Christmas has always been one of my favorite times of the year. I get so happy and sometimes, I don’t even understand why. Sure, I was raised in a religious household where I understood Christmas differently than some other people, especially here in America, but the time has always just been a special moment for me and my family.

In America, this joy is marked by the various lit up up houses, the decorations of Santa, elves, reindeers, and snow, the preparation for parties and gifts and the Christmas songs that play on and never stop. Everybody always seems to be in a good mood, whether they’re Christians or not. I feel in love with the Christmas traditions people had here when I first arrived, the lights, the music and the joy. I just loved it all and I continue to love it. But, amidst all of that, I sometimes find myself missing the traditions we had back in the refugee camp I grew up in. Yes, my family does try to continue those traditions here, but it is very hard. This year, I took the time to reminisce about those traditions of spending Christmas Day in the middle of dry, sunny, deserted and poor community among the many communities that made up the Kakuma Refugee camp.

Preparations for Christmas began way before Christmas. Although we did not necessarily have Christmas presents, it was the only time of the year where a lot of us, who were lucky, got to buy new clothes and shoes. We would go out to the market with my father late in the evening the day before Christmas and spend time looking for clothes. From the oldest to the youngest, we all got to pick two new outfits we liked. One was formal clothing for church, a top and skirt, and the other was a dress, floral. I remember how my dad always wanted my sister and I to match, so we would always end up getting the same type of clothing in different colors. She used to get blue and I used to get red. Plus shoes, of course.

Weeks before Christmas, we had our own form of Christmas decoration, kind of like the Christmas tree. Most of the houses were made out of mud bricks, and rainy seasons during the year usually ruin those bricks. The Sudanese, who were the majority ethnicity in the camp, had adopted this traditions of “repainting” the outside walls of the house using mud. Yeah, mud. My parents would never let us do this until the last Christmas we spent there. Basically, what we would do is go down to the river, at the very center (the river was dry at this time), and dig out holes. The sand at the bottom of the river was unbelievably soft and silky, so we would collect buckets and buckets of sand, carry it up the river, down a small field and back to our houses, where we would mix that sand with water and set out to layer the sand on the walls of the house. All the kids would spend the whole day outside “repainting” the house for the new year. This is one of the things I miss most about the camp.

Christmas Day was signaled by music all throughout the community, at least for those that celebrated it. The music would be blasting all the way from the pastor’s house, and he lived in the next little community. Unlike other days of the year, it would be so brightly lit by the sun and so lively as people were rushing to get ready for the day. We would wake up, put on our new clothes and walk down to the church together. Our church was located across a river, and thankfully the river was never filled for the most days of the year. We would cross the river and spend the morning until early afternoon at church, singing, dancing and enjoying some food before returning home.

There was also a Sudanese Catholic church that always put up parades for Christmas, Easter, and weddings. The Christmas one was always the best. It would usually happen after church, so everyone rushed from church to return home so they could watch the parade. The parade usually consisted of about 100 or more people, men and women, wearing matching pants/skirts and white shirts, walking around the community in synchronized movement and playing instruments. The kids would follow them from their church until they gathered on the field right off the river, where they would stay for a few minutes just playing the music. It was the best thing ever, really.

Christmas was the only time we got to eat chicken, another reason why we always looked forward to it. My dad would personally slaughter the chicken, with either my older sister or I sitting there, holding the head of the chicken down as he chopped it off. It was always cool (and I’m sorry to any vegetarians but this was a once a year thing) to watch the chicken run around for a few seconds with no head. We feasted on Christmas, a once a year thing too. Chicken, beef, fries, eggs, rice, beans, and so many other things. After church, we would gather with other family friends and cook for the rest of the afternoon until evening. At evening, we would eat and listen to music and dance and tell stories. The moon and the stars were really lit at this time, which made the night even more beautiful.

After, on years that allowed for it, my dad would take us out to the movies. We would watch a movie in the “theater”, just a small house that had a small TV that played Nigerian movies. It looked so awesome at the time. Most of the family members we had we had never seen. My aunt and uncle, that we actually lived with before, had moved to Canada, so on Christmas day, we would go out to the mountains and talk to them. On the phone, of course.

Christmas Day was the only time of the year where nobody was worrying too much and where people could just be happy. In a place with pretty much nothing, it was a big deal that people were able to be happy, that people were able to find a reason to be happy and just enjoy the day. For so many reasons, apart from the birth of Jesus Christ, Christmas has always held such a special place in my heart. Especially in America, where there is so much and everything is so different, I’m always reminded about how we used to do it in the camp. Though we did not have much, we were still able to give and to receive well from others.

I really enjoy the “motto” for Christmas season here in America, “the season of giving,” from its core meaning to what we hold true in our heart today, it’s still the season of giving.