Christmas in Iraq

Christmas in Iraq

These were the moments Santa savored-reposed in his large rocking
chair, basking in the warmth of the fire, and savoring the pungent
aroma as it burned hot from his ivory pipe. The wood in the fireplace
popped and snapped in a staccato chorus, while Mrs. Claus could be
heard humming a soft melody as she mended Santa's suit in the adjacent
room. Santa was finally enjoying a little respite from supervising his
small band of Elves, and from the painstaking planning of his next
Christmas trip around the world.
Santa had given the elves a few days off from the toy factory so they
could rest before the big day. Christmas was a week away, and Santa
wanted to be sure that his Elves were strong and rested when it came
time to load his sleigh with all the toys. Because of the increase in
population this year, Santa figured there would be a load of 500,00
tons, not counting himself-another 250 pounds. "It's a good thing
Christmas is a Christian holiday," he mused. "It's much easier for me
when I can skip Hindus, Muslims, Jews, and Buddhist, or else I'd have a
logistical nightmare on my hands."
Toy production was completed sooner than usual, thanks to the
computerized machines Santa had bought. Elves used to hammer and saw
and glue and mold and shape everything, but now the machines did most
of the work. The Elves were only needed to operate the machines and
keep them running smoothly at full capacity. Santa gave them the name,
"Toy Machine Operators."
Skeeter was inept as far as Elves go. He was always pushing the wrong
buttons and forgetting to oil the mechanisms, causing the machines to
freeze and costing poor Santa time and money. Santa had a good mind to
fire him, but he knew the worthless little Elf would go crying to the
union. That's what they all did these days, thought Santa. If only I
could find some way to bust that blasted union. Well, eventually I'll
own machines that will do all the work, including loading my
sleigh.
Santa decided Skeeter could work in the reindeer stalls, doing various
chores. After all, Santa reasoned, any fool could feed them and clean
up their Reindeer crap, even an imbecile like Skeeter.
Hmmm&;#8230;maybe someday could get some machines that would even
take care of the Reindeer. Then I could fire that little
pointy-eared&;#8230;"
A knock on the door, light and timid, aroused Santa from his thoughts.
It must be Skeeter, thought Santa. I forgot about our meeting tonight.
Let's see, what was it he wanted to talk about? Oh yes, now I remember.
I guess it's as good as time as any. "Come in Skeeter my boy. Come warm
yourself by the fire," he said, as jovial as he could manage.
Skeeter open the large, heavy wooden door and entered the room slowly.
Santa was dressed in his red flannel pajamas with bare feet stretch out
and crossed upon the brick hearth, warmed by the fire. Skeeter noticed
his beard was nearly full now and lying spread out upon his fat belly,
a remarkable sight considering he was nearly beardless a year ago.
"Hello Santa," he said, feeling a little intimidated in front of the
great man.
"Hello my favorite little Elf. Sit down near the fire and tell me
what's on your mind. I'll have Mrs. Claus bring you a delicious cup of
hot chocolate. Whip cream?" he asked.
"Uh, sure. That sounds real good." Skeeter's back started to prickle
from the hot fire, but he dared not squirm in fear of upsetting Santa's
amiable disposition.
Amongst the Elves, Santa's outburst of temper was legendary. Like the
time Gorton showed up for work five minutes late. Santa threatened to
banish him to an iceberg and was told that he would be eaten by giant
penguins, unless the Elephant walrus's decided they wanted to make him
their play thing and&;#8230;then there was Orson-poor, poor, Orson.
When waxing Santa's sleigh one day, Orson thought it would be a good
idea to wax the leather seat, but when the wax dried, the seat became
hard and felt like steel under Santa's colossal backside. Santa swore
for days, and couldn't sit down without the aid of a soft pillow. One
day, Santa took Orson for a ride on his sleigh, and returned without
him. Santa said Orson was visiting a sick Aunt and he decided to stay,
but most of the Elves believe that he's floating on some desolate slab
of ice somewhere in the Arctic Ocean. But for today, it seemed Santa
was in a cordial mood, and that heartened Skeeter some.
Like magic, Mrs. Claus appeared in the room carrying a cup of hot
chocolate and cookies on a tray. "Here you go dear," she said. "How are
you and the reindeer getting along?"
"Er, just fine Mrs. Claus. Sort of that is. As a matter of fact,
that's what I wanted to talk to Mr. Claus about."
"Well you just go right ahead," she said. "I'll leave you two alone
for now and get back to my mending." Mrs. Claus continued to hum her
tune where she left off.
"So Skeeter, just how are you doing with the reindeer? Christmas is
just around the corner you know, and I'll need them to be strong and
healthy," said Santa, hoping for a good report.
"Well, Santa sir, I uh&;#8230;Well, I'm not sure their quite ready.
You see, Dasher still has the shakes and suffers terribly from
diarrhea. Dancer won't eat, Prancer is biting the other reindeers,
Vixen has nightmares, Comet is always fighting with invisible demons,
Cupid is practically suicidal, Donner is deathly afraid of the dark,
and Rudolph&;#8230;Well Rudolph insist he won't lead the team no
matter how much you threaten him. He'd rather be stuffed and have his
head mounted over your fireplace than light up that nose of his
again."
Santa envisioned how Rudolf's head would look mounted on above his
fireplace. It certainly would have rustic appeal&;#8230;but he
needed him to guide his sleigh, so he erased the thought from his
mind.
"Hmmm, that's somewhat unsettling, considering the job at hand. You do
realize that in one week, three hundred million children will be
expecting toys under their trees. This is totally unacceptable. Have
you any suggestions as to how we might rectify their behavior by
Christmas Eve?"
"Well, sir," said Skeeter, broaching the subject timidly, "It might
help if you could share a little about what happened last Christmas,
before you returned home. They were fine before they left, but when
they got back, they were changed. They were nervous and scared. Maybe
if I knew what happened, I could better understand how to help
them."
Santa became frozen in thought and his eyes narrowed while his pupils
danced wildly with the flickering flames. His face and nose became
flushed with blood and the knuckles on his pipe hand whitened as he
gripped it tightly. Skeeter feared he had triggered a possible temper
tantrum. He was certainly aware of the signs.
However, to Skeeter's surprise, the big man awoke from his reverie and
suddenly broke into his traditional, bellowing laughter. "Ho, ho, ho!"
It was like he was trying to force himself out of an unpleasant
trance.
But Skeeter sensed the laughter wasn't authentic, it sounded ominous
and guttural-like the reflexive response to a re-opened wound. His
laughter betrayed a perverse contentment or delight that some sort of
personal justice had been meted out to an adversary.
Santa filled his pipe again, took a red-hot stick from the fire to
light it, then drew deeply until his enormous lungs were filled, and
like a deflated balloon, blew out the pungent vapor at the very last
moment. The previously menacing eyes were now sleepy and tranquil,
almost completely shut. His eyelids were like a weighty veil that would
open and close laboriously with no other reason than to protest against
his inert state of mind. Skeeter wondered what great magic was in his
pipe that would radically induce such a radical change in his mood.
After some moments of comatose lapses between long puffs on the strange
herb, Santa began to tell his story.

As you may well remember, the night before last Christmas was a time of
joy and gaiety. The toys were packaged neatly and loaded on my sleigh.
The Reindeer were restless and ready for their flight around the world.
The Elves were dancing in the snow, anticipating how happy the children
would be on Christmas day. Rudolph was busy testing his red nose,
making sure that it was blinking properly. But it was that blinking
nose of his that would eventually bring us perilously close to our
destruction.
At first, everything went perfect, without a hitch. With the kids all
snuggled in their beds, and the chimney flues left open, I swept
through 800 homes per second. Not bad, considering I broke last year's
record by 50 homes. Finally, satisfied that every nice kid's stocking
was filled and presents were left under their trees, we all headed back
home.
We had made good time, so once we arrived over the Middle East, I
decelerated, entering the familiar, time-space continuum. It was a
clear night, the stars coruscated like blue sequins over our heads, and
the air was cool and still. Since I only travel once a year, I thought
we'd do a little sightseeing. We traversed the Saharan sands of Africa,
which looked like rolling waves of desolation, stark and bleak, but as
beautifully remote as a Martian landscape. Then we skimmed the pyramid
tops of Egypt; my favorite of the Seven Wonders of the World, before
going on to the Red Sea, which resembled a pool of mercury, bathed by
the moon's brilliance. Next, we took an easterly course for the
Euphrates River, searching for the ancient city of Babylon, which is
now marked by its broad area of ruins. I could almost imagine the
fabled Hanging Gardens, Nebuchadnezzar's gift to his wife, or The
Ishtar Gate, the famous gateway on the northern side of the city.
Lastly, we cruised towards Bagdad, the city of mythological folklore,
such as carpet rides, Sinbad, Genies, snake charmers and
dagger-wielding villains lurking in the marketplaces.
The city beneath us was dark and quiet, belying its exciting allure,
so I decided to fly home towards the North Pole, when suddenly, the sky
erupted in thunderous clamor all around us. The concussions were so
great; I was thrown to the floor of the sleigh. The Reindeer were in a
state of panic; their eyes bulged with fear.
I found out later, it was anti-aircraft guns that were trying to blow
us out of the sky. Regaining my senses temporarily, I noticed the herd
was moving in a circular pattern, entering again and again into the
line of fire. I finally found out why-Rudolph was knocked unconscious,
and hanging from his harness, limp as a noodle.
No wonder the Reindeer remained circumpolar, there was no one to guide
them! I called out to Dasher, who was next in line to lead us out of
the fray, but he was so paralyzed with fright, he lost his bowels,
soiling those of us down wind.
Meanwhile, puffs of smoke still ignited around us, while Rudolph's nose
became their prime objective. I thought about cutting him loose and
whipping the other's into gear, but by that time we lost momentum and
we were descending quickly towards the black desert. We landed with a
hard thump, and the reindeer were lying on top of each other in a
confused heap.
Dazed, but somewhat alert, I tried to loose the reindeer from their
reins, but the Iraqis were already upon me. I tried to run for my life,
but mad men with clenched teeth encircled me. A large, mustachioed man
dressed in desert Khakis and a black turban stuck his rifle in my face
and asked me who I was. Confident they would release me once I
explained, I answered, 'Kris Kringle, commonly known as Santa Claus.'
Then, he promptly brought up his rifle butt and smashed the side of my
head.
I woke up and found myself being held up by my arms and led into the
city. My legs were weak and they dragged in the dirt behind me. Where
once the city was dark and lifeless, it was now teeming with people
carrying torches and flashlights who came to gawk at me. There were men
and women, young and old, who formed a line on both sides, acting as a
gauntlet. I knew what was in store. I was hit with stones, spat upon,
hit with fist, my beard was pulled out, and children threw camel dung
in my face. I was called a spy, Satan, and a terrorist.
Battered and torn by the civilians, I was taken to secret police
headquarters and thrown into a bare, six by eight-foot cell. A
frighteningly ugly man named Abid ordered me to sit cross-legged in the
middle of the cell at attention, with my eyes looking straight ahead.
He said I would be questioned shortly and that I should tell the truth,
or it would be Allah's will that I be killed.
I thought about the Reindeers and what sort of horror they might have
been suffering at the hands of our captors; perhaps they were roasting
on a spit, or being gutted and quartered for market, or maybe peasants
put them to the yoke as beast of burdens. But my real concern at that
moment was for my own survival, and that meant staying calm and alert.
I was determined to make it back to the North Pole with, or without
those Reindeer. After all, Reindeer can be replaced, but you can't
replace Santa Claus.
I awoke to Abid's frantic screaming, coupled with the pain in my ribs
from his boot, and was told I would be punished later for sleeping
without permission. Abid was tall and his face was broad with a large
hooked nose, like a parrot. His face was almost black from dirt and
stubble; mixed with a copious layer of grease. An AK-47 was slung
around his shoulder and a long knife was sheathed at his side.
"Get up!" Abid said to me, "It is time for questioning."
More like an interrogation you mean, thinking to myself, as I tried to
work the circulation back into my numbed legs. My back was in terrible
pain from the beating I received at the gauntlet, so I stood hunched
over. I was taken, arms bound, down a narrow, blood stained corridor,
as cries and moans could be faintly heard through the thick walls. The
walls were roughly hewn, and the floor dipped and rose slightly in
various places. I noticed Abid had to stoop low as he walk to keep his
head from hitting the squat ceiling. I felt a damp, cold chill whip
through the corridor, and wondered if their headquarters was
subterranean, hidden from sight.
I was taken to a small room and made to sit for an hour before a man
came bursting through the doors with a smile on his face and his arm
extended. "Hello," he said, "My name is Usaf Mohammed. I hope my
comrades have not been too harsh on you. I deplore their methods of
detainment. They're really quite uncivilized, as I'm sure you have
experienced."
"Yes," I said, "I have been terribly mistreated since being shot
down." I was hoping for some sympathy.
"Well then," Usaf said, "Perhaps it would be in your best interest to
answer all questions truthfully. Colonel Ramzi is most barbaric of all
interrogators and will stop at nothing to make you confess your sins
against Allah and the state of Iraq. So, if you will allow me to help
you, there will be no more beatings. Believe me, I am your
friend."
"I really have nothing to confess sir," I told him. "I was just making
my way home after dropping off Christmas presents to millions of
children. I wanted to do a little sight seeing and&;#8230;"
Then the door flew open again, this time a runt of a man, Colonel
Ramzi I presumed, stormed in and knocked me off my chair with the heel
of his boot, yelling, "Spy, spy!" He was completely bald and
clean-shaven. He also reeked of cheap cologne. Usaf quickly came to my
aid and rebuked Colonel Ramzi for his barbarity. Ramzi then left in a
huff. Though this was a new experience to me, I was able to discern
that they were partners in a charade to endear me to Usaf and to gain
his trust, while fearing the wrath of Colonel Ramzi. But I was
determined to speak truthfully no matter what the outcome. The
interrogation began.
Usaf: "Are you a spy, Mr. Kringle?"
Santa: "Please, call me Santa."
Usaf: "Very well, Santa. Are you a spy?"
Santa: "Absolutely not. I'm just a little fat man in a red suit who
brings joy to millions of children each Christmas Eve."
Usaf: "I see. Are you an American?"
Santa: "No sir, I am&;#8230;I guess you can just say I'm
neutral."
Usaf: "Beg you pardon?"
Santa: "Well, um&;#8230;I embrace all nationalities. I am not
circumscribed by any race, other than the human race."
Usaf: "Where is your home."
Santa: "The North Pole."
Usaf: "Santa, why were you flying in our air space?"
Santa: "I wanted to do a little sightseeing. I don't get out much
except on Christmas Eve."
Usaf: "Those strange creatures that pull your ship, are they part of a
new technology?"
Santa: "Those strange creatures are Reindeer, and the ship is my
sleigh. It is magic that makes them fly."
Usaf: "I see. Tell me the truth my friend, why are you here. Is it to
spy on us? Who sent you here? Are you an American? What is your
rank?"
Santa: "I have told you the truth. I'm just a jolly fat guy who
delivers gifts to children once a year. Sure it's a hassle sometimes,
but I get free room and board and supervise a bunch of Elves who work
almost night and day for a pittance, but you can't beat the perks if
you know what I mean?"
Usaf: "What are these Elves you mentioned."
Santa: Just a gaggle of runts with pointy ears who do nothing but
complain as they make toys for the children. Frankly, most them have
been phased out when my machines went on-line."
"Enough!" shouted Usaf. I have been patient and kind with you. But you
have disrespected me with your foolish story of magic, and Reindeers,
and Elves, and such. Regrettably, you leave me no choice but to call
for Colonel Ramzi."
That's when I knew I was in for it.

Colonel Ramzi entered the room with two men. One was Abid. He held a
nylon rope and the other who held a baton was called Ahab. Usaf spoke
secretly to Ramzi and then exited the room. Ramzi turned on the hot
light above me and his henchmen tied my arms behind my back. Little
beads of sweat broke into rivulets down his forehead.
"So," said Ramzi, as he paced the room, "You choose not to cooperate.
Usaf is much to kind for this sort of business. However, I am most
talented in the art of persuasion, as you will soon find out. But, to
prove that I am not completely void of human compassion, I will give
you one more chance to save yourself from the inevitable. Are you a
spy?"
"No sir," I said. "I am an ambassador of cheer to children everywhere.
Except in certain places where&;#8230;where Christmas is denounced
as a pagan creation. I deliver gifts once a year and then high tail it
back to the North Pole where I gorge and slumber for the rest of the
year. It's a good gig and if you don't mind I'd like to get back before
Mrs. Claus starts to worry." Then Ahab whacked me across my back with
his baton. Then they put a bag over my head and I was punched in the
face, breaking my nose. Still, the questions came, followed by more
threats. Ramzi was exploding with rage and I thought I would be killed
but instead he ordered me back to my cell. The goon's escorted me back
and began to beat me again in my cell. Both of them chanted, "Death to
Satan," as they kicked me over and over. Finally, I blacked out.
The next day I awoke to the clanging sound of my door opening. It was
Usaf and he had some food and water on a tray. He wagged his head in
sympathy and derided Ramzi's barbaric behavior of me. Then he pleaded
with me to tell the truth or that barbarian would surely kill me next
time. "Please trust me," he said, "I only want to help you. Our concern
is not with you, but with those who sent you. Now tell me, where did
you get your orders? Was it the Americans? Was it the Europeans? You
must answer me Santa or Ramzi may kill you at the next
interrogation."
I knew the "good guy, bad guy" routine was being played. But I stuck
to my guns and told the truth. I could only hope that they would grow
weary of me and let me go free. But something told me that these
lunatics weren't going to give up so easy.
"I was given no orders, nor was I sent by anybody," I said to Usaf. I
am Santa Claus. Once a year I travel the speed of light and bring toys
and goodies on my sleigh to children who have proved themselves good. I
am revered and idolized everywhere in the Christian world. My minions
grace the malls of all civilized nations, and songs about me are sung
in schools and churches all over the world. I am a jolly icon whose
face is replicated on coke bottles, cards, and toys and magazines adds
everywhere. I have inundated the networks with movies, cartoons, and
commercials. Theme parks and villages have been named after me. I am
the center of controversy, the subject of fabrications, and in some
circles, the focus of worship. I'm responsible for bringing peace and
harmony between even the worst of enemies. But here in this place I
have found nothing but ignorance and contempt. This is a place of
darkness where subjugation of thought has spawned persecution and
despair. There is no joy or freedom here, only fear and hopelessness.
You rule with a heavy hand, you break the backs of the poor in order
that you may live handsomely. Your government is a scourge and rascals
such as you and that barbarian Ramzi are responsible. I am not fooled
one minute by your pretensions of sympathy. You are also a willing
accomplice within the totalitarian machine."
Usaf Mohammed was apoplectic with rage. "How dare you!" he exploded.
You imperialistic, pig! You dare spout your moral hypocrisy to me? You
dare preach to me when materialistic acquisition is your pagan
aspiration? You boast of peace and harmony, yet you spy upon our people
and then import your terrorism upon our children. You bloated, over
indulgent clown in a red suit. Because of your violation of Iraqi law,
you shall be tried as a criminal against Islam. Praise to Allah!"
The door slammed and I was left to myself and to my wounds.

Little did I know, at that moment a rescue party consisting of some of
the finest military men in the world were assembling together to
conduct a raid upon the prison where I was held. These men were Israeli
commandos-a strike force especially trained in air-assault operations.
After they practiced the raid again and again at their isolated
military base, they confidently set out for Bagdad.
Once the team landed in Bagdad, their cargo plane's huge tail ramp
dropped and out came a large, black Mercedes Benz limousine, closely
followed by a two and a half ton truck filled with Israeli commandos
dressed in Iraqi uniforms. In the back of the limousine was a bulky
Israeli officer dressed like the Dictator Sadaam Hussein.
The license plate on the limousine was identical to that of Hussein's
official car. As the party drove up to the prison, the Iraqi guards
snapped to attention, allowing the first Israeli commandos to get
within a few yards of the entrance before the first shots were fired.
That's when I was roused from my sleep.
Bullets were soon ricocheting off the corridor walls like hail in a
thunderstorm. Within ten to twenty minutes, the shooting was over and a
couple of young commandos rushed me past my dead jailers and out to my
sleigh where my tiny Reindeer were already prepared for takeoff. I had
no time to thank my rescuers because they were laying down heavy fire
in order to facilitate my escape. Immediately, I beckoned the reindeer;
"On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and-oh screw it, let's get the heck out
of here." So up to the sky we flew like a flash.
Before we engaged light speed, I looked over my shoulder and saw great
fireballs erupt in the distance as Israeli commandos blew up the group
of MIGS that were scrambling to intercept us. So you see Skeeter, if it
weren't for those brave commandos, I'm sure I would have been executed
as a spy, and that would have been the end of Christmas.
Skeeter was spellbound by Santa's story. "So that's the reason for the
Reindeer's strange behavior," said Skeeter, finally enlightened.
"Well yes, and no," said Santa, equivocally. "You see Skeeter, they've
been informed that they will be making another trip to Iraq this
Christmas, and it's your job to see they're ready."
"But I don't understand," said Skeeter incredulously. "I
mean&;#8230;after what happened last Christmas, why would you want
to return."
"Let's just say Santa has some payload&;#8230;er&;#8230;uh, good
tidings to return to our Iraqi friends."

Christmas morning in Bagdad began like all the other mornings for
Colonel Ramzi and members of his secret police. Outside their
headquarters and kneeling on straw mats, they faced the direction of
Mecca and bowed in worship of Allah. The droning of prayers and
recitations were earnestly lifted up to heaven while they repetitively
rocked back and forth on their knees in a trance-like state. Theirs
were prayers of vengeance. They all prayed that justice would be done
to the evil purveyors of western culture-a culture rife with sin. They
prayed that they would someday honor Allah by being martyred for the
good of Islam. The Koran praised their martyrdom as being a virtuous
thing, and they would be rewarded in heaven. To the likes of Colonel
Ramzi and his Islamic secret police, there was no higher honor than
sacrificing themselves, while extinguishing the infidels from the face
of the earth.
As Colonel Ramzi rocked on his knees and lifted his eyes up to heaven,
he saw a familiar sight hovering above him. He was surprised to see the
fat clown in the red suit that had escaped from him a year ago. He had
his Reindeer parked and he was dropping a large, gift-wrapped package
over the side. The last thing Colonel Ramzi heard was a,
"Ho-ho-ho&;#8230; Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good
night."
Santa engaged his Reindeer to supersonic speed in order not to be
slammed by the shockwave that was sure to hit. The Thermonuclear cloud
that vaporized Bagdad was now out of harm's way, so the jolly one
removed his protective sunglasses and slowed his Reindeer down to a
leisurely trot. Leaning back on the cushion and resting his feet on top
of the sleigh, Santa casually commented to his Reindeer. "You see
fellas, that's what happens when you're naughty and not nice." The
Reindeer, still smarting from their ordeal a year ago, exploded with
vindictive laughter, then bagan a cheerful course for the North
Pole.