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We stood on the high bluff several hundred feet above farmland. The wind nipped and bit, and while beachgoers reclined on sands only a few miles away, we froze on this mountaintop overlooking the unknown wilds below. Our view was objectively unimpressive: hedgerow patchwork, smog and haze above the distant towns and cities, and a snowcapped mountain known as 'Hermon.' And around us, beneath our feet and in our hands and nostrils, stretched the bunker. It had been an outpost during the Six-Day War, and was now simultaneously a museum and a functioning military instillation, evidenced by a group of camouflaged United Nations peacekeepers sitting in a foxhole, marking a map with red ink, and staring through powerful binoculars into Syria, which lay directly below us. As I observed from my position of safety a nation ensnared in civil war - there was an ISIS outpost twenty miles from where we presently stood - a distinct 'whump' sounded in the distance. At first, we thought it was thunder, but skies were predominately clear, and we resumed our observation without worry. 'Whump.' 'Whump.' They came in increasingly-rapid succession, first in five-second and then one-second intervals. The ground beneath us shuddered and ebbed, and the air itself seemed to groan. 'Whump.' My core shook from faraway concussion, as during a loud fireworks show. On a distant Syrian hill, observable with the naked eye, a new plume of white/gray smoke rose deliberately and commingled with the existing morning haze. Our guide, who appeared unconcerned, allowed us to speak with the peacekeepers, and so we approached them. I shook hands with a man whose tag read 'Taskovic.' In his breast pocket, he carried a pen and a tactical map, freshly marked with red and black lines and circles, whose abstractions I briefly imagined. He spoke English, his third language, impeccably, and spoke about how he has come from Serbia to monitor Syria's commitment to the Six-Day War ceasefire agreement. In rotating shifts, UN peacekeepers come and observe the border from this outpost, as close as they can get, but they can do no more as a result of Assad disallowing anything but UN relief into his country. "And what are the explosions?" I asked as they continued. “Military exercises, probably,” he explained. “But it’s unusual to do them with live ammunition like this.” “On our side of the border or theirs?” “Syria,” he replied. “They’re firing from Damascus, on that hill.” He points toward the smoke plume, confirming my suspicions. “They do this daily to ward off rebels and eliminate any who might be there.” Another deep rumble sounds, and some popping. “They’ve probably left that spot," continued Taskovic, "but who knows? Someone could be dying on the other end.” I shook his hand once more and he returned to watching the border and especially the smoke, which curled and contorted and rose and carried perhaps human remains. I checked my phone and confirmed the date: Christmas morning. Back home, families were opening presents and listening to carols, curled up on sofas in flannel pajamas with hot chocolate as snow fell gently outside. They went out to dinner and movies, held parties, and told stories. It was a day of peace and truce, comfort and belonging, and goodwill to all people... ...and the Syrian people, visible to our visiting group and representatives of the United Nations, were receiving from Assad simple, but brutal gifts. So, as I maintained my gaze on the smoke and felt the penetrative explosions even miles away, I learned that outside the West, Christmastime carries a heavy human cost.