The Valley of Sheep

The minibus dropped us off at the top of the hill. There are no official bus stops here. To signal a stop, passengers must tap on the window with a coin—twice. Any break from the two-tap code is considered rude, and the driver simply drives on. The air inside the rattling minibus was stifling and heavy with fumes. It made my stomach churn. The cracked windows allowed interrupted whiffs of tepid breeze. It didn’t help much—a cruel tease. Sirocco season hasn’t crept in yet, but I can taste the coming of the Saharan dust on my dry lips. I snuck my arm out the window for some relief, but my mom quickly pulled it back inside. “You’ll lose your arm,” she said. 

  My mom helped me out of the minibus as my feet barely touched the ground. “Don’t run,” she warned, “the guard dogs are waiting for us around the corner.” The dogs looked slender and scary. Their tongues were freakishly long. They followed us suspiciously with their gunk-filled eyes. Feigning courage, I clutched tightly onto my mom’s hijab as we made our way down the hill. I knew I couldn’t pet these dogs. The ancient boulders, adorned with swirls of deep russet and earthy browns, watch over the scattered houses nestled down the valley. My grandmother, who’s no longer with us, lulled us to sleep with stories of how these sacred stones had once saved lives. In a dream, she saw the forked river that cut through the basin of the valley merge into one deadly stream. She studied the clouds and tracked the movement of the winds for weeks, and then, one day, the dark foreboding post-harvest clouds billowed in. This was the sign. My grandmother cautioned the neighbors about the looming Great Flood. She pleaded with them to move up to the highlands behind the boulders. The Great Flood came. It swept the land with such a relentless force. When darkness wrapped the valley like a shroud, some found themselves trapped between the torrential river and the gushing landslides. Only those who believe in the dream prophesies of elders survived. 

The valley stretched before us. Plants and trees grew in their designated furrows, yet nature’s own artistry spilled forth. My gaze kept drifting towards the tomatoes. Laden with juices, they bowed down to us, whispering promises of sweet and sour. I wanted to sink my teeth deep into their tender flesh. I have been told many times not to eat tomatoes that had been sitting too long in the sun. “Tomatoes need to be washed, cooled, and then eaten,” my mom said. The story goes that I once, at a cousin’s wedding, ate sun-soaked tomatoes and ended up with a severe case of diarrhea. That story is funny to my siblings, but to me, it sounds like a lie. I don’t remember it happening. Animals roam this valley as well, but there are no sheep in sight. I never understood why this place is called the Valley of Sheep. I never see any?! Disappointing.

There were many women greeting us. My mom called some of them Khalti and others Nanah. I just copied her. The elders, Nanahs, adorned their faces with Amazigh tattoos. Whenever the elders talk and laugh, the green and teal tattoos dance along their deep-set, well-worn wrinkles. I was told that our generation can’t get face tattoos. They’re no longer socially and religiously acceptable. One of the Nanahs said that the French called them savages for needling their faces. I wanted to be a savage too. I wanted to be a beautiful, wise savage like my Nanahs. My persistent questions about Amazigh tattoos were sometimes welcomed and other times shunned. The elders taught us how to draw tattoos that symbolize trees using a stick on muddy and dusty grounds. Our skin was off limits. Drawing the olive tree symbol was the hardest, but that’s the tattoo I wanted the most. I wanted it because my late Nanah had one. I miss her. I miss her stories. 

We were immediately handed baskets to join the crop-picking party—peppers, potatoes, figs, grapes, onions, garlic, and other earthly delights. I didn’t know where to start. Well, I could start with tomatoes, but I wasn’t allowed to be near them. Last time I was here in the valley, it was olive-picking season. The gathering tarps covered the ground around the trees. We had to fill up big plastic crates. We were told to be gentle with the purple olives, but even more gentle with the olive trees. “Treat the trees kindly,” the elders counseled.  No matter how much kids beg to climb the trees, the answer is always a firm no. We were told that a woman had once been reckless with an olive tree. She fell on a stump, and that left her paralyzed. “Always respect the trees,” they imparted. There’s a sea of pomegranate trees in the valley. Even when all the families and neighbors gather in autumn, we can’t pick them all. The pomegranates fall, crack, stiffen, and then get devoured by animals and bugs. I loved squashing them under my feet. The color of pomegranates is beautiful, but their juices attract so many flies—the relentless kind.

At the close of the long crop-picking day, we marched toward the river. The riverbed was mostly muddy with large dry patches. The cracked mud looked like an unevenly cut chocolate bar, tempting, I thought. Some of the valley kids liked to eat dirt, and I understood their urges. I wanted to taste it too, but I knew my mom’s eyes were on me. She asked us to stay away from the muddy areas on the bank and explained what sinkholes were; the ground is so porous it could swallow an entire horse! 

“Where are the sheep, Mom?” I asked. She seemed taken aback by the question. “I never see sheep here. Where are they?” 

My mom swiveled her body towards the river and said, “Do you see that gap between the mountains? That’s the actual Valley of Sheep.” I was puzzled. She explained, “When the French and the Allied Forces came to the Big Valley where we’re standing, we had to move behind the other riverbank. We didn’t have their weapons. We had to hide. We waited for the water to recede and then transported our crops, emergency rations, and all our sheep. We thought the colonizers won’t reach us there. They had sunk on us one night and attacked the families. Our possessions were stolen then the valley was set ablaze. Luckily, our emergency crops were hidden deep in the caves. We hid them well. We knew a day like this would come. Unfortunately, we couldn’t defend the farmlands and the sheep. The soldiers didn’t take the sheep. They burned them all.”

I am thrilled to be away from the city and school for two weeks! Spring breaks are the best! I get to pick crops, forage, and listen to my elders tell stories. I look forward to it the most. School isn’t fun. It’s always so grim. My history books get worse each year. They are filled with images of death. They give me nightmares. The black and white pictures show the French scorching the land, executing people in rows, and tossing them in mass graves. The images of Algerians held in metal cuffs, being waterboarded, shocked by an electrical machine called gégène, and surrounded by barbed wires became more terrifying in the period between 1954 and 1962. We are required to memorize the dates of the massacres and torture methods for our exams. In the section on torture methods, there is a picture of Général Paul Aussaresses, with one gouged eye, smiling malevolently. He seems pleased with himself as he unleashes death squads, Les escadrons de la mort. Our semester concluded at the page where they killed Petit Omar. He was my age. I dream of him often, and I dream of soldiers chasing me. After history class comes French class. It’s confusing. Why would I want to learn French? The French killed Little Yacef. They tortured my grandpa. They burned our valley and our sheep. Our French teacher too uses violence when we struggle to round French vowels. When we fail to rid our French of traces of our Algerian accent, we face severe punishment. I understand why El Mujahidin, our freedom fighters, revolted. I thought we were free. I don’t want to go back to school. I am happy here in the valley, among my people, the ancient olive trees, and the sheep-shaped clouds.       

1 Amazigh symbol of an olive tree.