Traditions are always puzzling to those who don't share them. I'm

Host: The café was warm and quiet, the kind of place that smelled like books, spices, and memory. Outside, the snow fell in a soft, unhurried drift, layering the city in white. Inside, a small Christmas tree twinkled in the corner — its lights uneven, its ornaments mismatched, the kind of imperfection that only made it more human.

Jack sat by the window, hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee, his breath fogging the glass as he watched strangers outside carrying bags, presents, tradition. Jeeny sat opposite him, her scarf loose around her neck, her cheeks touched by the cold, her eyes calm and bright — the kind of brightness that comes from understanding difference, not fearing it.

Jeeny: “Naomi Alderman once said, ‘Traditions are always puzzling to those who don't share them. I'm Jewish, so the idea of a “perfect family Christmas” is foreign to me.’”

Jack: smirking faintly “Foreign to her maybe. To most people, it’s sacred. The perfect meal, the family, the candles, the tree. It’s the one day people pretend the world makes sense.”

Jeeny: “Pretend. That’s the key word.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, each flake like a slow heartbeat against the windowpane.

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about what Alderman said — she wasn’t mocking it. She was admitting that what looks like magic from the outside is just mystery when you don’t have the language for it.”

Jack: “You mean like walking into someone else’s dream.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every culture dreams in its own dialect. And when you’re not part of it, it feels strange — maybe even lonely.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracing the Christmas lights strung across the café ceiling — red, green, gold — glowing like a code only some hearts could read.

Jack: “But isn’t that what’s beautiful about tradition? That it excludes you a little? That it belongs to someone specific? Not everything has to be universal.”

Jeeny: “True. But exclusion can turn into isolation when no one tries to translate. Alderman wasn’t saying she wanted Christmas. She was saying she wanted the same kind of warmth — the sense of belonging that tradition promises.”

Jack: “Belonging’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Fitting in is overrated. Belonging is the thing that makes life bearable.”

Host: The steam from their mugs rose and swirled, the smell of coffee and cinnamon drifting between them.

Jeeny: “You know what traditions really are? Memory made visible. People trying to keep love alive through repetition.”

Jack: “Repetition is comfort. It’s predictability. I get that. But doesn’t it kill curiosity?”

Jeeny: “Not if you understand it. Tradition isn’t about doing something blindly. It’s about doing something knowingly — remembering why it mattered in the first place. Without that, it’s just ritual without soul.”

Host: A child’s laughter drifted from the next table, breaking the moment. The child was drawing in a napkin — a crooked menorah next to a Christmas tree. His mother smiled but said nothing.

Jeeny: “See that?” She nodded toward them. “That’s the world now — the overlap. The in-between. That’s where beauty lives.”

Jack: “Or confusion.”

Jeeny: “Both. But confusion’s not a flaw, Jack. It’s the first stage of understanding.”

Host: Jack watched the boy for a moment, the crayons moving in uneven circles, red and blue and gold, none of them staying in the lines. He smiled faintly.

Jack: “You think Alderman meant that — that being outside of a tradition gives you perspective?”

Jeeny: “I think she meant it gives you vision. You see things the insiders don’t — how fragile it all is, how much effort it takes to keep something alive.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the outsider is the truer believer?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Because they have to choose to care.”

Host: The barista turned up the volume on the radio; a soft carol began to play — “Silent Night” — its tune spilling into the space like smoke. Jeeny listened, her head tilted, her voice lowering.

Jeeny: “My grandmother used to say, ‘Every culture is a house with windows.’ You can look out or look in, but either way, you need to keep them open.”

Jack: “And what happens when you shut them?”

Jeeny: “Then you start mistaking your reflection for the world.”

Host: Outside, a group of people passed — some in Santa hats, others carrying candles, others with nothing but their own footsteps to keep them company. The snow made them equal — faceless and soft.

Jack: “You know, I used to think traditions were just… chains. Ways to keep people locked in old stories. But maybe they’re the only way people remember who they are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They’re stories you choose to keep. But that choice is the point. You don’t inherit meaning — you make it, every time you light the candle or hang the star.”

Jack: quietly “And if you have neither?”

Jeeny: “Then you find someone who’ll share theirs.”

Host: A long pause. The music filled the silence. The sound of bells from the church down the street drifted faintly through the snow.

Jack: “You ever feel like you’re watching everyone else live inside a painting you’ll never belong to?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But then I realized — maybe I wasn’t meant to fit into their painting. Maybe I was meant to paint my own.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand resting near his — not touching, but close enough that warmth crossed the small space between them.

Jeeny: “Alderman’s right. Traditions are puzzling to outsiders — but that’s okay. The puzzle’s part of the beauty. You don’t have to solve it to respect it.”

Jack: “Or to learn from it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s the bridge between us — between all of us, really. You don’t need to share someone’s rituals to understand their reasons.”

Host: The café lights dimmed slightly, the night outside deepening, the snow still falling — quiet, unjudging, continuous. Jack looked out at the street, at people walking under umbrellas, at lights glowing in windows, and then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You know, maybe the perfect Christmas — or Hanukkah, or anything — isn’t about the ritual at all. Maybe it’s just about being seen.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And about learning that beauty isn’t in your way of celebrating — it’s in their way of living.”

Host: The barista called last orders. The carol faded into jazz. The boy at the next table fell asleep, his drawing left behind — a menorah and a Christmas tree holding hands.

Jack and Jeeny stood, put on their coats, and stepped outside. The air was crisp, the streetlights blurred by snow.

They walked together — two strangers in a world of rituals, both belonging and not belonging, both searching for something that felt like home.

Host: And as the night wrapped around them, Naomi Alderman’s truth lingered softly in the snow’s hush:

That tradition isn’t about the ones who understand it —
but about the ones willing to listen, even when it isn’t their song.