With the West Bank blocked because of the COVID-19 pandemic, Christmas in Belém will be different this year. But, in my memory, it still exists as in 2013, when I lived just 400 meters from the Church of the Nativity. My apartment was on the ground floor of a century-old Arab mansion full of hand-painted windows and tiles and bright, vaulted ceilings that reminded me of a cathedral every day.
The Christmas I spent in Bethlehem forever changed my understanding of the holiday and its meaning for Christians, Muslims and, yes, even some Jews like me. It also complicated my assumptions about the Middle East, the birthplace of all Abrahamic religions.
For the lighting of the tree, Mohamed, my now husband, and I joined the crowd at Praça da Manjedoura. A simple square made of the same sand-colored limestone that covers the rest of Belém – stone that glows like a peach at sunrise and golden at sunset, bright white at noon, stone that makes the city magical – is anchored by Church of the Nativity.
On the other side of the square is the Mosque of Omar. The unlit tree was between the two houses of worship. Among the many faces that looked forward to the screen, I was surprised to find hijabi women and their families. When I asked Muhammad why so many Muslims were there, he reminded me that in Islam, Jesus – Issa in Arabic – is considered a prophet. Although his birth is not a holiday for Muslim Palestinians, some participate in the celebration by coming to see the tree and the lights that decorate the Old City of Bethlehem.
The mayor of Belém, Vera Baboun, a Palestinian Christian woman elected the previous year, took the stage beside the tree for the big moment. “Now it is time to light the Christmas tree in the capital of Christmas, to shine brightness and hope for the world in general and to remain a glorious memory in our hearts.”
When Baboun started the countdown in Arabic – “Ashara! ” Ten! – a band started playing. She hit wahad, um, and the tree remained dark. I held my breath. I felt a wave of hope and disappointment.
And then the tree lit up, a star shining red at the top. The Muslim and Christian crowd roared. Relieved – and moved by the crowd around me – tears flowed to my eyes. Embarrassed by my doubt and the magnitude of my relief, I looked away from the lights and from Mohamed – who would certainly think I was crazy with crying – and concentrated on the crowd, looking for familiar faces.
There was a chance, of course, to see someone who knew “from within” – from Israel – as each year a small number of Israeli Jews flee to Bethlehem, an area legally prohibited for us, for the event. Those who are too afraid to go to the Palestinian territories, or afraid to break Israeli law, head to the Arab-majority cities in northern Israel to see the Christmas lights and experience the holiday. It is not ours, but both the moment and the spirit are close to Hannukah and – for some of us – the light of shared light and hope resonates.
Thinking about that night in Belém now at the end of this difficult year, I keep going back to that moment between the countdown and the tree coming to life. That moment when the darkness surrounding the tree seemed even darker because it shouldn’t be there, because it defied my expectations.
And just when I started to panic, just when I started to lose faith, it came: the light. Just like in the beginning, as it always does when we’re sure it won’t. When we are sure that the inner flame is almost dead, God whispers in our hearts, lighting us – lighting us – repeatedly.