I met the baby Jesus in the summer of 2012.
It happened this way:
On our last day in Bethlehem, our group visited an olive woodcarving shop that one of our company, Sheila, had discovered on a previous trip. Sheila has a warm gregarious personality, and she had naturally become friends with the owners, visiting them on two subsequent trips. They invited us to join them at their home for a celebration that evening.
We walked to their home along stone sidewalks through the still night of a besieged city. The Israeli army has surrounded the Palestinian city with a stone wall, complete with gun towers and checkpoints. Only Israeli citizens with their yellow license plates may drive in and out. Palestinians must walk, through multiple checkpoints where they are fingerprinted and harassed. We could not see the wall from where we were, but we could feel its presence locking in this city, suffocating commerce and threatening happiness. Garbage in the streets testified to the lack of municipal services and the poverty of this increasingly isolated place.
The Israeli government tries to bar foreigners from spending the night in Bethlehem hotels. Day trips only are allowed – they know that barring Christians from visiting the Church of the Nativity would be a bad idea. But as long as tourists look only on the dead stones of the past, and remain blind to the suffering living stones, the people of Bethlehem, then they can enter the city for a day. And that way more money goes to Israeli hotel owners, and one more business in Bethlehem is threatened with closure. But like the wise men we tell no one of our intentions and stay anyway for four nights.
We are welcomed with open arms and chocolate cake at our host’s home as we celebrate the birthday of one of the owners. Together we sit in the open air courtyard under bright stars and a sliver of a moon, signaling the start of Ramadan for Muslims. But our hosts are Palestinian Christians, one of a small minority descended from the original Christians. They can trace their roots back 1600 years until the line is lost in the mists of time.
The talk moves from one topic to another – jokes are told, histories exchanged. The host talks of losing his olive trees located just outside the wall. First he was barred access to them, and then he was told that since he hadn’t cultivated them they belonged to the Israeli government. The persecution of Palestinians is legal here, as persecution in Apartheid South Africa was legal too.
The host’s daughter crawls onto her grandmother’s lap next to me. She wants to know my name, and tells me about her summer day camp. She might be 7, no more than 8. Then she says, “Want to see the baby?”
Of course I do. The little girl takes my hand and guides me into the house, through the kitchen to the bedroom. There in the middle of the bed lies the tiniest of babies, only two weeks old, sleeping on his back with arms stretched to his ears, with a shock of black hair crowning his head.
“He’s my cousin,” my little guide says proudly.
“Oh, he’s beautiful!” I gush, and it’s true. “What’s his name?”
His mother has entered the room, and she answers, “Issa”. She smiles. Issa means ‘Jesus’ in Arabic. I am in Bethlehem gazing at the baby Jesus. How perfect. How blessed.
I chat a little longer with the mother, then head outside with my little friend. Back under the stars she shows me the traditional dance she learned at her day camp. She is light on her feet, a sprite, happy.
When I return to my seat the adults are talking of how the grandparent’s home was bombed by Israeli troops a few years ago. It seems so unreal, the baby, the dancing child, and then the parents’ history of bombings, checkpoints, and persecution. Is this what’s in store for the children? Already they grow up behind a wall, in an open air prison. Their parents protect them well from the tension and pain, but that can only last so long.
Someday baby Issa and his cousin will want to walk out of this city. Some day they will need to if things don't change, for food, for health, for work. They won’t be allowed to drive. They will need permits from Israeli authorities. They will be herded like cattle through metal tunnels with four checkpoints. They will have to go through metal detectors. They will have to show ID and be fingerprinted. And they can be turned away at any time. They will learn that they are not free.
They are child prisoners, and it’s not right. It’s not fair. It’s not just.
It’s not right for pilgrims to visit the Church of the Nativity, and remain blind to the suffering of the people of Bethlehem. It’s not right to celebrate Christmas without remembering that the stable is now a prison. It’s not right to leave the situation for another time or another generation.
I pray together we can find freedom. Free my dancing friend. Free Issa. Free Jesus.
Many organizations in Israel, Canada and elsewhere are working to free Palestinians like Issa. Will you join them? Here are a few:
Rabbis for Human Rights: http://rhr.org.il/eng/
Israelis Against Home Demolitions: www.icahd.org/
Christian Peacemakers Teams: www.cpt.org/work/palestine/
Canadian Friends of Sabeel: http://www.sabeel.ca/
Canadians for Justice and Peace in the Middle East: www.cjpme.org/
