by Xinhua writer Xu Haofu
CAIRO, March 10 (Xinhua) -- This year, the celestial clocks of the East and the Middle East staged an unusual, beautiful convergence. In the bustling streets of Cairo, the crescent moon of Ramadan and the lanterns of the Chinese Spring Festival arrived almost in tandem.
As a Chinese correspondent based here, I initially felt the sting of homesickness as February approached. However, this rare overlap quickly turned my assignment into a personal lesson in how much our cultures share beneath the surface: festivals, in their essence, are not just dates on a calendar, but also bridges.
It started with simple greetings. My "Ramadan Kareem" (Have a generous Ramadan) to Egyptian friends was often returned with a warm "Chun Jie Kuai Le!" (Happy Spring Festival). These small exchanges opened doors. My friends asked about our traditions; I learned about theirs.
A deeper understanding of the common ground came from the dinner table. On the evening of Feb. 20, my friend Ahmed Gomma invited me to a public Iftar, the meal that breaks the daily fast.
Fawaneez (traditional Egyptian Ramadan lanterns) cast warm amber light over long tables laden with dates, fruits, and sweets like kunafa. People began with a date and water, then prayed before eating.
"In my home," I told Gomma, "our New Year tables are also filled with candies, nuts, and dried fruits. They're not just snacks. They're wishes for a sweet and abundant year ahead."
Gomma nodded, his smile carrying recognition. "It is very much the same for us," he said. "Ramadan teaches us to share our blessings. These sweets are for everyone -- family, neighbors, anyone in need."
At that moment, I was no longer an observer of a foreign custom. I was part of a universal ritual: using food to express hope and bind a community together.
Several days earlier, I visited a Chinese-style milk tea shop near the Saladin Citadel. There I met Aya Mohamed El Wardany, who co-founded the shop with her Chinese partner. When the topic of the Spring Festival came up, she joked, "I hope my Chinese partner will give me a 'hongbao' (red envelope) this year!"
When I explained that these red envelopes are more than just money, but also a way for elders to pass protection and luck to children, her eyes lit up. "We have 'Eidi'!" she said, referring to the gifts or money Egyptian children receive during Ramadan.
The parallel is striking. Whether it is a red paper envelope in Beijing or a crisp banknote in Cairo, the meaning is identical: an investment in the happiness of the next generation.
Beyond the food and gifts, I discovered a deeper common thread: the yearning for reunion.
At a lively Spring Festival market in the heart of Cairo, I met Mohamed Zakary amid the cheerful chaos of calligraphy and traditional Chinese attire. He was demonstrating an artificial intelligence-powered Chinese-learning software program he had developed.
"During Ramadan, no matter how far apart family members are, they gather together," he told me, standing under a canopy of crimson lanterns. "This is very similar to the Spring Festival's emphasis on reunion."
This impulse to understand and relate was perhaps most visible at the Egyptian Museum. There, I encountered Han Shu, a literature teacher from China, who was carefully explaining a statue to his young son.
Han hadn't just come for the photos; he told me he had prepared by reading Naguib Mahfouz, the Egyptian Nobel laureate, whose work captures Cairo's life and rhythms. "His descriptions of old Cairo during Ramadan are beautiful," he said. "I want to understand the soul of the place, not just see its face."
As the festivals unfold, the spirit of mutual understanding seems to be growing stronger. A professor earnestly asked me about the "God of Wealth" in China; a neighbor asked if the Chinese New Year begins with the new moon; and university students, holding red couplets and the character "Fu" (good fortune), sought advice on where to hang them properly in their homes.
This year in Cairo, I have come to see that these two great festivals share more than a coincidental spot on the calendar. They share a soul: we both build our celebrations around sharing what we have, we both center them on family and community, and we both pass our hopes for the future to the younger generations.
Now, when I hear "Ramadan Kareem" or "Chun Jie Kuai Le" greetings, they no longer sound foreign. They feel like a shared recognition -- a common tale of joy and hope that needs no translation, only an open heart to hear it. ■
