When I woke up on a December morning in 1994, I didn't know I would be watching people kill animals. It was the religious holiday season, and my sister and I had stayed at my father's place the previous night. He woke us up around 7am, and we were tucked in the backseat of his car in ten minutes with half-closed eyes. We tried to sing along to the radio, but I ended up sleeping throughout the drive. When I think back to that day, I wish I had kept sleeping.

We arrived in a big, empty valley. After I got out of the car, I thought I had gone deaf: there was no sign of existence except the trees and flowers that were obviously untouched. My father walked us down the small path that lead down to a small alley by the river, through the forest. That's when the volume came back on: there were about a hundred people sitting on the grass, talking to each other, and behind them were sheep, veal, bulls and cows surrounded by a wooden fence. My father talked some of the people, and then a fat man wearing an apron covered with bloodstains stood up and said, "Let's start, shall we?"

It was the religious holiday in which Muslims sacrifice animals to God, and then give the meat to poor people, keeping a small portion to themselves. I knew animals were killed, of course, but I thought the process took place in factories, not in an empty, abandoned valley like the one we were at. Soon, the noise turned into a nightmare: if death was a song, the animals would be the instruments, and the men in dirty, white aprons would be the people playing them. I remember covering my mouth with my hands when three of the men forced a cow out of the fence and struggled to keep it still.

One of the butchers pulled out a big knife, told the other men to keep the cow still, and ran his knife around the animal's neck. I covered my ears, trying to keep out the howls of the animal, but it didn't work. Its neck was cut, the grass was covered with blood beneath its feet, there was blood pouring out of its mouth and body, yet it didn't seem to die. The butcher cut it again and again until its head fell on the ground into the pool of its own blood. I watched its body shake as if it was electrocuted, and it fell on the grass with loud cracking sounds that came from its broken legs.

I wanted to scream, but I was afraid that my father would get angry if I did. I was so shocked, so disturbed that I just sat there shaking; I couldn't even think of closing my eyes. Instead I was biting on my fingers unconsciously, too startled to feel the pain. The same thing was done again and again, and all I could do was sit there and try not to cry.

After another cow was killed, my father approached us with blood on his fingertips. He pressed his finger onto my sister's forehead, leaving a fat dot of blood. It is a blessing to do that, but I screamed at the top of my lungs when he did the same thing to me. I passed out. When I woke up, my father and one of the butchers were trying to patch up my bitten fingers. They carried me to the car, and no matter what my father and sister said or did, I couldn't stop crying.

Nobody ever spoke of that day until, ten years later, I asked my father why he let us see the horrifying process of sacrifice. He said he wanted us to see what people went through for what they believed in, and that belief could make them kill. He added that he wanted me to see the power of religion, and how most people never questioned anything about it. It makes sense, but I still don't think I had to see the blood to understand what religion can do. That's when I realized it shouldn't be taken for granted.