The Skins We Dance In

Oumaima H.

On Eid, we slaughter the sheep because that’s what God wants. We skin and cut and clean and grill for hours. We give some to the least fortunate of us and keep the rest. Our mouths pillow honey-soaked, almond-stuffed pastries. We choke on it, laughing amidst the waterfall of aunty jokes and cheek-to-cheek kisses. One of us leaves a M’semen on the stove, it smells like burnt semolina now. We light rose and jasmine incense sticks and keep the windows open. Andalusi music plays on the TV and we drown and resurface to the creaking of violins and the cries of tambourines. One of the singers has a squeaky voice, so we make fun of him, elated at the magic of the sun-soaked day. 

The next day we wear the skins of the sheep because that’s what we want. We masquerade in their bodies, turning the dark Mouton fur into coats and pants that almost slip off our hips—there is no belt. We paint our brown faces in chalky whites and bloodshot reds and coffee blacks. We are sloppy, our hands swim in stubborn colors, and we scrub our skin raw under the faucet five times before the brown peeks under the stains. Oh well, this always happens. Next time we should get Ayan or Marwa to facemask us because they’re artists and we’re just playing pretend. Some of us hate the smell of the skinsuits—pungent, violent in their mere existence—and don’t participate. We make fun of each other the whole day and prepare for the afternoon, for the night. 

It’s late afternoon, the sun has finally recalled most of its angry tentacles. Heat won’t kill us now. We leave our friends’ houses or the small corner of the park we’ve been hiding in. We walk around the neighborhood in packs; that’s scarier than being singular in our pursuit. Some of us carry a leg or two of the sheep we sacrificed. It’s our accessory, our weapon. We meet friends from middle school and old neighbors and our ex’s grandma. Some of them recognize us, and others don’t. We exchange glances and hellos and jokes with those who do. Two kids run away from us and we debate following them. We’re already drowning in sweat. It’s not worth it, so we let them go. We will see them again at the festival tonight. 

It’s nighttime, so we head to the small patch of balding land next to the basketball fields. We’re meeting everyone there. Projector lights cling to the neighbors’ roofs and wash the air in artificial yellows. An army of iron and plastic chairs litter the ground, most of them already holding the weight of spectators. We’re stars, so we shuffle to the center, to the small stage where a scrawny DJ is fingering an authentic-looking board. We’ve never seen him around, so we ignore him and talk to everyone else. 

The DJ struggles with the speakers. We don’t wait. Some of us pick up the Darboukas and storm them with heavy blows. Our mouths split into grins, our hearts chuckling at the tempo of the beat. We honor the tradition of our ancestors, let our Amazigh blood dance to the beat of the deafening drums. 

Those of us with sheep legs smack a friend here and there because it’s what our parents did, and it’s fun. We peekaboo behind a friend to hide from a friend’s attack or to hit a friend. The blows are winky and breezy. No one gets mad.

We bump shoulders and crash into people because the place is now a Joly sardine tin. The music flows in our blood. We sway around the plaza, catch the eyes of those of us wearing other skins: a pink and blue power ranger, two nurses, a firefighter, a trio of doctors with comically large syringes. Those costumes are ridiculous but we can’t make fun of them when most of us stink in sheepskins. We swallow our jabs and draw the others close for a dance: asymmetric, chaotic, not coordinated in the slightest. Our eardrums strain to discern their words, drowned by layers of singing, laughing, stereo-screamed Chaabi. We don’t care. Our hips swing to the blur of words and melodies and colors. We take solo selfies, selfies together, selfies with our 5th-grade Maths teacher because she is here, and she finally seems to like us.

Blows drizzle on our backs and sides, blurred arcs of love and friendship. Some of them are flirty in their lightness, while others come with the promise of a bruise. We take note of Hamza’s heavy strike. We will take revenge on him next time. It’s very personal, actually, and not funny in the slightest. It’s almost midnight. We can’t leave the party. We linger with our past, present, future friends. Tomorrow, we will ache in purples and blues, but tonight we dance.