Holidays in the Shadow of the Holy Land

In the three years I’ve been an expat, I have always managed to make it home for the holidays. I’ve never batted an eye at the 24 hours it takes to make it back to California from the Middle East; participating in the family Christmas is just too important to miss.

But this year, my husband had to be on call over the holidays, which meant we’d need to stick around in Amman, Jordan, where we’ve been living for the past year. So, no holiday travel for us, and no big family celebration.

This presented us with a conundrum: how were we going to get into the Christmas spirit, just the two of us, in a country that’s 97 percent Muslim? We’d be missing out on our traditions and on seeing our people, in a country where Christmas isn’t part of the culture. Wouldn’t we feel rather alone?

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I imagined the loneliness would be exacerbated by Amman’s general lack of festiveness. The building facades wouldn’t be strung with cheerful incandescent lights, and there would be little chance of a white Christmas (but at least it wouldn’t be hot, either—while much of Jordan is low-lying desert, Amman sits at 3,600 feet, and occasionally gets cold enough for a dusting of snow).

The city would be the same sea of limestone it always was, but with none of the yuletide coziness I craved. It would certainly be different to be awakened on Christmas morning by the call to prayer from the local mosque, instead of by the smell of brewing coffee and pancakes on the griddle. But rather than despairing, I sought to make the most of this new situation. I remembered the motto that had served me well since I began my expat journey: different doesn’t have to be bad. A Jordanian Christmas would certainly be a new experience.

I started seeking out Christmas-themed events in Amman and soon had some solid leads. Given its proximity to the Holy Land, Jordan is home to a Christian minority whose roots can be traced back to the time of Jesus. Someone was bound to be celebrating Christmas—I just had to find them.

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Jordanian Christians are well-integrated into Jordanian society, but in a few enclaves they make up the majority. One such area is the town of Fuheis, population 20,000, about a 40-minute drive from Amman. Fuheis is 95 percent Christian—about two-thirds Orthodox and one-third Catholic—and I’d heard it had an annual Christmas market, complete with the largest Christmas tree in Jordan (which, as recently as 2022, had been ceremonially lit by Queen Rania herself).

It felt like a nice solution to our Christmas quandary. I envisioned something akin to the cheerful weihnachtsmärkte of Germany and Austria, but with a distinctly Jordanian twist. Hopefully there would be some olive wood crafts to send home as gifts, or at least a selection of tasty Levantine snacks. Whatever the Fuheis Christmas market turned out to be, surely it would get us in the spirit. I started planning our trip.

An interesting side note about life in the Middle East: basic information can be difficult to come by if you don’t have a contact in the know. Even in countries like Jordan that are otherwise highly modernized, the internet isn’t leveraged in the same way that it is in most western countries, and people are still relatively reliant on word of mouth.

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If I were going to a festival in the U.S., for instance, I’d expect the organizers to put up a webpage with the location, dates, and other details. In Jordan, you’d be unlikely to find any such thing—and after repeatedly googling with little success, I still knew next to nothing about the 2024 iteration of the Fuheis Christmas market.

There would be no good way to find out what was happening in Fuheis other than to go there and see for ourselves. It would be an adventure. Or a misadventure, maybe. But where’s the fun in living abroad without a bit of that?

On a chilly Friday afternoon, my husband, a friend, and I drove out to Fuheis. It didn’t take long to notice clear markers of Christianity—several buildings bore crosses, and many of the houses had statues of the Virgin Mary out front. But there were few signs of holiday cheer, aside from what looked like a hardware store with a dancing Santa doll out front. We cruised around town, hoping each time we turned a corner that the Christmas market would present itself.

We eventually spotted what we thought was the famous Christmas tree, its top poking out from a little stone courtyard across from a church. It was completely bare. No lights, no decorations. It appeared we’d come to Fuheis too early. So my husband and I went back to Fuheis the next day. This time, armed with slightly better intel.

I had gotten the location of one of Fuheis’ Christmas-themed stores from another American expat who’d visited recently, figuring that even if we couldn’t find the market again, browsing shops full of decorations would at least feel festive.

It was getting dark when we arrived in Fuheis for the second time, and the store’s Christmas light display helped us find it easily. It was on a block where every window was decked in the same red, green, and gold baubles you might find in a Hallmark store—if it hadn’t been for all the Arabic signage, I would have almost believed we were in an American strip mall.

As we stepped into the first shop, there was a spicy, wintry aroma like something that would waft from a Yankee Candle. Familiar music was playing, including “White Christmas” and “Santa Buddy” (a male rendition of “Santa Baby,” which I’d never heard before and whose lyrics were so awkward that I’m not surprised it didn’t take off in the English-speaking world).

It struck me how much the Western Christmas aesthetic had permeated this ancient Christian community. It would have been nice to see something with a local flair, but I wasn’t about to quibble with a small taste of home. After picking up some wrapping paper, we headed out to look for the market once again.

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We passed by the giant, bare Christmas tree again. There were workers milling about in the courtyard, and they looked to be preparing the tree for its big debut. My husband hopped out of the car.

“When is the tree going to be lit?” he asked in Arabic.

“The 15^th, around 6 or 7 p.m.,” they answered. It would be another week yet.

But I had visions of Christmas lights and sugar plums dancing in my head, and I was going to find that market if it was the last thing I did. It hit me that a friend had mentioned plans to go on an organized trip to Fuheis a couple days prior—perhaps, I thought, she had fared better with a guide?

My friend’s response was promising. She sent me the location of a specific restaurant and described a little market in the alley next to it, complete with food vendors and Christmas decorations.

As we arrived in town a third time, there was something different in the air. We could see Christmas trees sparkling in the windows of homes, and the central square hosted a giant lighted Santa sleigh. Finally, Fuheis was coming alive!

We turned a corner, and there it was: an archway festooned with ornaments and Christmas garland, a Jordanian flag standing next to it. In the alleyway beyond was a bustling outdoor market. At long last, our search was over. Our persistence had been rewarded with mulled wine, hot chocolate, and desserts.

After taking a lap, we stopped for red-and-green donuts stuffed with Nutella, and indulged in a bit of people-watching as we ate. Our fellow market-goers weren’t just Christians; Muslim families crowded together for pictures, and women in hijabs sampled the snacks.

As I watched them smiling under the twinkling lights, I realized I had never really been alone in my quest for holiday cheer, and I felt a renewed sense of connection to my host country. Regardless of culture or creed, we all need to experience fun, enjoy something beautiful, celebrate being alive.

And just as I could appreciate the charm of Ramadan lanterns or the delicate sweetness of ma’amoul cookies, my Jordanian neighbors could enjoy the magic of Christmas. Because who doesn’t love twinkling lights, sweet treats, and laughing children?

Some things truly are universal.

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Samantha Childress is an American essayist living in Amman, Jordan. She writes about travel and expat life on Substack.