Blog

It is December 2008, and I’m working as a teacher in North India. It’s my first of several Christmases outside the United States. I just turned 22, and my local friends made me a cake with icing that read: “Happy birthday, Sera.”

As the month progresses, holiday tidings as I’ve known them seem a world away. Life carries on as usual in India: the sun beats down, monkeys sneer as I step outside to catch a cycle-rickshaw, temple music plays loudly over blown-out speakers, the smells of curry and incense fill the air, and there is not a Christmas tree or holly in sight. Monsoon season is finally over, and we can see the ground again --- for months there was standing floodwater. The town is so remote that I’m often the first foreigner the locals have ever seen. If I speak English, they stare at me as though I’m an absolute alien. And in many ways, I am: my home country feels as distant as another planet.

I’ve been here five months, which is longer than other teachers who attempted the job. The poverty, discomfort and violence are severe, with the state having a rough reputation even throughout the rest of the country. Being a foreigner who can’t speak the language or understand customs and moral codes adds a layer of humiliation, as you can imagine. I’ve developed true friendships --- but I’ve also been yelled at, publicly groped, intimidated by government officials, stranded in the jungle overnight, violently ill, urinated on, and threatened by a herd of wild pigs, to name a few. I’m up for the challenge, but it is indeed a challenge. I search for creature comforts, for anything familiar, especially as Christmas approaches. In this place, Christmas is no more than the Western holiday with the big red guru.

But alas! Where I can’t find garlands or carols or twinkling lights, there is a bookshop! It is located hours outside my town, and it stocks very few English books, but the shop is there. And alas again: I am given an English hardcover of THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV. So there I am in my salwar kameez on a humid December day, pining for Christmas while holding 800 pages of Dostoevsky.

I work hard with the children each day, but when working hours have passed, I have little to do. There’s nowhere to go “out,” and no internet or television. So I’m glad for a new book to fill the hours. Soon, I come to a passage that takes my breath away. This is what it says: “The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular. In my dreams, I often make plans for the service of humanity, and perhaps I might actually face crucifixion if it were suddenly necessary. Yet I am incapable of living in the same room with anyone for two days together. I know from experience. As soon as anyone is near me, his personality disturbs me and restricts my freedom. In twenty-four hours I begin to hate the best of men: one because he’s too long over his dinner, another because he has a cold and keeps on blowing his nose.”

These words have deep resonance for me as a sojourner who is attempting to serve others. Plus, the insight seems to get at the heart of Christmas. While there is a holiday connection to winter solstice, and there was a generous Turkish saint named Nicholas, cozy Western tidings do have a wonderful place in the world. Originally the day was a simple feast for a small, eclectic group of people in the East who firmly believed that a faultless christ had loved our poor, dirty, violent, nose-blowing humanity enough to enter it, not at a distance but up close and personal.

It’s a powerful sentiment of long sacrifice, of loving real people rather than only an idea of them. And it’s a sentiment I’m able to ponder this holiday season because of a bookshop and a book. Because of a writer’s heart put to paper in 1879 and passed down to readers far and wide. It’s a comforting gift during a lonely Christmastide: words in my own language that capture the human experience in a way that transcends place, tradition and even time.