How my son and I approach holiday celebrations as Muslim Canadians

Theresa had invited me over to see the Christmas tree in her home. Gold taffeta ribbons were braided into each bough, and silver and gold orbs dangled from the tips of each branch. At the foot of the tree was a Tetris of multicoloured gift boxes. Next to the tree sat a small table, on which her mother had placed a silver tray with cut crystal tumblers. The tumblers were intended for serving thick and creamy eggnog to guests during the holiday season. We had lived in Washington, DC for so many years, but my family had never been invited to anyone's home for eggnog. That day, I decided that I wanted a Christmas tree, too. Just like the one Theresa had in her home.

Ami drove me home from Theresa's that night. We listened to Stevie Wonder singing Part-Time Lover on Wash-FM, it was the '80s. As she turned our car into the driveway of our home on Riverside Road, I noticed the other American homes around us — red lights, resembling chili peppers, strewn along the Villars' balcony; and the Shannon's, to our left, with a neon orange-nosed snowman on their front lawn. Ours was the only home amongst a cluster of eight with no Christmas trimmings. The crabapple tree opposite my bedroom window was bare. I knew that Christmas trees were for people with names like Ryan, or Geranium. And Theresa. But I still wanted one.

That evening, I nervously leaned against the kitchen sink, and asked my Baba if we could get a Christmas tree. Baba looked down, breaking off a piece of his Entenmann's pound cake, and took a long sip of his hot chai.

"Betay, we are Muslims, we don't celebrate Christmas."

"But a tree is pretty, Baba. Everyone in my school has one. Why can't we just get a tree?"

"They don't celebrate our holidays, so we should not celebrate theirs."

They. We. Us. I was well aware of the divide and the concept of quid pro quo.

From a very young age, Ami and Baba had explained that America is not our home; we were there temporarily for the sake of Baba's professional development. There was no question of assimilating and slinking our way into American culture. English was verboten at home, only Urdu was to be spoken. The lines of identity and belonging can be murky for some, but in our home, the lines were clear, the cultural and geographical markers distinct. Home was Lahore, the city of grand Mughal architecture, and mangoes sold on carts along the canal, where our relatives lived.

Despite being proud of my heritage, I longed to fit in and belong in America. I wore the same blue-and-white Benetton rugby shirt like the blonde girls in my school, but my legs weren't shaved and smooth like theirs. Ami and Baba didn't allow me to attend the after school dance parties, but I aspired to be a part of the cool gang who went caroling in Riverside Gardens, ending the night with cups of Swiss Miss cocoa and marshmallows in someone's home. The name Shayma was too hard to pronounce; it was easier to call me Shama-Llama Ding Dong, declared Geranium, the popular red-haired girl in our school. And my kebab and cucumber lunch sandwiches were "smelly-like-poo".

Last Saturday, as we drove past Commerce Court on King Street West in Toronto, Evren, our six-year-old excitedly pointed towards the bejeweled, sparkling tree and asked, "Mamma, can we get a Christmas tree like that in our house?" He turned his face towards me. "Mamma, I know we don't celebrate Christmas, but can we still get a tree?" A few weeks ago, Evren asked if we would leave "cookies out for Santa", like his friend in school does on December 24 every year. My husband, Zain and I, explained that as Muslims, we don't celebrate Christmas, but because we want to respect other religions, we could include certain elements of this festive season in our life and home.

We talked with our son about one small end-of-year gift, and making sugar cookies for his friends. Evren decided that the cookies would have rosewater in them — his Mamma's favourite Persian ingredient. We would also add cardamom, but no pistachios, in case someone had allergies. A blend of a Canadian-Pakistani-Afghan-Persian home. For our son, it's a Canadian rite of passage to be able to partake in the festivities of the season, and make it his own. I know that back when my father said no to my idea about the Christmas tree, he was merely trying to protect me, but I also know that it was a matter of integrity and pride for him. If they didn't want to partake in our festivities, why should we adopt their customs? The Toronto of my son's childhood may seem fragmented, like the rest of the world today, but we are also striving to be more tolerant and inclusive. This year, I hosted several 'Culture and Cookery' workshops at my son's school (part of the Toronto District School Board), cooking alongside children from a variety of ages and backgrounds. We made a saffron and rosewater bread pudding, all the while dipping in and out of conversations about Eid-al-Fitr — the celebration marking the end of Ramadan. So this is what it means to belong.   

For our son, Evren, he isn't struggling to fit in the way I was, nor is he in admiration of kids from any one particular race in his school. He is a Canadian of Pakistani-Afghan-Persian descent. Until now, no one has questioned the origins of his double-barreled surname, or thumbed their nose at the homemade kofta sandwich in his lunchbox. And when it's Eid-al-Fitr, Evren isn't embarrassed to wear his kurta shalwar to school. Our son knows that Pakistan is a special place for his parents, it is their other home, with an annual family trip there every December. But he also knows that Toronto is his home; his parents' home. It's the city where he was born, where he plays hockey every Sunday morning, and where he can navigate his culture and identity in any which way he wants. Perhaps celebrating the holidays in our own special way is a rite of passage for me, too. It is a way to belong without having to excise my identity as a Muslim woman. My stories are not Evren's stories, his world is different than the one I grew up in. And though I want to share those stories with him some day, today I want his happiness to be uncomplicated.

Amidst these festivities, we also want our son to practice empathy, and appreciate that this period of joy, gluttony, consumerism, and community giving, isn't necessarily for everyone. We mustn't be myopic about the experiences of Indigenous Peoples, for whom this holiday season can be a painful reminder of the nexus between Christmas, churches, and residential schools. It's a conversation for when he is a bit older.

I haven't been able to make that transition to having a Christmas tree in our home just yet, but we will bake rosewater-scented sugar cookies, and there will be a trip to the toy store for Evren's gift. My dear friend Hanna celebrates Christmas with her husband and kids, and makes a mean eggnog. We will be taking a batch of cookies to her home. I know she'll have the crystal tumblers ready.

Shayma Owaise Saadat is a Food Writer and Chef. She lives in Toronto with her husband and son. You can follow her culinary journey at www.ShaymaSaadat.com or on Instagram.