ELIAS FREIJ, the mayor of Bethlehem, is determined that this
week, for the first time in seven years, his town will celebrate
Ever since the Palestinian intifadah, the uprising against
Israeli rule, broke out in the Israeli-occupied territories in
December 1987, public displays of joy have been deemed
inappropriate by local political leaders. With thousands of young
men going to jail each year and scores giving up their lives,
Palestinian Christians have kept their Christmas celebrations low
But now that Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization
(PLO) have signed their historic peace treaty, Mr. Freij wants to
do things right.
"We are going to decorate the city in a beautiful way," he
says, looking out of his office window across Manger Square to the
Church of the Nativity.
The centerpiece was to be a giant Christmas tree, donated,
appropriately enough, by the government of Norway, which sponsored
the secret talks between Israel and the PLO that produced the peace
But even this simple plan, in the one town of all towns that has
a special reason to commemorate the birth of Jesus, is falling prey
to circumstance. Israel's Agriculture Ministry blocked the tree's
import for health reasons.
Violence has only increased since the peace plan was signed in
September, as both Jewish and Palestinian extremists try to derail
it, and Palestinians have little to point to yet in the way of
fruits of the agreement.
"Last month, people were preparing themselves for a nice
Christmas, with the feeling that there would be peace," says
Johnny Elias, owner of the Star Hotel, and himself a Christian.
"But nothing has changed, and with the killings in the last two
weeks, people have started to say that they won't celebrate after
all," he says.
Politics and religion are deeply intertwined in Bethlehem,
jostling each other constantly in everyone's daily life.
Indeed, they glare out from every ancient wall. Above many
doorways of homes or shops, for example, bas-relief carvings of St.
George slaying the dragon advertise the owner's Christian faith.
On the walls below, more likely than not, graffiti spray-painted
in the red, green, and black Palestinian national colors proclaim
defiance of Israeli authority.
The only building free of these political tattoos is the Church
of the Nativity, built by early Christians over the spot where
tradition says Jesus was born.
Not that the church is free of politics. Its own brand of
rivalry between the Armenian and Greek Orthodox churches that have
shared the precincts for more than 1,500 years, not to mention the
Roman Catholics who staked their claim with the arrival in the 11th
century of the Crusaders, matches any secular struggle.
Disputes over such details as who cleans which bit of the
hallowed walls, or which bishop is allowed to step exactly where in
the flagstoned aisle, are still resolved by referring to the
"status quo," first drawn up by the Ottomans in the 19th century,
and later codified by the British.
But this competition between Christians is overshadowed by the
church's unique ecumenical contribution. When the Persians swept
through the Holy Land in 614, the church at Bethlehem was the only
one they spared because a Byzantine mosaic on the wall portrayed in
Persian garb the three wise men visiting the new-born babe.
Later, Muslim conquerors also venerated the birthplace of Issa
ben Maryam (Jesus, son of Mary), whom they regarded as a prophet,
and the church is today the only one in Christendom where Muslims
Such an example of coexistence is unfortunately unusual in a
town where Christians say they feel increasingly marginalized by
the Muslim majority.
Christians make up only 35 percent of Bethlehem's population
today, after nearly a century of emigration to all parts of the
globe, but primarily to Latin America, and especially to Chile. …