Growing up in my predominantly white suburban public elementary school, each month we celebrated a holiday. Halls and classrooms were decorated, crafts were crafted, and pizza parties were a monthly highlight. Halloween, Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day were annual staples, but the school really went all in during winter. We drew turkeys and Christmas trees, colored cut-outs of Pilgrims, glittered paper snowflakes, painted ornaments, and sang carols all winter long.

I had fun but often felt alienated from my mostly Christian classmates because my family celebrated none of these holidays. Instead, we observed Ramadan and celebrated Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha – and not with an in-school pizza party, but usually at a barbecue outside of school with other Sudanese families.

The commercialization of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year has led to the creation of a winter-long holiday season. Houses and streets are lit up, malls stay open late, and some radio stations play round-the-clock Christmas music from November 1 through January 1. I adore pretty lights and themed hot drinks, but my childhood alienation returns as I observe the frenzy of others from afar. These are not my holidays; there is little sacred about the season to me.

But this year is different. This year, my sacred days overlap with those of the global majority – and it is happening right now. Ramadan, Vaisakhi, Passover, Easter, Theravada New Year, the Gathering of Nations, and Ridvan are being observed by Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, Native Americans, and Baha’is throughout the month of April; a convergence occurring for the first time since 1991.

I spoke with Rabbanit Leah Sarna and New Jersey-based Sikh artist Harleen Kaur about how they observe Passover and Vaisakhi, what we might learn from each other when we reframe the holiday season, and why women who cover and are visibly part of a faith tradition might be the right people to lead this multifaith conversation about our shared values while honoring our differences. Belonging to minority faith traditions, both Rabbanit Sarna and Harleen shared my childhood alienation from the holiday season. Although winter does feature sacred days for Jews and Sikhs, some of the most important holy days for both faiths are in spring.

Noting that some have “tried to force Diwali into the season because ‘everyone has a holiday now,’” Harleen says that winter doesn’t truly feel like a holiday season for her. This, even while she appreciates magical lights decorating bleak winter nights and delights in the guilty pleasure of bad Christmas movies. Still, there is a deeper issue of identity at stake. She puts it this way, “Our parents had to answer [this] question: Do we assimilate [into the majority culture] or do we raise our children with strong roots?”

This question is probably familiar to Muslim and Jewish parents in the U.S.

Rabbanit Sarna, who serves as the Associate Director of Education and Director of High School Programs at the Drisha Institute for Jewish Education, notes the commercialization of Hannukah – and exchanging of presents, which is a recent phenomenon that is likely a reaction to Christmas – may be due to it being a home-based, winter holiday. But it is a lesser holiday – unlike Passover, one of the most important holidays in the Jewish calendar, commemorating the exodus and liberation of the Israelites from enslavement in Egypt and “passing over” the forces of destruction.

Passover is a food-oriented – and therefore often woman-heavy – holiday, in ways not unlike Ramadan for many Muslim families. It may take weeks for a woman to prepare her kitchen and home for the lavish seder meal that marks the start of the holiday. Leading up to Passover, women will eliminate all leaven products in their household, prepare recipes – often passed down from mother to daughter – in which certain foods are restricted, separate the cookware, clean and decorate their homes and execute the overall Passover seder experience.

Rabbanit Sarna recalls hunting down her son’s hidden stashes of Cheerios while preparing her home for Passover. She notes that many people will start preparing for the winter holiday season right after Halloween but might not realize their Jewish colleagues are also preparing for Passover a month in advance, with the accompanying high stress levels and tight calendar schedules.

Vaisakhi, marks the first month of spring in many Indian faith traditions. For Sikhs, it is the day that their faith became formalized by the tenth Guru Gobind Singh, who established the Khalsa, a ceremonially reconstituted Sikh community. Vaisakhi is a community-based holiday with large parades, public feasts, and is a prime time for ceremonial initiation into the faith. This year, Harleen’s contribution to her local Vaisakhi celebration is a children’s craft table.

I’ve always felt kinship with Sikh men who wear a turban for religious reasons, especially when traveling in airports. The ceremonial initiation into the Sikh identity includes the Five Kakar's; physical markers kept by an initiated Sikh. One of these, kesh– the practice of keeping one’s hair uncut along with the dastar head covering – is perhaps one of the most conspicuous identity markers of an initiated Sikh. But it wasn’t until I started working at an interfaith organization that I learned some Sikh women also cover their uncut hair with a turban.

Harleen wasn’t raised to cover; she was in college when she made the decision – and it was against her family’s wishes. She was initiated at age 14 and chose to cover her hair at 19. Historically, Sikh women wore turbans, but it became less common over time. Renewed interest in hair covering grew in tandem with the rise of Sikh feminism. Her decision to cover was a deeply spiritual one, “When we’re praying, we cover out of respect. The Divine is everywhere, so why wouldn’t I want to cover everywhere?” For Sikhs, uncut hair is a gift to humanity, whom the Divine has created perfectly. She decided to not alter her hair; to keep it with honor, respect and dignity, and to cover it with her dastar, her crown.

“Her crown.” – Sounds familiar to hijab-wearing Muslim women.

Harleen’s decision is also proudly political and rooted in solidarity. To cover one’s head with a dastar means to be different. The “5 K’s” were meant specifically to ensure an initiated Sikh would be known publicly. Sikhism, which teaches radical equality, fights for social justice and opposes systems of rigid hierarchies such as casteism, wants its followers to be known and seen as a haven for the oppressed and vulnerable. But in a country where religious literacy is low and religious bigotry is on the rise, “My Sikh brothers in the West are being persecuted, so why should I [get to] pass for not-Sikh?” she asks.

We’re seeing a real renaissance in terms of head coverings,” Rabbanit Sarna tells me. Some Jewish texts speak of covering for married women, although there is some difference of thought of whether they refer to covering the hair or one’s head. Varying interpretations and the community’s geographic diversity means that women from different Ashkenazi, Sephardic and other communities may (or may not) cover in different ways. Some women of the Judeo-Arabic diaspora used to cover their heads in ways nearly identical to Muslim hijabs.

Others may wear headbands, turbans, hats or wigs, covering all or some of their hair. Covering her head in one of these ways symbolizes a Jewish woman’s marital status, which has led to debate and some pushback. Many single women view head covering as a service, akin to Jewish men who wear yarmulkes to signify that God is above us all.

In my conversations with both women, I was struck by the similarities we face as women of faith who cover. Many of us are compelled to cover due to deep religious convictions related to our individual relationship with, love for, and respect of our Creator. But this private meaning can lead to public consequences. Racist, xenophobic, Islamophobic, anti-Semitic bigots are often triggered by gender and external garb. Muslim women and Sikh and Jewish men are too-often visible targets for hate crimes.

Still, hate will never stop women from adhering to the tenets of their faiths. Thus, the hijab and modestwear fashion industry is not only serving Muslim women, but women from all backgrounds. “We owe a lot to our sisters in the Muslim community,” Rabbanit Sarna tells me, referring to the proliferation of video tutorials and websites that sell scarves, accessories, swimwear and athletic coverings.

Rabbanit Leah Sarna, Harleen Kaur, and I are from three different faiths, and we all arrived at the same conclusion: There shouldn’t be just one holiday season. Wishing people happy holidays throughout the year is a way to honor the diversity of the human family and celebrate values we hold in common. Those of us living in the United States belong to one of the most religiously diverse societies in history.

So, as we sit at our iftar and seder tables, as we join our communities in worship and celebration throughout this month, let’s encourage ourselves to ask and learn from each other. We might find more similarities than we expect and be enriched by our differences. As Harleen delightfully says, “Rather than hoarding all the holiday time in December, let’s spread the joy!”

Hind Makki is an interfaith and anti-racism educator who holds a degree in International Relations from Brown University. She is an Educator with the Institute for Social Policy and Understanding (ISPU) and is the founder and curator of Side Entrance, an award-winning website documenting women’s prayer experiences in mosques around the world. In 2018, Hind was recognized as one of CNN’s 25 Influential American Muslims. She has served on the Islamic Society of North America’s Mosque Inclusion Taskforce and is a former Fellow of the American Muslim Civic Leadership Institute. Hind is an advisor to the ISPU project Reimagining Muslim Spaces, and offers consultations, workshops on mosque inclusion in Western Europe and the United States.