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Impressions of Palestinian
Women |
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The Christmas tree came to the Middle East in the second half of the
nineteenth century; and, although up till then it had played no part
in the traditional celebrations of Christ’s nativity in the Arab
world, the lovely German-inspired custom of decorating a tree for
Christmas was enthusiastically adopted by many of the three million
Christians of the area, and by many Moslems as well. To Moslems,
Jesus Christ is a revered prophet. Two generations of Christian Arab
children have grown up with the Christmas tree, brilliantly
decorated with gossamer balls and bells, miniature birds in full
plumage, a tinsel star at the top, little fragile angels, a small
Santa Claus with jolly red cheeks and a long white beard, with
spangles and snow-flakes and real candles which are lit on Christmas
Eve. To many children in the Middle East, Christmas has also come to
mean Santa Claus (minus the reindeer), gifts piled under the
Christmas tree, and stockings hung up at the bottom of the bed in
readiness for Santa’s bounty. Basically, however, Christmas
continues to be a time for worship and family reunions.
In our family, a typical middle class family of Jerusalem, the
excitement would start building up weeks before Christmas, reaching
a climax on Christmas Eve, which was the children’s special evening.
For weeks, mothers would come home from shopping loaded with parcels
and disappear into her bedroom. For almost a month before Christmas,
the big cupboard in my parents’ bedroom would be locked. My two
brothers and I would go into the bedroom on every pretext, hoping
that mother may have forgotten the key in the lock. But she was too
clever for us. At times the little attic room would also be locked,
and we had visions of bicycles, doll-houses, small cars, little
grocery stores with real scales and a cash register, and other
desperately desired objects, too large to fit into mother’s
cupboard.
Two weeks before Christmas the house was given a thorough cleaning.
Necessary renovations were carried out, and rugs, draperies and
bedspreads were washed and ironed. This was a bad time for us
children for we always managed to be in the way. However we were
allowed to help with the Christmas baking. A day was set aside for
every house-wife of the family, when all the other women accompanied
by their brood of young, would come and help her with her baking.
So, for almost a week, we spent each day at a different Aunt’s or
Uncle’s home, and one day, of course, at grandmothers. Two special
kinds of small cakes, or rather small pastries, are traditionally
baked at Christmas time. Semolina, the finest wheat flour, and
samneh, (boiled butter with the froth skimmed) are used to make a
firm dough, which is stuffed with two kinds of fillings: one filling
consists of pressed dates, pitted, ground, and rolled into small
circular strips. The other filling is a mixture of walnuts, fine
white sugar, and cinnamon. A large quantity of these small cakes
have to be baked for, along with Turkish coffee, they served to all
visitors who come to offer the family their good wishes at this
season, moreover, we children loved them and they kept well for
months. It was with the decoration of these pastries that our help
was sought. With miniature serrated tongs, we pinched the soft dough
to make simple line designs on the cakes. This was a slow business
and everyone’s services were impressed, even the men’s when they
arrived after work.
A soft glow surrounds these gatherings in my memory. In the center
of the living –room, sat the women, surrounding a large pan with the
dough in it, two smaller receptacles held the two kinds of fillings,
the women fashioned and filled the dough. The men and children
competed to produce the most delicate designs with the serrated
tongs. In one corner of the living room the large wood stove would
crackle and hiss, letting off a wonderful warmth. The late afternoon
sun would cast an orange glow upon the family circle. Later the
electric lights would come on. Cookies and tea would be passed
around and, when the men came, wine and arak. Our parents told
stories and jokes, bantered with each other and with us, and
reminisced about their childhood. How we delighted in these
reminiscences, begging for more: “Please, please Uncle, do tell us
again the story of how you lost you brand-new red slippers when you
were a boy.”
When the cakes were filled and decorated, they were arranged on very
big round brass trays, and one of us children was muffled up
warmly-- for Jerusalem winters can be very cold-- and sent to fetch
the baker’s boy, with the enjoinder: “Tell him to come immediately,
before the dough becomes too yeasty.” Soon the baker’s boy arrived.
The trays were placed carefully-- one on top of the other-- on his
head, the two sections of the kitchen door were opened wide and he
was sent on his way with the repeated injunction: “Now, don’t
forget, tell your master to bake them carefully.” The arrival and
departure of the baker’s boy was the cue for the family helpers to
collect their reluctant yet weary offspring and take their leave.
For, they had to get some rest for another days’ cake making.
Two days before Christmas, the tall fragrant pine-tree almost
reaching the ceiling, would be standing a corner of the living room,
and on that evening, we would be allowed to help father and mother
with the decorations. The Christmas tree ornaments would be brought
down from the top of mother’s cupboard, where, carefully wrapped in
tissue paper, they had been lying since last Christmas. How
carefully we handled those preciously fragile ornaments. A little
pressure from a child’s hand and they crumbled to bits and pieces,
like a dried ball of mud. What a large assortment of ornaments we
had! They came to Jerusalem from all parts of the world:
Switzerland, Germany, England, Sweden, Japan, and the United States.
We couldn’t decide which we liked best, the diaphanous birds with
real feathers for tails or the cluster of little opal bells with
their delightful tinkle. Not all the ornaments were imported. Our
most treasured Christmas possession was the beautiful hand-carved
creche set fashioned out of olive wood by the highly skilled
artisans of Bethlehem. This we placed on a low coffee table near the
Christmas tree. The set included figures of Joseph, Mary, and the
Christ-child-- proportionally somewhat too big, we thought-- three
shepherds with their staffs, the three wise men, two little sheep
and the most charming little donkey, with one ear sticking very high
up in the air.
We spent the larger part of Christmas eve watching the clock, for
the excitement did not begin until late afternoon, when muffled up
very warmly, father, mother, and the three of us drove to the
Shepherd’s Field just outside Bethlehem, to take part in the annual
All Nations Christmas service and carol sing arranged by the Y.M.C.A.
The Shepherds Field is a fairly small patch of grassland with olive
trees where, according to tradition, the angle appeared to the
shepherds and brought them tidings of Christ’s birth. The service is
held in the open.
Pilgrims, tourists, and visitors from all parts of the world joined
native Arab Christians in singing familiar Christmas carols, each in
his own language. Standing in the icy cold air of a late Bethlehem
afternoon, with the sky luminously clear, waiting for the evening
star to make its appearance, rubbing shoulders with all the nations
of the world, I was always overpowered by a feeling of exciting
oneness with all the universe. The gospel according to St. Luke is
first read in Arabic, then in English. More carols are sung. And
then the simple service is over. Strangers turn to each other
smiling, wishing each other a “Merry Christmas” in a score of
languages. After the service, the throng of people descends into a
large natured cave, which must have provided shelter to shepherds
and wayfarers since time began. There, a shepherds’ supper is laid
out: thin flat rounded loaves of bread, barbecued lamb, and olives
from the olive-groves surrounding Bethlehem.
Sometimes at Christmas there would be several inches of snow on the
ground. And then our excitement had no bounds, for snow is not a
matter-of- fact phenomenon in the Holy Land. We might have a
snowfall once in every three years, and then the snow lasts for
three days at most. Snow had the power to send us into transports of
excitement. We had not acquired the American child’s seasoned
acceptance of it, nor had we acquired his skill in fashioning
snowmen. However, even an American child, skilled veteran of
countless snowfalls, would have admired out marksmanship in snowball
throwing.
Christmas Eve, after the Shepherds Field service, was spent either
at or home or at the uncle’s next in seniority to father. The whole
extended family of grandfathers, grandmothers, uncles, aunts, and
cousins attended.
A magnificent spectacle welcomed us as we entered the living room.
Gaily wrapped gifts were placed under the Christmas tree. Crepe
paper streamers, colorful balloons, and paper lanterns with lighted
candles hung from the ceiling. Jerusalem houses are built of a
beautiful red or white stone and the danger from fire is minimal. In
the center of the room stood a beautiful polished brass brazier or
charcoal burner, with chestnuts resting in the grey embers, which
let off a dull red glow. First we had dessert: delicious home-made
fruit salad with lots and lots of cream beaten to a frothy lightness
by mother and aunts, dried figs, walnuts, almonds, raisins, bananas
from Jericho and juicy oranges from the northern coastland, a varied
assortment of cookies and cakes, chocolate bars, small packages of
candy, and of course roasted chestnuts. Red wine, locally brewed in
the monasteries of Latrun and Cremisan was passed around. Wine in
reasonable quantities was held to be good for us children. It was
supposed to put color in our cheeks and act as a tonic in the cold
winter months.
When everyone had had enough, and was maybe lingering over a glass
of wine, or smoking a cigar or nargila (water pipe), it was our turn
to perform. It had become a tradition for us children to sing the
most familiar Christmas carols in Arabic. What a discordant din we
must have produced, for not one of us could keep a tune. But the
applause was always gratifyingly enthusiastic, for all the members
on my father’s side of the family were tone-- deaf.
As we finished our performance, the front-door bell would ring. “Who
could that be?” Our elders asked the same question every year,
feigning wonder and surprise. But we knew, as we rushed to be the
first to open the door. On the threshold stood the fattest, jolliest
Santa Claus. He would go around shaking hands with every member of
the family, kissing the children, inquiring in his deep voice
whether they had been good children this year, and whether they had
done well in school. He made us older children and grown-ups laugh
delightedly with his unsteady gait, his shaking beard and his
rumbling laugh, but while we tried to tease him by pulling his
beard, the little children would run to father or mother and hold
tight to them, a little frightened by this fat, red-garbed man with
the long white beard and strange muffled voice. “How does he get
here?” we would ask father and mother. “Why he comes on camel-back
across the eastern desert,” would be the answer. Santa Claus would
distribute the gaily-wrapped packages which had been subjected all
evening to the curious, conjecturing stares of all of us. Oh , the
excitement of unwrapping those gifts to find out whether the
longed-for, prayed for item was among them. Exhausted and
intoxicated by the excitement, the gifts, the rich food, we were
finally dragged off to bed. Christmas Eve was over. Of course, Santa
would make another appearance that night, as we slept, to fill our
stockings, and tomorrow after mass in St. Jacob’s Church in the Holy
Sepulchre, we would have a wonderful Christmas dinner at grandfather
and grandmother’s, but, and we sighed a little sadly as we dropped
off to sleep, we would have to wait another year to repeat the
exciting evening.
Mrs. Joury was born in Nazareth, Palestine, and is now a Jordanian
citizen. She began her education at the Beirut College for Women in
Beirut, Lebanon, continued at the American University at Cairo,
Egypt, and obtained her B.A. degree from Smith College in
Northampton, Mass. Mrs. Joury received a M.A. degree from Haverford
College at Haverford, Pennsylvania. Following the completion of her
studies, she worked as an Information Officer for the Jordanian
Tourist Department, as an Instructor and Assistant Dean of Women at
the American University of Beirut, and in the Research and
Translation Office in Beirut. She was also employed as a Librarian
at the Arab States Delegation Office in New York City.
December 12, 1999
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