We had Christmas Trees; a Fir tree, most likely, my mother recalls. But to get to us in Karachi or Lahore it would have traveled a long distance from the Himalayan Mountains. We would cover it with the usual baubles; along with hand-made paper chains and other decorations. Under it would be the presents. And then Father Christmas would come late one night after church and a sumptuous meal of curries and rice.
In Lahore one year we went to Naulakha Church for Christmas morning. Across the aisle from us was a couple. They seemed lost. As the offering was called the woman began to play with a corner of her sari. The plate went past her; she and her husband were disappointed and ashamed.
Later my father explained they were likely from a village and had made a pilgrimage to a cathedral for Christmas. To be safe the woman had tied her annual tithes – what my father called a “few annas” or pennies – into a corner of her sari. But, since they didn't know the order of service, and were not literate, they didn't know when the offering would happen. When it was announced the woman began undoing a knot she had made too tight in her anxiousness. My father said they would likely return the next year to make the offering again.
The Presbyterian Church of Pakistan was constituted at Naulakha in 1993; though it has been around for at least a century. My maternal grandfather was one of the first indigenous Presbyterian ministers and taught at Gujranwala Theological Seminary, in Punjab province. My mother grew up on the seminary grounds; and it's my grandfather's genes that keep me glued to the Presbyterian Church, despite my Canadian inclinations. That's a sort of Christmas story, I suppose; a constant birthing and rebirthing. (Presbyterian Church (USA) and the Synod of United Presbyterian Church, North America, both have long legacies in Pakistan.)
But, it's my Anglican roots from my father I recall mostly. In Lahore I went to the school attached to the Cathedral Church of the Resurrection. Every morning, rain or shine, we would gather in the central square, sing All Things Bright And Beautiful, get our announcements, chastisements and encouragements and go to class. My mother had been a teacher there before having children and returned there when her kids were ready. I was seven or eight when we moved to Lahore and my most vivid memories of my Pakistani childhood involve Cathedral, the surrounding neighbourhoods of Anarkali and The Mall and the Empress Road neighbourhood where we lived in a faux-Christian corner on Nicholson Road.
It is Christmas I recall at Cathedral: each year a magnificent pageant, with live animals. I remember watching it for the first time, enthralled – this may have been the birth of my fascination with theatre. The next year, I was in the pageant, a shepherd boy. Being part of the show wasn't as interesting as watching it, of course. We sat around a lot and couldn't watch the show. But my parents were beaming and that's what a little child can do.
Did I mention that Pakistan is a primarily Muslim country? When I think of my childhood Christmases, my memories are almost entirely colonial. I was third generation Christian; our traditions were borrowed from the Brits and from the predominant culture in which we lived.
We would order dozens of Christmas cakes from a local baker and these we would give to friends and neighbours. In their turn our Muslim neighbours would give us gifts on their Eids. That's how I remember it – maybe they were better times or these are just the rosy memories of a child. Then one day things weren't like that anymore and we came to Canada and a different kind of colonialism.
