Aditi Bhaduri 

It's Christmas time again and my thoughts go out to what is the Holy Land for almost three-fifths of the world. It seemed like yesterday that I was in Bethlehem, the birthplace of jesus Christ, on the first Christmas of the New Millennium. 

It was Christmas Eve, and as the taxi I was in to travel from Jerusalem to Bethlehem came to a halt, all that met me was a creamy, Rocky landscape bathed in the warm glow of a mellow December sun. There were a few taxis in sight, but no people. It looked rather lonely and desolate, a rather strange entry to the famous town on a day that was a preserve of Bethlehem! 

My co-passengers were all Palestinians. As we trudged forward we were met by armed soldiers and red roadblocks, which peppered the Palestinian Territories.  A yellow sign by the roadside read "Prepare your documents for inspection."

The second intifadah by the Palestinians had broken out and there was heavy security imposed by Israel on movement to and fro from its territory to that under the control of the Palestinians.  Still, with an Indian passport and an Israeli visa, I faced no problems. (There was yet no official Indian representation in the Palestinian Territories).

Midnight Mass in St Catherine Cathedral at Bethelhem

The soldier who checked my passport wished me a Merry Christmas. Technically I had now left the territory under Israeli rule and entered that under the Palestinian Authority (PA). The road led to Rachel's Tomb, a site holy to Jews had been barricaded off from PA territory and closed for use by Palestinians, who had to take a longer road to enter Bethlehem.  So I had to bid farewell to my co-passengers.

As I walked along my attention was diverted by the spectacular sight of the Reverend Michel Sabah, the Patriarch of Jerusalem making the ceremonial entry to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. Attendants, some on horseback, others carrying richly emblazoned banners and flags created a breathtaking scene. At last, the air seemed imbued with gaiety. Gradually, the town came into view, and houses and buildings appeared, made of the uniform cream stone that characterized the region's architecture.  

Bethlehem was unique. Not quite Arab, its skyline dotted with church steeples and spires, but neither was it Europe. It was a charming medieval town, where nuns and priests of various Christian denominations passing by in their long robes was a common sight. I almost expected to see St. George, the patron saint of the region, pass by on his dragon.

Church of Nativity - the Birthplace of Jesus

Speaking Arabic, many Christians, like Patriarch Sabah, were Arab, and they mingled seamlessly with the local population, many of whom were Muslim. It was not uncommon to see hijab-clad Palestinian women visiting churches and lighting candles, as my friend Fatmeh continues to do for herself and for me each year on Christmas day.

 A 30-minute walk away was the fabled Manger Square, with people thronging it in their festive best. Gay-coloured festoons were strung across the square.  The voice of Feiruz, the nightingale of the Middle East, regaled all over loudspeakers, crooning Christmas carols in Arabic.

Christians and Muslims wished each other, embracing warmly or shaking hands enthusiastically. There was absolutely no doubt as to whether wishing Merry Christmas was haram or halal. 

As the December sun started slowly setting, together with the nip in the air, an air of solemnity gently descended on the town. This was the day that the Palestinian Tourism Ministry waited for each year to fill its coffers. But, despite the significance of that Christmas, tourist turnout had been at an all-time low. The Intifadah was the constant refrain.

An Indian nun from Sisters of Charity seen attending mass

As the disenchantment and discontent grew with the Oslo Peace Process began in 1991, fresh violence flared up between the two sides, called Intifadah (Uprising) by the Palestinians.  The Intifadah, initially meant to denote any form of resistance to the Israeli occupation became an entire culture in itself.  Vendors in Manger Square waylaid me with bric-a-brac, pleading me to buy. Buy this not because you like it, but to help us. Help the intifadah!

The Manger Square led to the hallowed Church of Nativity, almost the nerve center of Bethlehem. The entrance was through a small low door aptly called "The Door of Humility", as everyone had to stoop to enter through it.  The exterior was more of a fortress than a church. It was supposed to be one of the oldest churches in the world, built during the time of Byzantine Emperor Constantine. I found it to be a maze of chambers and ante-chambers, dotted with icons, alters, and candle stands.

Stairs led down to the Holy of Holies, the Grotto of the Nativity, the site where tradition has it, Jesus was born. That day, even twenty-one hundred years ago, all the inns and lodges in Bethlehem had been full. All Joseph could find for his heavily pregnant wife was a Manger, where then the birth took place.

Now, a 14-point silver star embedded in white marble marked the spot. Fifteen lamps glowed around the alcove, belonging to churches representing different Christian denominations. That Christmas, however, there were no queues of devotees, only a handful of people, mostly foreigners like me were present.

Attending the midnight mass at St. Catherine's Church in the Manger Square which adjoins the Church of the Nativity was an experience indeed, and one that remains ensconced in my heart. It was overflowing with worshippers and revelers alike. That was the first year that Palestinian Authority Chairman Yasser Arafat was not allowed to visit Bethlehem for Christmas, having been put under house arrest. 

Bethelhem City

Mass was conducted in Latin, French, and Arabic. For some reason, not a word was uttered in English.  Communion was offered to the faithful. If I thought I was the only one from Kolkata, I was mistaken. The Sisters from the Missionaries of Charity, unmistakable in their blue-bordered white sarees were there too, singing hymns with great devotion. The Missionaries of Charity had a significant presence in the Palestinian Territories and Jordan. As the service got over people broke into smiles, and greeted each other joyfully, and loud chatter and laughter resounded in the high-ceilinged chapel. Forgotten was the Intifadah and the occupation, if only for a brief while. 

Christmas day dawned crisp and clear. Bethlehem looked livelier, Manger Square hummed with activity. The devout stood in long queues to receive the blessings of the Patriarch. Bethlehem's famous souq bustled with vendors displaying their wares - oriental carpets, Turkish prayer mats, Bedouin rugs, cheap Chinese toys, children's clothes, ladies' shoes. The aroma of steaming Turkish coffee laced with cardamom wafted from the cafes while freshly fried huge jalebis stared seductively.  Bethlehem was happy and chaotic. 

But if the day had been warm and vivacious, the evening was a cold reminder that beneath the veneer of gaiety, things were not quite alright. Dark and silent, the only sounds heard were the chiming of the various church bells and the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. Hotels were sparsely filled. Besides me, my hotel had only two more Palestinian families as inmates. 

Midnight mass at Bethelhem Church

Christmas over, I found myself back at the same checkpoint that I had entered through.  The same soldier was there and he started a conversation. It transpired that he had migrated to Israel 11 years ago, at the age of ten, with his family from Kochi to Israel. He wanted to know about India. His comrades, all barely in their twenties joined us. They offered me coffee and evinced interest in visiting India. India, then, was beginning to be an attractive destination for young soldiers who had completed conscription. 

They were also curious to know about Bethlehem and life there, I realized they were curious about Palestinians and what they were like. I had found the same curiosity among ordinary Palestinians about Israelis. Paradoxically, since the Oslo process had begun, interaction between Israelis and Palestinians had become more restricted. Bethlehem was closed to all Israelis, except the military.

Years have passed since. I have visited Bethlehem several times since then, but never again for Christmas. I wonder what Bethlehem is like this year, plunged as the region has into the abyss of war and retribution.  I know there are no quick-fix solutions. Each successive cycle of violence has left both sides angrier, bitterer, and more vengeful. Would tourists visit Bethlehem this year? Doubtful. Would vendors find anything to sell this year? How odd that Bethlehem should be so blanched on the birthday of its greatest son. 

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Yet, decades later, the words of Patriarch Michel Sabah uttered that Christmas, ring in my ears: "But Christmas is, first of all, a feast for prayer and an act of faith". Oddly, in Bethlehem, I saw glimpses of that faith. My visit, after all, would not have been possible without help from both Israeli and Palestinian officials. And, despite all the anger and bitterness and sadness, I had found a gentleness there that was inherent, resilient,  and capable of withstanding the ugliest of force and brutality. In Bethlehem, it dawned on me that in every conflict, there was always something retrievable. 

Aditi Bhaduri is an independent journalist with an expertise on Middle-East and Central Asian affairs