Christmas Istanbul

Dave had a long holiday because this year the Muslim calendar dictated that the celebration of kurban bayram fall at the same time as Christmas. The traditional celebration for this festival is the slaughtering of lambs by slitting their throat, representing the sacrifice of a ram by Abraham in place of his son Isaac. Village streets in provincial Turkey are said to run with blood from the multifarious sacrifices in staunch muslim communities. The imam (religious leader) presides over this quaint custom and the meat is distributed to the hungry. The urban secularists may prefer to go for a celebratory dinner in a nice restaurant in chic cosmopolitan Istanbul in which case they can donate the equivalent of £100 to a charity fund for orphaned children managed by the armed forces (why am I suspicious already?). This apparently has the same charitable and religious significance.

Christmas in a muslim country is never going to be easy. Unless, of course, you are the kind of person who disapproves of all the tat, commercialism and overspending of a UK Christmas (which also apparently has the same significance for most of us). I thought I was a disapprover. I imagined I would be relieved to be exempt from the peer pressures of other parents at the school gate: don’t you love that question: ‘All ready for Chrismas?’ The only people who ever ask it are setting you up totally. While you mumble about only having 20 more gifts to buy they will be glad to enlighten you: ‘I’ve done all my cards and gift wrapped all my presents with bows and ribbons and little hand made gift tags”. I believed I would rejoice that this year I wouldn’t have to face crowded high street chain stores stuffed with underpants bearing ‘stop here santa ‘ legends or be part of the count down frenzy at Tesco.com.

But you know what? I missed it all. I missed the lemming like surge that makes you feel part of something big. I missed the frosty nights doing late night shopping and the drinks with colleagues around log fires in pubs. I missed Christmas church services – the smells of candles, musty pews and new clothes and the age old carols that we sing only in England. I missed the huge excitement of Christmas Eve and then the lull that happens on Christmas morning when finally it is here and you can hear a pin drop in empty streets. I missed that late afternoon glow shining out from people’s living rooms as dusk falls on the big day, with trees twinkling and parents snoring.

Perhaps that’s why our family overcompensated by preserving every tradition possible. I purchased a tree complete with enormous root ball from a nursery and, with the help of our amazed compound gardeners, planted it in our living room and decorated it with all our shiny baubles collected over the years. Together we baked and decorated every kind of cookie, cake and pudding imaginable (including projects involving elaborate gingerbread houses that wouldn’t stick together). We also indulged in Dutch, Danish and German seasonal treats with our new friends. We found a church hosting an English carol service that was only an hour’s drive away in rush hour traffic. We ignored the world outside going about its normal business (can you imagine the dentist offered me an appointment on the 25th?) and holed ourselves up with Christmas music CDs and family DVDs. We drank mulled wine with our Dutch neighbours and their new born twins (we remember those times). And, believe it or not, Santa not only found us but he was also feeling quite generous this year.

Tucked up in our own make-believe world we had one of the most peaceful and enjoyable Christmases ever. There’s always next year to do something different - but I doubt we'll kill a lamb.