Christmas in the Refugee Camp

I was fortunate to spend Christmas with my Karen friends in the refugee camp. Here are some traditions and experiences learned:

Before Christmas, each person in the community draws a name and buys that person a gift, given on Christmas Day.

At the Christmas Eve service, the light in the Anglican Church flickers on and off. It is connected to a turbine spun by the current of a nearby river. In the dry season, now, the current is a bit weaker because of the slower flow of water. Candles stand in, or the lector reading from the first chapter of John, moves to a window, leaning the Bible towards the last remaining hour of sunlight. The sketches from the Karen Bible I hear are: "there was a man named John. He was not the light, but was called to bear witness to the light that was coming into the world."

After the Christmas Eve service, the 200 parishioners remain on the floor, their candlelights illuminate all the walls around them, making a new truth come to light: there are so many shadows that are invited. The night celebration continues. The church building a place of reenactment of the Christmas story by the boarding house students, or a group sings a praise song. "What's the order of the program tonight?" I ask the priest. "Ask the Spirit."

As the night turns to early morning, people prepare to sleep in the cold air. Many have traveled all day from a neighboring refugee camp to attend the Anglican services. Many sleep outside and build a fire under a clear, moonlit sky. All around, the ducks, chickens, pigs, and goats announce their arrival. It's not that there is 'no room in the inn here', it's just that the room in the inn is first a sense of gathering, less a place.

After Christmas midnight mass, gifts are distributed. My gift? I received a small loaf of bread. It was bought with sacrifice, wrapped in colorful paper, and eaten with a new sense of what makes food holy.