Azzi: Bethlehem: Christmas remembered; Christmas canceled
In 2011, when I started writing my almost weekly column, I wrote about my first visit to Bethlehem which occurred in the late '60s. That memory persists and I share it (lightly edited) with you today:
"The sky was amazingly clear, filled with stars. I looked for one that stood out above the rest but couldn’t find one: I was about 2,000 years too late.
It was my first Christmas in the Holy Land, and I was in Bethlehem.
Hospitality.
The night was cold. Crisp and cold. I pulled my blankets close and snuggled closer to the fire. A cup of hot, sweet tea warmed my hands. I was spending the night in the hills outside Bethlehem with Palestinian shepherds encamped with their sheep, as had generations of Canaanite, Jewish, Christian and Muslim shepherds before them.
Beyond our camp I could see the twinkle of lights in Bethlehem, and aside from the occasional murmurs of speech from my companions, and a dog barking, all was silent.
Silent Night.
I had come to Bethlehem to take photographs on behalf of UNWRA, the United Nations Relief and Works Agency that worked with Palestinians displaced during the 1948 and 1967 wars. My visit predated my embrace of Islam. As a Christian, I was fully in thrall of Luke’s Gospel, of the history and tradition that surrounded the birth of a Jewish baby, Jesus, a Palestinian boy born in an animal stall to an unwed teenage woman, a boy believed by Christians to be an Incarnation of God who would come to also be revered by Muslims as the most important prophet after the prophet Muhammad.
Mary and Joseph were citizens of a land oppressed through occupation by Rome. Indeed, according to the Gospel of Matthew, Herod felt so threatened by news of Jesus that he ordered the slaughter of an unknown number of children in a futile attempt to kill the Christ child.
Jesus, born in Bethlehem, was a Semite. He was probably dark and swarthy of olive skin complexion - like mine - with dark, short, curly-hair.
The next day was Christmas Eve, and I moved from the shepherd's fields to Manger Square, where I met Abdul Majid and his family, who had invited me via a missionary friend, into their home.
Hospitality.
The Abdul Majids lived in one large room, unheated, tall ceilings, dark, damp and cold, and a small fire, used for both heating and cooking, was tended day and night by all members of the family.
There was a small Christmas tree in the middle of the room, with meager decorations and real candles waiting to be lit.
They welcomed me as they would long-lost family, gave me more sweet tea, showed me a corner where I could unroll my sleeping bag and apologized for not being able to give me privacy other than a screen.
We became family and in coming years, whether I could visit them or not, I sent them support and presents to supplement Abdul Majid’s meager income as a day laborer.
Holy Night.
They lived around the corner from Manger Square and the Church of the Nativity, which on Christmas Eve filled with Arab and Israeli dignitaries, diplomats, pilgrims from foreign lands and special guests. A little space was reserved for local Palestinians like Abdul Majid and his family. As a guest and photographer, I had permission to wander at will but, during the Mass, amidst its beautiful chanting and incense, I sat with the Abdul Majids, embraced by their hospitality, their love of Jesus and the miracle of His birth.
“Be kind to parents, and the near kinsman, and to orphans, and to the needy, and to the neighbor who is of kin, and to the neighbor who is a stranger, and to the companion at your side, and to the traveler.” — Qur’an 4.36-37
Hospitality.
I had travelled to Bethlehem from Beirut via a series of what are called “service” taxis; five-passenger taxis, to the Allenby Bridge, where I crossed the Jordan River and entered the Occupied West Bank. Along the way drivers and passengers alike had welcomed me, fed me and entertained me for countless hours across a foreign landscape: never once was a tent flap closed in my face.
I encountered my first Israeli that year at the Allenby Bridge. I was nervous. The IDF guard was polite, curious and courteous and, as requested, put my entry stamp on a separate card rather than in my passport so I could re-enter Arab countries. When I told him I was going to Bethlehem he handed me back my passport with a cheerful, “Merry Christmas.”
Such a lifetime ago.
A lifetime worth remembering, especially considering the war crimes and other inhuman circumstances today being endured by Palestinians in the Occupied Territories.
This year, in response, I decided to join in solidarity with the Christian communities in Palestine who have cancelled all Christmas celebrations - communities deciding to dim the lights of Bethlehem in solidarity with the Palestinians across the Holy Land resisting ethnic cleansing and genocide.
For years - until this year - I have displayed at Christmas the most wonderful crèche, a magical creation made by New Hampshire ceramic artist Jane Kaufmann. I've been displaying it for years, each year being a bit different, occasionally adding figures to it; a fourth wise person, odd sojourners, a photographer, a couple of extra angels and some animals that wandered by and joined the community - some years I erected an apartheid wall to prohibit the wise men from reaching baby Jesus.
It's a wonderful work of art and for years it's given me and my family and friends much pleasure.
This year, after setting it up, I decided, as this is no longer a season of pleasure or joy to the world, no longer of silent nights, holy nights, I packed it all up and put it back in storage.
Today there is no joy in a world where 1,900,000 innocent civilians are internally displaced, where 2,000 pound bombs are being dropped on innocent civilians, where over 21,000 people in just 11 weeks have been killed, where over 40% of the population is facing starvation.
There is no joy in bearing witness to "Christ in the Rubble," to witnessing a crèche in Bethlehem of baby Jesus wrapped in a keffiyeh on a pile of rubble.
Where the faces of children who look like Baby Jesus haunt our waking hours and dreams.
I couldn't do it.
Robert Azzi, a photographer and writer who lives in Exeter, can be reached at theother.azzi@gmail.com. His columns are archived at theotherazzi.wordpress.com.
This article originally appeared on Portsmouth Herald: Azzi: Bethlehem: Christmas remembered; Christmas canceled
