Christmas in Cairo

Have you ever thought what it would be like to spend Christmas in a country halfway around the world, among people with different religions and different customs than yours? That happened to me when I was eleven.

My father is a professor of Middle East history. He believes that it is important to understand the countries he teaches about and that the best way to learn about the people is to live there. For two years my parents, my two little sisters, and I lived and traveled in many countries of the Middle East.

Our hosts on this particular Christmas Eve were the Hassans in Egypt. Mohammed Hassan, a student of my father’s in the United States, had said: “When you go to Cairo, please visit my brother Ali and his family. It will make them very happy.”

We went from Lebanon, where Daddy was teaching, to spend our Christmas vacation in Egypt. When we arrived in Cairo Daddy telephoned Ali Hassan, who invited us to his home for dinner the next night—Christmas Eve. Mr. Hassan called for us in his car. He seemed pleased to meet friends of Mohammed. When we reached his home we were received with the familiar Arabic greeting, Ahalan-wasahalan (You are welcome here)!” He introduced his wife, their three little girls and baby boy, Mr. Hassan’s mother, who lived with them, and relatives who were visiting from Upper Egypt.

None of them spoke much English and we only knew a few words of Arabic, so I dreaded the long evening ahead of us. It was bad enough to be missing all the excitement of Christmas—gifts, parties, and the Christmas services—but having to spend Christmas Eve this way seemed like a nightmare. I wished we were back in our cold hotel room where we could celebrate by telling the Christmas story, hanging up our stockings, exchanging small gifts, and singing a few Christmas carols instead of sitting in uncomfortable silence for hours on end.

While we waited for dinner we sat in a circle in the living room, smiling and nodding at our hosts who smiled and nodded back. My father and Mr. Hassan and the relatives from Upper Egypt attempted to discuss Egyptian politics and history, but the conversation was stumbling and broken.

The rest of us just sat. Finally Mrs. Ali Hassan smiled at my mother and handed her the baby. My mother cuddled him and crooned to him and he gurgled back. Across the room I saw Mr. Hassan’s mother glance at them for a moment and then quickly look away. Most of the time she just stared shyly at the floor, almost as if she were afraid to look at us. Like many traditional Moslem women, she wore a black kerchief that covered her hair and part of her face. She seemed out of place in the modern apartment with its gilded furniture and television set.

At last dinner was served. We went into the dining room and there on the table was a huge turkey! I could hardly believe my eyes. Did the Hassans know that turkey was a Christmas tradition for many American families or was it just a coincidence? The table was loaded! There were meats, vegetables, rice and potato dishes, pickled lemons, a special green soup, and other foods. Mr. Hassan piled our plates with turkey, and the other dishes were passed around.

“Eat, please!” Mr. Hassan kept saying. “Do you not like our food?”

I ate until I was stuffed. I saw my mother and my sisters struggling to eat more than they wanted, to please the Hassans.

At last the dessert was brought in. There were sweet pastries and pudding and then fresh fruit that always comes at the end of a Middle Eastern meal. I took a tangerine and peeled it, and then I noticed that my seven-year-old sister Anne and my father seemed embarrassed. Try as they would, they could not cut or peel their fruit. Anne saw Mr. Hassan looking at her.

“You do not eat your fruit,” he said. “Do you not like it?”

“I can’t eat it,” Anne answered, grinning. “It’s not real fruit. It’s artificial.”

I looked around the table and realized that the Egyptian family had been waiting for this moment. Mr. Hassan’s mother started to laugh and then we all laughed. We laughed until we cried. When we moved back into the living room, we were all relaxed.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. Mom played singing games with the children until my sisters grew sleepy. Finally she signaled to Daddy that it was time to leave. As we started to say good-bye, Mr. Hassan said, “Please, wait a moment.”

Soon his mother appeared, carrying an ornate brass candlestick shaped like a cobra. She gave it to my mother and made a little speech that Mr. Hassan translated: “My mother wants you to have this candlestick. She says that now that she has met some Americans and knows that they are nice people, she will no longer weep for Mohammed.” Then Mr. Hassan explained that every day his mother cried for Mohammed because she didn’t know whether he was happy or if people in America were kind to him.

I saw tears in my mother’s eyes.

“Shukran, shukran (Thank-you, thank-you),” Mom said and hugged Mr. Hassan’s mother.

“Please tell your mother,” she said to Mr. Hassan, “that we will treasure this candlestick. It will remind us of your thoughtfulness and hospitality and help us remember that even without words people can communicate. Warmth and understanding and laughter can be shared by all people. We will never forget this Christmas Eve in Cairo that has been filled with the true spirit of Christmas.”

Then I realized that this was a joyful Christmas. Piles of presents and tinseled trees no longer seemed important.