisra, folded like reams of warm sorghum cloth. There were also chewy circles of bread from town and little piles of ground red pepper and wheels of lime. There were piles of roasted meat and bowls of meat soup and pasta with meat and dishes of liver. Each platter was like a human magnet and we all scooted in shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek, hand to hand and filled our bellies to bursting.      

The day ended with me sitting in a chair holding a filthy sleeping baby while two girls wove fat braids into my hair. Behind me women were belching and rewrapping their tobes around their heads and shoulders and in front of me men were unfolding themselves from chairs and making the slow rounds of final handshakes. A slow stream of people were trickling out of our bamboo gate carrying leftovers and children and pots while a bone white moon rose in the dirty lilac dusk overhead.

When everyone was finally gone we all collapsed into bed full and happy, exhausted beyond belief and yet satisfied in both our stomachs and souls. Karamas are a good thing we found. A good way to say thank you, to both God and the people who have helped you along the way. A good way to share in the generosity that has been shown you. A good way to have a party and eat some good food.

We still struggle with the notion of being rich sometimes, and we are working hard to try and understand what it means to be the righteous rich in this time and place. We are rich whether we want to be or not. But we really want to learn how to be righteous too. 

One thing that I think that might mean is to hold really good Karamas. And from the way people smiled and held their stomachs when they left, I think we may have done that. 

The irony or course is in assuming the generosity was ours. We fed a few people, but a fair portion of those people worked all day to make sure there was food prepared for everyone to eat. They swept my yard, poured endless pitchers of juice, handed out platters of food. People who only months ago were sleeping on the ground in the middle of the bush with their only belongings being what they had on their backs spent the day bent over bubbling pots to make sure our guests were honored. People who have lost almost everything so effortlessly gave so much. An Anatnov droned overhead early in the afternoon and everyone turned skyward to watch it pass by on its way to bomb those they left behind. And even then, no one wailed or stomped off and demanded justice or recompense from those of us who have escaped such loss. They just shrugged sadly over the things we will never understand and went back to stirring the soup.

And why did they do all of this? Probably because it is just their way. I’ve never met more hospitable people anywhere, I doubt they exist anywhere on the planet. Probably because it is the unique stamp of God on their hearts. They said it was because we have no people here, and that they are our people now. (And heaven knows you can’t throw a Karama without your people). Brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles. They are all right here, right across the road to the refugee camp.

On Saturday we celebrated God’s faithfulness and generosity towards our families. But it is abundantly clear that the gift we celebrated was far more than just the walls and ceiling I fall asleep in tonight.