Ruwaida Abela Northen On The Complexities Of Christmas: “I’m Muslim, But I’m Also An Expat Child, So I’m Culturally Confused And Spiritually Fluid”
Ruwaida Abela Northen’s inner elf believes in a carefully curated, ‘perfect’ Christmas – because we all need that glow, even if it is staged
Every year, without fail, my husband and I have the same debate. I call it The Great Winter Feud. I’m firmly on team let’s-go-all-out-right-after-Halloween. He, being an Englishman, believes that decking the halls before the first of December is practically sacrilegious. I want lights, garlands, carols, the full cinematic fantasy. He wants restraint until December. Now, to be fair, my relationship with Christmas is complicated. I’m Muslim, but I’m also an expat child, which means I’m culturally confused and spiritually fluid. In my defence, we had trees every year growing up, even in Libya. There’d be fairy lights and holiday cheer, although my parents used to say it was more to celebrate the New Year. The point is, yes, I take the holidays seriously.
By early November, I’m usually hunting for themes and arguing that technically mid November is late enough. He counters with a lecture on seasonal discipline, muttering about tradition while I’m no longer listening. I cue Michael Bublé, he rolls his eyes. It’s festive foreplay really, our annual marital stand-off disguised as holiday spirit.
Maybe that’s why I go all out. For me, it’s not really about Christmas itself, it’s about creating warmth and having cause for celebration in a world that constantly feels one newsflash away from Armageddon. It’s the comfort of twinkling lights, cinnamon candles, and pretending life can be neatly wrapped in ribbon and tucked under a glistening tree. It’s therapy, not religion. I think that’s why people like me – the culturally conflicted, globally raised, existentially curious – cling to the holidays with such enthusiasm. Because it’s not about belonging to the tradition, it’s about belonging somewhere. Every ornament I hang, every carol I play too early, is about reassurance; the idea that for a few glittering weeks, everything is exactly as it should be.
Every year, by the time December actually arrives, what starts as a wholesome plan to keep it simple this year morphs into a Nutcracker production. There’s the shopping, the wrapping, the playlists, the table settings, all executed with the calm precision of someone two breakdowns away from saying, “Let’s just order shawarma and call it fusion.”
Social media doesn’t help. Suddenly everyone’s living inside a holiday commercial, smiling children baking cookies in spotless kitchens, couples sipping hot chocolate in matching pyjamas, dogs wearing cashmere sweaters. Meanwhile, I’m basting an eight-kilo turkey like it’s a MasterChef audition, rearranging ornaments at midnight because the symmetry feels off, pretending this is all perfectly normal behaviour.
The truth? I love the chaos. There’s something beautifully absurd about watching everyone – myself included – try so hard to be merry. We all know we’re exhausted, overcommitted, and slightly broke; but we agree to sparkle anyway. We wear sequins to distract from burnout. We post perfectly curated glee because we need to believe in it, even if only for a moment.
Every December, I notice how much of Christmas is theatre. The mirage is beautiful though. The perfect table settings, the matching pyjamas, the ‘spontaneous’ family photos; it feels like a performance. But maybe the real magic of Christmas isn’t in what we create, but in the fact that we keep creating it, even when the world feels a little less bright.
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