‘Tis the ghost of Christmases past

Once there were sarong kebayas, Nyonya kebayas, samfoos and sarees around our Christmas table.

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It is the early 70s. Picture a house in Tranquerah, Malacca, with a small hallway and steps down a long open courtyard to a large kitchen filled with bleats of conversation and the rich smells of cooking. A bunch of women in baju kebaya, Nyonya sarongs, samfoo and sarees sit around a large kitchen table, talking without ceasing as their hands worked at preparing pastries, cookies, cakes and the inevitable pineapple tarts.

“Don’t stand around gaping, come and help.” It was the usual admonition from Mother to all of us kids who foolishly dared to peep into the proceedings.

It was hard work, two weeks before Christmas in a house resonating with baking smells, busyness and expectation.

Every day was filled with the chirping of neighbours of all races walking through at all hours, pitching in to help with this and that, from stirring boiling hot pineapple jam for the tarts to mixing the dough for curry puffs and mince pies. There was always food enough to feed everyone.

While all knew Christmas is celebrated by Christians, there was no religion here, and when it came to setting up the Christmas tree, a week before the big day, not just family but neighbours eagerly pitched in. It was great fun and the merriment and mischief that ensued as grown-up kids played with baubles and colourful streamers remain etched in memory. For the children, it was sheer joy, faces bright and shining, looking longingly at the abundance of good food being made for the big day.

This was Grandmother’s house and the larger the family, the taller the tree. The peak of happiness came with the fixing of the star at the top of the tree. It symbolises the brightest star in the sky the three kings saw that led them to the stable in Jerusalem where a special birth was taking place. This should have been Grandmother’s job. But she was somewhat infirm; so her best friend Hajjah Maimon did the honours. No sweat there.

At the Eurasian Club, there was pomp, splendour and of course, ostentation. Decorated to the nines, the club always reverberated with music, dancing and an endless flow of spirits (good and otherwise).

It was always at Christmas that a sense of wellbeing and camaraderie seemed to infuse the entire street. When the outside lights and decorations came on, Tranquerah reverberated with the spirit of Christmas and neighbours of all races and religions were a part of it.

In the past, similar scenes were played out in neighbourhoods throughout Malaysia. Christmas was not just a time for Christian families but for all to participate in. On the big day, at the bottom of the tree, there would invariably be large and little presents and every neighbour who had helped out in some way – and even those who had not – would receive one.

Christmas did not belong to Christians; it belonged to everyone. So did Hari Raya, Chinese New Year, Wesak Day and Deepavali. The same hands helped out in baking the cakes and cookies and setting up the lights. The same people came to the open houses to partake in some of the cookies they had helped bake, besides devouring delicious rendang. The same spirit that is Christmas prevailed in all celebrations.

Thirty years down the road and the scene is reversed. Christmas has become a nuclear, isolated celebration, kept within church and families. We dare not invite the neighbours lest Jakim officials swoop down on us and berate the Muslim family for even daring to drink from our glasses. Our Buddhist neighbours are cold and distant, our Hindu neighbours indifferent.

Christians are persecuted for displaying a cross, accused of proselytising, of being a bad influence. A group goes all out to make itself more Muslim than others, spreading a message of hate and intolerance.

Why has our society evolved to this point of dissonance and disconnection? Why, in an interconnected Internet age, do we feel so disconnected? What has happened to the spirit of Christmas?

When a young Muslim man was asked if he had ever been to a Christmas house party, his answer was: “I didn’t have that many Christian friends when I was growing up.”

Ask a young Malaysian if he has attended Wesak Day or Deepavali celebrations and his answer would probably be “No.” Many non-Malays have not even been to Hari Raya open houses.

But if you look up at the sky that is spread over us all, you will see the same stars shining brightly for you as they do for me.

Some time in a future consciousness, we will learn to forget our differences and we’ll respect and share our distinctiveness. Some time in the future we will celebrate our Tranquerah childhood.