Have Some Respect for My Tree!

Low lights, good Moroccan food, belly dancers twirling around us at Le Souk. Reych, Kat and I are hovered over the low table sipping drinks, stuffing our faces and discussing the usual - relationships. When speaking of reconcilable differences, the word somehow came around to the fact that my family, who are Turkish Jews, put up a plastic tree every new year's and exchange gifts as the clock hits midnight. Was this a weird habit of my family's? Would it continue if I shared a house with a Jewish man? I drafted a mini lecture on the spot:

Santa Claus is no stranger to Turkey, in fact he was born in Anatolia. Yet, admittedly the tree and the gift exchange is something more common among middle to upper-middle, cosmopolitan circles - be it a Jewish, Christian or Muslim household. Foreigners visiting Istanbul for the two weeks before new year's eve may be shocked to see lotteries, TV programs, shops branded by amiable images of "Noel Baba." He is usually accompanied by stacks of gift boxes encouraging everyone to max their credit cards. Some might call it global marketing, some might point to the city's Greek residents and tradition of religious tolerance. I'd say a harmless ritual that overlaps with other "European" habits. Don't you want a gift??

Kat nodded, Reych was intrigued but unconvinced. So, she said, raising the stakes higher. "If you had to choose between a man (she said something more direct, but dear reader, I leave it to your imagination) and the tree, which would you choose?" she asked. I screamed "The TREEEE!" as I slapped my knee with the frustration of not being understood. Kat almost rolled off her chair with laughter, breaking into a dance routine representing the moment and singing, "I want my tree! I want my tree!"

"You don't understand. It's not just a stupid tree, it is something that's part of my culture. He cannot accept the tree, he limits me. I cannot continue the rituals that make me happy. I feel resticted. If he feels threatened by the presence of something that's at most symbolic of blessings for the new year, then so be it," I said raising my voice above the music. "Really?" asked Reych unable to believe what I would give up instead. "It's a matter of principle!" I screamed and looked over to Kat for assurance. She nodded, understanding and perhaps feeling relieved that she and her man were both OK with trees. Reych pulled a "Wow," saluting my uncomprimising act. "Cheers to the tree," she raised her glass.

The bellydancer approached our table and we clapped our hands in loud cheer. "Habiiiibiii, Habiiibiii," the singer crooned. None of us cared what the origin of the song was; we didn't understand the language. We gave in to the rhythm, knowing well that it was just fun.