Southern Sheep

-- A few weeks ago, I stared into the murky eye of a sheep. A trekking shepherd, roaming the vast landscapes of Lebanon, was teaching me how to read the impending night. For hours we stood gazing at the dilating pupil; its waning verticality tracing the setting sun.

“It’s almost 7,” he said, pointing at the center of the iris where a magnificent circle of darkness was slowly taking shape. “When the circle is full, we sleep,” he explained, as he led the flock into a shallow cavity that curved into the mountain. At the rear, Bab the guard dog began her nocturnal inspections. Her spiked collar was ready to shield her from lurking predators - humans, animals, and everything in between. Huddled together, the sheep soon disappeared into the falling night, and the shepherd, longing for sleep, unfurled his dusty mattress. But the flickering of a candle I’d set out for us troubled his thoughts and agitated his body. The warmth of its light chilled him with fear. Nothing but absolute darkness alleviated his worries. When a sudden gust of wind swept out the flame, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Now we’re safe,” he said, and as he glanced at the lights glimmering faintly in the distance, he surrendered himself to the deafening silence of the night around us.

// The sun hung heavy and hot in the southern sky that day. It beat down across the countryside without a cloud in sight to stop it. A young shepherd attempting to guide his sheep to safety put up a hand, imploring the cars to give his herd a few minutes to cross the highway. They bleated noisily down the hill and across the blistering asphalt, the barks of a guide dog streamlining their journey to the otherside. The shepherd scooped up a straggling lamb and hurried away from the traffic with one last thankful nod. 

The once open fields were now crisscrossed with infrastructure. Sheep didn’t roam through the countryside anymore so much as around the streets, highways, and homes that continued to parcel up the land. The noise and fumes emitted by endless streams of traffic exhausted and confused them. We watched from the car as the entire herd anchored itself in the shade of a lone olive tree. A halo of gnarled branches extended outwards in an offering of refuge from the summer sun. The sheep jostled each other  into tightly packed position around the tree. The young shepherd heaved a sigh of relief and leaned against the trunk for a nap. 

-- Teta [1] says they used to meet the village shepherd at dawn and take their pick of his stock at the holidays. She would then work in the kitchen until sunset, until that very last night of Ramadan, and prepare one final feast for her family. I stood beside her in the kitchen one such night as she doled out rice and stew and all kinds of homemade mezza into different serving dishes. These days, the village butcher was in charge of picking and choosing the meat. She garnished everything with generous bunches of fresh mint and olive oil while I carried each plate out to its spot on the table. 

With only a few minutes left until the athan [2] teta called me in to help her prepare one last dish. She pulled a tightly wrapped package of ground lamb out of the fridge behind her and set its contents into an old metal bowl. She liberally spiced the meat and instructed me to help her mix it. Together we added the bulgar wheat and kneaded the mixture to perfection. I watched as she scooped up handfuls of spiced lamb and pressed them into shape. Soon little serving plates were full of fresh frakeh [3], each a unique impression of my teta’s aged hands. 

Teta’s hands full of freshly picked olives - soon to be pressed into the oil that is drizzled over the frakeh at dinner time.

[1] Arabic for grandmother [2] Call to prayer (signals the end of fasting at sunset) [3] A dish of raw spiced meat, a favorite in South Lebanon