I handed my mother money for the sacrifice.
“Did you see the cow you purchased?” she asked. “Your brother sent you photos.”
“Why would I look at the animal I’m going to slaughter? It’s going to die. I don’t want to feel anything.”
“Then how do you call it a sacrifice?” she said.
“In my country,” she said, “we raise them ourselves. For years. Feed them with what little money we have. Pretend to chastise them when they eat food off our table. Bring them in from the cold. We love them. When Eid ul Adha comes, we cry and hug them. That’s sacrifice. Now look.”
So I looked.
My heart flew out of my body. “No,” I said quietly.
“You must feel the pain,” said my mother. “And now you have sacrificed. Or else what did you give away before?”