My Muslim Christmas in July
By Sabeeha Rehman
“Mummy, why can’t we have a Christmas tree?”
I had been expecting this question for years, ever since the first Christmas lights had gone up after the birth of my son, Saqib. As the perfect planner, the anticipator of all scenarios, I would be ready to deal with this when asked. But I secretly hoped that if I played my cards right, the question might never come up.
Other mothers worried, too. Within six months of Saqib’s birth, we had in our social circle a total of three Muslim families. My friends Rabia and Kausar, and me: three Urdu-speaking moms from the subcontinent, with three baby boys. We fretted together. How would we explain to our children why we don’t celebrate Christmas? How could a child be made to understand that, yes, as Muslims, we believe in the miracle of Jesus’ birth, and we believe he was a prophet, but we don’t celebrate his coming with a tree or gift giving. That might not be good enough for a child—especially one in New York. Who doesn’t love the festivities of Christmas? The lights, Santa Claus ringing the bell, shoppers walking out of Macy’s laden with gifts, children lined up at the windows of Saks Fifth Avenue, the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, the towering tree in Rockefeller Center.
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I reached out to my Jewish friend, Nancy, to ask how she handled the matter. “You have to come up with a substitute,” she advised. “When is your religious holiday? Make a big deal out of it.” With that in mind, our three Muslim families set out to Christmas-ize Eid, the festival marking the end of Ramadan. On this day, special Eid prayers are held to give thanks for completing the month of fasting. Children dress up in new clothes, and women go all out for their sparkling outfits. Families visit one another and feast on sheer khorma, the sweet slurpy vermicelli sprinkled with nuts—a dessert reserved just for Eid.
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We set several ground rules for our Eid makeover: All three families had to take the day off—no excuses. We agreed to adopt one another as family and to get dressed, baby boys included, in shimmering shalwar kameez, the Pakistanis’ traditional long tunic and billowing pants. Everyone would go to Manhattan for Eid prayers. After that we would converge back home for a potluck feast. We would dress up the apartment inside and out in colored lights—never mind having to explain to confused neighbors. But we decided against putting up a tree. We wanted Eid to have a distinct identity.
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We began in 1973 and pulled it off, Eid after Eid, year after year. More families joined the trio, more babies came along, houses replaced apartments, Eid parties moved from living rooms into basements and eventually into rented halls.
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Initially, our families thought that the bedazzled Eid would be a total success. We were smug: Our children, we thought, will never miss Christmas. We were wrong. My son Asim was 6 when, on Christmas morning, I found him crying with muffled sobs. “What is it, Asim?” I asked. “I wish we had a Christmas tree,” he said. That tore my heart out.
Then I began to think: Why couldn’t we have had a Christmas tree? What was I afraid of, that I would lose my children to another faith? That somehow their identity as Muslims would be compromised? By a tree? Maybe this was about my insecurities more than anything else. I called Nancy. “So get him one,” she suggested. I never did. By the next year, I had convinced myself that he had grown out of it. Decades later, when I walked into Saqib’s home during the holidays, I saw to my surprise and relief a mini Christmas tree in the family room. Saadia, my conservative Muslim daughter-in-law, had demonstrated more sense than I.
http://www.wsj.com/articles/my-muslim-christmas-in-july-1467932383
Ms. Rehman is the author of “Threading My Prayer Rug: One Woman’s Journey from Pakistani Muslim to American Muslim,” just out from Arcade Publishing.
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