Christmas in Syria
It was a very busy day on the 24th of December. My mother and her sisters and my grandmother rushed around the house, cleaning here and there, cooking and presenting secretive gifts to each other. As you might know, Christians, let alone celebrating Christmas, is against the Syrian laws. Anyone; citizen or tourist found to be associated with the Christian religion is severely persecuted or put to death. Although my family are very aware of the laws, we are Christians not afraid to be Christians. If it wasn’t for my grandmother Lucia, our family would have no longer continued as Catholics.
It was a beautiful blue-skied afternoon of the 24th of December, when we set out to our Christmas vigil mass. We were definitely aware of our dangerous status, but we continued. We left our small house in secret, or what we thought was secretive all our veils down. Most of the men at our family had died fighting the Syrian wars, including my brothers, uncles and father. Without the figure of my father in my family, I was forced to work early, to benefit the family financially. There was no other option really. I felt a pang of pain in my heart as I thought about another Christmas celebrated without my father. He was such a strong fighter, someone who never gave up. Sadly we never found him. The perfect gift this Christmas would be to have my father back, but I know it’s impossible.
We travelled from our village to Fr Franz’ village on the other side of the town by using alleyways and small walkways. I heaved the basket filled with vegetables as my aunties carried covered gifts and other dishes. As soon as we arrived at Fr Franz’ he loaded all our things onto his truck and we travelled to our “Mass hideout.” We celebrated mass when it was possible under an old creaky building that had been half destroyed during a bomb attack. Under the building was a perfectly healthy basement that had many places to hide- just in case the time came.
The basement was damp, dark and probably not exactly liveable. It was situated under an abandoned building surrounded with other abandoned buildings of nearly the same state after the bomb attacks occurred a year ago. The attacks that killed my father. Our hideout seemed very concealed and safe, although there was always that paranoid feeling, that someone, just might be, watching you. I shivered at the thought of it.
“Are you feeling well, Yolanda?” My grandmother croaked. I nodded vigorously. We set down our props, lanterns, food, rosaries and candles. Fr Franz began the mass and we prayed, worshipping the Lord for how lucky we are not to have been killed, and everything we have. I closed my eyes and prayed. Mass was such a special treat for our family. We often had to plan for a mass weeks before the actual event. The feeling of being caught and persecuted prevented us from weekly mass.