Santa Comes
to Our House on Eid
Nausheen Pasha-Zaidi
US
The Christmas season in the United States is
such an overpowering experience each year. The
twinkling lights that adorn houses and foliage
for the weeks after Thanksgiving bring a festive
atmosphere to neighborhoods in even the lowest
income brackets. Images of Santa, reindeer, elves
and stockings fill the imaginations of children
of all faiths and backgrounds.
Being a Muslim never seemed to be an issue.
I remember singing the Christmas songs as a child.
After all, I was in the chorus and the harmonies
of the season were a big part of the Winter Concert.
We were politically correct only to an extent
back then, including a couple of songs about dreydels
and menorahs, so we didn’t leave out the
existence of Hanukkah, and singing Feliz Navidad
to prove that our schools appreciated multiculturalism.
It was a simpler time.
Did I feel left out because my teachers never
mentioned Eid or Ramadan? I guess I did, but then
I felt just as left out because the Romper Room
lady never said my name. I still feel left out
today when I see an array of ready-made name bracelets
at a local store, and I know I won’t see
my name in there. My children may go through that
same sense of isolation some day, but I hope not.
My son asked me last night when Santa would come
to our house. He wanted a box of Legos,
and he knew that Santa would have that in his
bag of goodies. What could I say? No,
beta, Santa doesn’t come to our house. We’re
Muslim. Somehow the image of a slaughtered
goat isn’t as kid-friendly as a jolly old
man in a red suit climbing down chimneys with
presents for all the good boys and girls.
I told my son that we’re Muslim. We believe
in Allah-mian…And Santa comes to our house
on Eid.
He seemed satisfied with that, settling down in
his bed with pictures of Legos instead of sugarplums
dancing in his head.
Am I a bad mother, or worse, a bad Muslim because
I borrowed the animated character of Christmas?
Perhaps. But then I remember that I also grew
up with Santa, and he never asked me to give up
my faith.
My regret at this time of year is that by raising
my children in the United States, I’m keeping
them from the small daily reminders that signify
the beauty and peace of our religion. For me,
that has always been the adhan—the muezzin’s
call to prayer — that rings through the
air five times a day in Muslim countries, a sound
that is brighter and more powerful to me than
all the Christmas lights in the world.
True, we have the clocks shaped like masjids that
can be programmed to sound the adhan in our home,
but somehow it’s not the same thing. I want
the lilting call to arrive like a faint whisper
to my ear, coming from a distant mosque, echoing
off rooftops, reminding us daily of our spiritual
existence. I want my children to be proud of their
faith and their heritage, before some wisecracking
teenager calls them a terrorist. I’ve been
there, heard that, so I know it’s just a
matter of time.
But until then, until I can take them to a Muslim
country where they can experience the sound of
faith for themselves, I’ll use whatever
language I need, whatever images of goodness,
honesty, and giving that I can find in their world,
and intersperse it with the language of Islam,
so that my children will always know that they
are Muslim.
And I’ll pray that God sends down upon them
his peace and reassurance, so that they can honor
the holidays that they don’t celebrate,
and celebrate the holidays they don’t hear
enough about.
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