“Think Aleppo’s crazy? Try Bethlehem on *********’ Christmas Eve, the whole town all day-for-night courtesy of that **************** crazy star.”
— Capt. Gabriel Turgidson, U.N. Peacekeeper
I’m embedded with a cadre of U.N. Peacekeepers, led by a grizzled, seasoned, decorated, bereted, cigar-chewing, profane cliché of an officer who long ago traded in his swagger stick for a more contemporary leadership attitude and a permanent sneer. Capt. Gabriel Turgidson understands the mission, the risks at which he must put his men and himself (and me), and he understands the stakes. “Hey, we’re talking about Christmas, here, mate,” he explains in his clipped New Zealand accent, that always makes the sheep in the manger tremble. “But ours is not to reason why, right?” he added with a squinty roll of the eyes.
Turgidson and his ecumenical gallimaufry of non-aggressors have been in-country for three months, preparing for the skirmishes that always flare up in the year-end holiday train wreck.. I joined them three weeks ago, to document their dangerously neutral efforts to put a stocking cap on what has become a highly volatile situation. I arrived just after things began to heat up: several Advent calendars were found to be rigged with IEDs (Inserted Ecclesiastical Descriptions).
“The ******* tricky thing out here,” Turgidson cautioned, “is trying to ******* figure out who are the bad ************ guys. And the funny thing is that it’s not just the other religions looking for equal time: often as not, it’s some true believer — with a political agenda! — if you can *********** believe it.” He glared around the briefing room at his team before his steely, bloodshot, jaundiced, meth-pupiled gaze came back to me. “Joy to the world? Not this world, Sunny Jim. It’s a jingle out there.”
That was 36 hours ago — 36 hours of continuous patrol. As midnight approaches, the atmosphere is as near to bursting as a well-stuffed chimney stocking hung on the chimney with care. No sugarplum dreams for this crew. And small wonder: what we’ve seen, both good and bad, in the last day and a half, will take a long time to digest. Like the holiday turkey we’re missing out on. OK — Christmas turkey. The turkey doesn’t care.
It’s been mostly good, to everyone’s relief. We were concerned when three trucks with goods for different isms showed up at the depot at the same time: one full of Hanukkah candles, one of evergreens imported by the local druids, and a big trailer full of Christmas spirits – and not the Scrooge variety, either. The drinkable stuff. By the time we got there, there’d been a little bit of posturing and quoting from various holy books. But the druids were already sharing with the Christians — lots of mistletoe! — and the whole thing came down to some bowing and a bit of of Alphonse/Gaston politesse. I wouldn’t go so far as to say heart-warming, but it was better than mere civility.
The night was filled with reports that seemed to generate spontaneously in dark, narrow streets. A dealer openly hawking black market frankincense and synthetic Chinese myrrh on a street corner? Gone by the time we got there. Three “wise men” sighted on camelback in the park? Too much holiday cheer for the local winos. A pair of hipsters run out of town on their Festivus pole? Fake news, for sure.
Then a report that even these battle-hardened vets dreaded: a “seasonal event” (read: terror attack) by the Black Friday movement. Several shopping carts filled with explosive bargains were rolled into a crowded public park. Result: chaos. “I’ve seen door-busters cause less mayhem,” muttered one trooper.
A small crowd gathered at the Inn, when a black Santa was told there was No Vacancy. Could have been a classic SNAFU (Situation Naughty And Fraught, Unfortunately) but it ended up nice. Turned out there was truly no vacancy, but a white Santa had booked a suite and let the black Santa sleep on his sofa. Maybe sense and courtesy aren’t as common as we’d like, but both were working on this day, at that Inn. That said, both Santas later reported they hadn’t slept well, because some neighborhood brat wouldn’t lay off his little drum.
In the shopping district, we got reports of an unruly gang of drunken teens calling themselves the “Crèche Crushers.” We mobilized fast—but a group of Catholic nuns were already there, armed with those wicked rulers. The Mother Superior told Turgidson something that sounded like “Eh ank-ih.”
The captain snapped off a salute and we withdrew. “Latin,” he muttered. “’We got this.’ I bet they bloody well do.” On we rolled.
Our caravan passed a fox hole that seemed to have been struck by lightning; collapsed at the bottom were charred human remains. I asked Turgidson, “What do you think? A jihadi whose Christmas vest lit up at the wrong moment? Offed Christian soldier?”
Turgidson just shook his head. “No way of knowing now,” he said. “We just know it wasn’t an atheist.”
Midnight came and went without incident, and Turgidson turned the column back towards base. He called us to a halt in the square in front of the Hilton, where a crowd of tourists — selfies are a dead giveaway — were apparently getting ready to demonstrate. Sure enough, at a signal from a lady wearing a Santa cap, they began a haunting melodious chant — the N-word. “Noël, Noël, Noël . . .” they sang.
Turgidson took the cigar from his tobacco-stained and chapped yet full and sensuous lips, and his battle weathered, leathery, creased, acne-scarred face almost gave up a — a smile? A tear? I couldn’t be sure. “Takes glittery balls to sing like that these days. The courage of their convictions, wouldn’t you say? Those are no Noël cowards.”
When we reached base, we provided the password to the sentry on duty, who responded “Welcome back, sir. And Merry –“ He bit off the end of his sentence and blushed furiously, almost acrobatically.
Turgidson scowled. “What’s that, soldier? Is there something you want to wish us?”
“Sir yes sir!” he roared as he snapped once again into a salute. “Sir, Peace on earth, sir!”
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