I’ve never heard ‘Deck the Halls’ sung in Arabic before. But as I stepped through the blue metal door and into the small school courtyard, I could hear children’s exuberant voices echoing out of dark classrooms. No electricity. 30 children between the ages of 8 and 12 sat in two classrooms, practicing the holiday songs that they were about to sing for Santa Claus. Catherine, the headmistress and co-director of Al-Tahaddi organization, led us into the teachers’ lounge. “I realized this morning that the only Santa suit I have is actually for a woman,” she laughed. We got Garo into the Mrs. Santa suit – a red skirt over his blue jeans and a unisex red pullover. He pulled on a Santa hat over his head and allowed Catherine and another teacher to make a beard for his face out cotton, construction paper, and rubber bands. I handed him the largest of bags holding our gift bags and he grabbed the bell with his free hand. The only male teacher there pretended to call Santa on his mobile phone, asking him to bring gifts to the children. The energy and excitement of the children pounded through the open doors. Garo started ringing his bell, and the shouts of the children increased a few decibels.
Santa Claus walked to each open classroom door and called for the children to come out. He then stood in the courtyard and met some of the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen. The children rushed out beaming at him. They were all talking at once, excitedly pointing at his outfit and the big bag over his shoulder. The teachers led the boys and girls in their translated Arabic Christmas songs, complete with rhyming words. After they had sung, Catherine asked them what Santa was holding over his shoulder. “A bag!” the children shouted.
“What’s inside the bag?” she asked them.
“Gifts!” their exuberance grew.
“Gifts? For whom?” Catherine feigned ignorance.
“They’re for us!” the children’s smiles took up most of their faces.
Catherine had the children line up – boys and girls – while Santa and I handed out their gift bags, one for each child. For the next 15 minutes, the children oohed and aahed over the contents of the bags, sharing their excitement with each other and with their teachers. I heard no complaints, only “shukran”, as the children walked around to Santa, Koko our photographer, and me, shaking our hands and thanking us. It didn’t matter that they knew that Santa Claus was not real; for a few minutes they loved being in the middle of a fantasy world.
After some photos and more smiles, each child left for his home carrying his school bag, his gift bag, and a plate of homemade Christmas cookies that the students had made in school a few days beforehand. For a little while, those children felt special, walking down the muddy streets towards their shanty-houses – parading their Christmas prizes before the rest of the shantytown. Once they reached home, the only personal items would be their school bags. Catherine said that some of the children put locks on their school bags for safekeeping.
Catherine took us through the shantytown. We walked the muddy and rubbish-strewn streets, past shops with Chinese junk for sale and men with very little to do, till we got to the real shantytown, where most of the students live. No more asphalted roads. Only mud and water, various bits of garbage, and rubble. The shanties were made of bricks placed on top of each other – no cement or stucco. The roofs were plastic sheets and old tarp, held in place with discarded tires. No lights shone from inside the shanties, although the day was dark with rain clouds. Many people greeted Catherine pleasantly. Some of the women kissed her and wished her happy holidays – 5 coming up with Christian and Muslim days combined.
Some of the children playing outside their homes had no shoes on; others were in short sleeves. One 3-year-old stepped out from behind the wall wearing only his diaper and tshirt. He was playing barelegged in the mudhole with an old broom.
We climbed the garbage hill, past some shanties and the lot that had been a shanty till it burned down during the short war in May 2008. Eventually we got to the clinic, the other part of Tahaddi. The receptionist at the desk was a huge jolly woman, her little son seated in front of her eating a baguette that was half his size. She was probably the richest woman in that neighbourhood. The nurse was there too – a European lady due with her child in a month. She apparently makes the drive up from Nabatyeh, 3 hours south, twice a week. Dr. Agnes had already gone home for the day, so we didn’t stay long there.
Catherine took us through asphalted streets back to the school, where two of the girls guided us back to my car on the airport road. As we walked, Suad, the talkative one, asked me if ‘Papa Wal” would be returning next year with more gifts, and if so, what time would he arrive. She wanted to be sure to be there when he arrived. Catherine had told me that each year they buy Christmas presents for the students, but a sad budget this year had not allowed them to do that. Our gift bags from the Oasis teens came at the perfect time.
A gift by definition is something given to another, with no expectations of any kind of return. We went to the shantytown to distribute humble gifts to children who have nothing. Their genuine pleasure upon receiving the gifts and their automatic responses of heartfelt gratitude epitomized the perfect gift-giving process.
It is Christmas Eve, and there’s a lot more to come in this holiday season, but I think my visit to the children at the Tahaddi school will be remain the highlight of my Christmas this year.