AT MARTYRS SQUARE IN BEIRUT, A CHRISTMAS TREE COMPETES WITH THE MOHAMMED AMIN MOSQUE FOR THE PRIVILAGE OF GRACING THE HORIZON. In this city, the fact that the two stand side by side is not a contradiction. People gather around the tree, snapping pictures of family members with their cell phones while others shuffle into the mosque to pray under its magnificent dome inlaid with golden quranic scripture.

The mosques builder lies eternally beside it, the cool Mediteranean breeze carrying the scent of thousands of flowers onto the street from his tomb. More than three years after his murder, visitors silently mourn their former Prime Minister, Rafik Hariri. Not far from the square, a veiled woman glides past chic cafes and one of the many military checkpoints that have covered the city since Hezbollah took over the West Beirut six months ago. Two soldiers in army green berets watch the woman saunter by, her traditional grey trench coat sweeping against the ground and a giant Santa balloon trailing over her shoulder.

A procession of hundreds of children dressed in Santa suits march by singing Hallelujah as I talk to an Iraqi Sunni in a café at Bab Tuma, Damascus’ ancient Christian quarter. “My last child was born on Christmas one year ago,” he says. “We were living on a roof in Damascus.” They had fled Iraq after militias bombed his English-language institute in Diyala and tried to kidnap his nine-year-old daughter. Now he shares a single room with his wife and four kids.

“We will have a quite Christmas celebration,” he tells me as he chain-smokes cigarettes. Like so many of the Iraqi refugees in Damascus, he holds dearly to the anti-sectarian values so many Iraqis are proud of. He tells me about a painting he is working on—inspired by his brother who was killed by militias for being a painter and a poet. “In the picture there is a cross. I drew the picture of the cross for Jesus, peace be upon him. But it’s not a compliment (to Christians). Our life, and the lives of all Iraqis, is just like when they crucified Jesus.”

The Christmas songs outside draw us out into the cold. The little Santas, now numbering over a thousand, stand behind a flag of the Syrian republic and a banner of the Virgin Mary. Candy is tossed into the crowd. The call to prayer echoes from the nearby mosque, blending with a rendition of Jingle Bells in English and Arabic.

My cell phone beeps. It’s a message from my neighbor, a lifelong resident of one of the most religiously conservative Muslim neighborhoods in Damascus: “Merry Christmas,” it says. “May God bestow you and the entire world with goodness, love, and peace.”