A Very Arab Christmas
Written by Hash Rifai
Christmas meant little to me growing up. The season came and went, and I watched it pass through eyes coloured by a moderately strict Islamic upbringing. To even utter the words “Merry Christmas” to those celebrating was forbidden. My parents worried that if I did, their good Muslim boy would be giving legitimacy to the Christian claim that Jesus of Nazareth was born on the 25th of December. According to the Muslim faith, he most definitely was not.
Jesus, to the uninitiated, is a revered figure in Islam — a prophet of God. To the two billion or so Muslims scattered across the world, he goes by the name Eissa (PBUH). There are, however, two fundamental differences between the beliefs of Christians and Muslims when it comes to the son of Mary. Firstly, Muslims do not believe that Jesus was born on the 25th of December. The Quran states that dates fell from the palm tree under which Mary was giving birth. Dates ripen in late summer or early autumn, which would make Jesus a Leo. Leos are known for their natural leadership abilities, confidence, and warmth. If the Christians are right, Jesus is a Capricorn: hardworking, persistent, and a bit stoic. Given what we know about Jesus’s characteristics, either camp could be right. Secondly, Muslims refute the claim that Jesus was nailed to a cross and crucified in Golgotha. The Almighty would not allow a messenger of His to go out in such a gruesome fashion. Instead, the party line is that Jesus’ likeness was placed on the face of some unlucky sod. Many believe the unlucky sod was Judas Iscariot, making it a fitting end for the traitor.
Christmas Day in my house was a confusing affair. We didn’t celebrate it, or so I was led to believe. The 25th was just another day. Except that it wasn’t. There was a clear break in the norm. At midday my mother slotted a large lamb shoulder into the oven, and soon the smell of slow-cooked meat, garlic, and rosemary wafted through the house. In the afternoon we would gather around the dining table as a family and tuck into the succulent lamb, accompanied by golden roasted potatoes, warm, soft Yorkshire puddings, and gravy. Absent was the tasteless turkey, the crackers, and the silly paper hats, but it felt oddly like a Christmas lunch to me. Afterwards, we would gather around the TV for an evening of entertainment. First up was usually an episode of Only Fools and Horses, a favourite of my father’s — an interesting choice of programme for a deeply moral man who prayed five times a day without fail. Fatwas have been issued for less than what Del Boy got up to. But we sat and we laughed. Del Boy may have been a sinner in the eyes of the Lord, but we found in his behaviour, in his relations with others, in his misfortune, a familiarity. A familiarity that transcended religion, race, or culture. The day drew to a close with a Christmas film. The Christmas film: Home Alone. Minus the tree, the presents, and the booze, it felt like we were celebrating Christmas in a house that forbade acknowledging its existence. This was one of many juxtapositions known only to those born into Muslim households in the Western world.
In later years I went on to marry a woman of Italian–English descent, and Christmas was to enter my life with a vengeance. My wife is obsessed with Christmas and all that comes with it: the pageantry, the choral music, the decorations, the gift-giving. Our first Christmas together I felt ill at ease. While decorating the tree, my gut churned as I knowingly and willingly participated in an activity that had been forbidden to me. “Haram,” my mother’s voice bounced around my skull. My own religious beliefs are best saved for another time. I fear that if I begin to lay out my views on religion, this piece would swell to five thousand or more words. In summary, my household was no longer monotheistic but multicultural, and I would have to find some way of allowing Christmas into my heart, just as my wife accepted Eid into hers. So, joint in hand, I sat in my study and pondered what Christmas meant to me.
The reason for sharing these thoughts is because I believe that what I have come to understand about Christmas represents what Christmas has come to mean in the modern age. In the culturally diverse metropolises of the world, Christmas has long since ceased to be a solely religious occasion. Of course, there are many for whom Christmas is still the day of Christ — attendees of midnight mass. And in countries where the Catholic Church still retains a stronghold over the people, the image of Christ is front and centre.
However, through my recently calibrated vision, it seems no longer to be a celebration of Christ but a celebration of winter — a celebration to add cheer to months that are cold and dark; months that make a person descend into a state of misery, depression, and chronic vitamin D deficiency. Proof that Christmas is a celebration of winter is in the imagery and symbols used to represent it: fir trees, snowflakes, reindeer, mulled wine, hot toddies. Some blame can be laid at the feet of the capitalist overlords who push this version of Christmas, keen to wring every penny from those susceptible to its marketing tricks — and we are all susceptible. There is no space on the shelves of John Lewis for Christ, only cotton pyjamas and Theraguns. A well-known and often repeated fact is that the reason Saint Nicholas wears a red velvet number is because it matched Coca-Cola’s colour in an ad campaign in the 1930s.
In closing, I have come to accept Christmas as a celebration of winter. November and December are brutal months in London. The early riser is met with a darkness that returns at 3 p.m., and the twinkling of Christmas lights helps take the edge off. London has always been a beautiful city at night, but in December it has a special kind of charm, and I doff my cap to Christmas for helping to create that. I love the cheer, the festive warmth that thaws the heart of the hardened Brit. I love a Christmas fair, strolling around with a cup of hot chocolate topped with cream and marshmallows. I love the excitement that dances in my wife’s eyes when she places an online order for decorations and gifts. I love hearing the sweet and innocent joy in the voice of my eldest (the youngest has yet to form words) as she lays out her demands for presents. For all of these reasons, I have not just come to accept Christmas — I now look forward to it. Any occasion that brings out kindness, generosity, and warmth in humanity must be preserved — especially in these dark days of ideological wars — whatever your individual beliefs are.