The Holy City

I look out the window here, on the fourth floor, and I see the hot sun beating down on Bethlehem. I see the mosque; it is right in front of me. I hear the call to prayer. There are more taxis rumbling by on the street than there are pedestrian cars. Everyone needs work. 60% of Palestinians in Bethlehem are unemployed. Honking horns provide the soundtrack as I look out over a city. It is as if the whole city cries to be heard. They honk to be noticed. As if to say: “I am here” “I am human” “I demand recognition and rights” As the call to prayer rises over the sounds of the street, giving the city scene a mystery and certain significance, I can’t help but think that Bethlehem is holy. Holy, blessed. “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of me”

As the call to prayer fades I can’t help but wonder whether God has abandoned his sons and daughters in Bethlehem.

“As a people of faith we must also be a people of hope”

I sit here with Ibrahim, sipping my tea. He smokes his cigarette; I chew my mint tea leaf.

“We think justice can come to this land one of these days, and that is our hope”

The children are playing outside, swinging on the swings, sliding down the slides, running around making a joyful noise.

“People are squeezed onto small reservations, per se”

Cantons. If Palestinians had black skin the world would be up in arms about their plight. But they’re not black. They're Arab.

But the children find an outlet. They can find joy within the walls of separation, hate, and anger. At least for now.

“Just as much as we believe in life after death, we believe in life before death”

Life in Bethlehem is beautiful and precious for its fragility. The holes that remain in many buildings from the 2nd Intifada are scars that remind us just how fragile life can be when superpower armies attack children who throw stones to fend off tanks.

“We choose hope, but hope has not chosen us.”
Bethlehem is rocky. The whole city…the streets, the buildings, the walls seems to be built into or out of the white rock that is everywhere in the city. Hewn from stone. The city is broken but strong and resilient like its people. They choose hope.

“Hope which is not risking is not hope; just like hope without promise is not hope at all”

As I walk down the street tenacious little shrubs poke out from the rocks. Hope is risky. Even deadly. Hope demands one confront the evil. Hope inspires action over apathy. Hope demands that destructive forces be met with creativity and nonviolence. Many people I have met in the last few days—Palestinians, Israelis, Internationals—remind me of those obstinate little shrubs springing up from the rocks. They hope enough to risk being alive and beautiful and creative in the midst of a lot of death and darkness. Like water springing from a crack in a rock the Palestinian nonviolent struggle draws its life from some hidden source and springs out in the most unlikely places.