It would take a catastrophic war to be able to contemplate, without the presence of another soul, the shrine that marks the place where the world’s most popular religion began.
The nativity grotto under the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem is abandoned. Normally, queues at the birthplace of Jesus Christ are similar to security checkpoints at a busy airport. No longer.
Every year a million foreign tourists visit Bethlehem. But at 11 a.m. on Oct. 7, about five hours after Hamas began its murderous rampage, the streets of the Old City were empty. By October 10, all tourists had left.
“We will be closed until next June,” says Samir at the Bethlehem Inn. “The foreign groups have all canceled.” Even if the war ended tomorrow, they wouldn’t come back.
“On October 7th we had a Czech group that went on a day trip to Tiberius and never came back because they were evacuated from there on a military jet.” He pauses and adds, almost as an afterthought, “At least we’re still alive .”
Postal clerk Richard Pendlebury inside the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, reputedly the birthplace of Jesus
Calm reigned in Bethlehem last week as Israeli forces carried out raids against Hamas in other parts of the West Bank
A man walks past a section of the Israeli separation barrier in Bethlehem, West Bank, on November 6, 2023
Mail writer Richard Pendlebury and photographer Jamie Wiseman
Calm reigned in Bethlehem last week as Israeli forces carried out raids against Hamas in other parts of the West Bank.
But the small town remains in the eye of a storm that threatens future peace negotiations.
We had been invited to lunch in the Old City by a group of Palestinian friends, both Christians and Sunni Muslims. Despite its cozy, singer-like image, Bethlehem shows the great discrepancy here.
On the short journey south of Jerusalem, we follow the dystopian West Bank barrier, built to protect Israel from possible Palestinian suicide attacks. A sign at the IDF checkpoint outside Bethlehem warns that Israeli citizens are prohibited from entering the country.
We pass the road that runs next to King Solomon’s Ponds, which shimmer green with fetid antiquity. On a ridge above, the 21st-century condominiums of the Israeli settlement of Efrat overlook Palestinian Authority-run streets with their dilapidated houses, potholes in the streets and uncollected trash.
The center of the old town is completely different; The labyrinth of ancient cobblestone streets has been lovingly restored with foreign aid. But the shops and hotels are closed; Manger Square, deserted.
We eat hummus and falafel in front of a souvenir shop owned by a Palestinian Christian. Present are the owner George, his son Michael, 23, the Palestinian Christian tour guide Saif and a Sunni Muslim, Ahmed. George is close to tears.
This was supposed to be Bethlehem’s “peak season” in the run-up to Christmas, and his business was expected to cost $8,000 a day. “But now, zero!” he cries.
“Forty families who make these souvenirs rely on my shop.” We are in shock. The men don’t have jobs. They don’t even have enough money for cigarettes just to feed the children. Imagine! They have reached an agreement [the Oslo Accords] 1993 and people said “peace” back then. But it’s all nonsense.’
People attend the memorial service for a Palestinian killed by Israeli forces on November 3
Israeli security forces are taking intensive security measures after two Israeli police officers were injured in a knife attack at Al-Sahira Gate in East Jerusalem
“Three or four hundred young Palestinians have been killed by the Israelis in the West Bank in the last two years,” Saif replies. “This is neither the first, nor the second, nor the last war for us.”
“It’s the end of days,” Ahmed interjects.
George says: “Six months ago, Ahmed started preparing for the end of the world. And I laughed. And then this happens!’
“Nothing will change,” replies Saif. “This war will end and both sides will have lost.” But what happened on October 7th was no coincidence. It came from pressure on the Palestinian people.”
All men agree that if free elections were ever held in the West Bank, the ruling – and relatively moderate – Fatah party would not return and the Palestinians here would usher in Hamas.
“The corruption of this government is unbelievable,” says Ahmed. “They are a mafia! The Israelis pay them to keep the West Bank quiet, and they put all the money in their pockets. Even under Israeli control it would be better for us.’
Saif says: “One thing Hamas would change.” And that is that [Israeli] Settlers [here] would start to be afraid.’
One of the main sources of tension between the two groups is the olive trees and olive oil for which Bethlehem is famous.
The surrounding hills are covered with forests and it is harvest time. But Bethlehem is also surrounded by Jewish settlements in the West Bank. Since October 7, tensions between heavily armed and fearful – or vengeful – settlers and their Palestinian neighbors have erupted into violence.
Nine days ago, an off-duty IDF member was arrested for allegedly shooting a Palestinian farmer who was trying to harvest his olive crop. In the early hours of one day last week, Jewish settlers came in cars and gunned down George’s home village on the outskirts of Bethlehem, he says. The men assume that the attackers came from Efrat.
On Sunday, far-right Jewish politician Zvi Sukkot called for a ban on this year’s olive harvest in the West Bank, according to the Israeli press. It endangers the security of Jewish settlements, he said. “We are already losing the harvest of my family’s olive trees,” says Saif. “For three years I have been afraid to leave this city after sunset.”
Israeli border police forces search people entering annexed East Jerusalem through the Damascus Gate
“The problem is the settlers.” Now they have become so angry and no government, police or authority will stop them. For us there is no justice, no freedom, no security.”
After lunch we drive up into the rugged hill country of the West Bank, which has changed little since the birth of Christ.
Just off the highway in Khalyel Loz, a Palestinian man is busy in the upper branches of an olive tree while his family picks the fruit below. They have 40 trees on this dizzying roadside plot, just enough to produce a year’s worth of oil.
They also own 100 hectares of land towards Efrat. “But it’s just too dangerous,” he says. “The settlers won’t let us get to them now.”
We continue south around Efrat, through a landscape of empty groves where harvesters would otherwise be busy.
In a Palestinian village, signposts are spray-painted on buildings to keep travelers away from the weapons and roadblocks of the nearby Israeli settlement.
An armed man looks after his child at the Western Wall in Jerusalem on November 6th
We stop to talk to a Palestinian farmer named Dahoud and his two elementary school-aged sons. They harvest olives from a 70-tree grove that Efrat directly overlooks and is no more than half a mile away.
Dahoud says his family has been farming this land for 250 years. But since October 7, he no longer dares to cross this narrow road to the Efrat side, where the fruits of 800 of his trees are available. ‘She [the Israeli settlers] would shoot me.’
The next day we visit Efrat. About 500,000 Israelis live in more than 120 settlements in the occupied West Bank, which was controlled by the Jordanians until 1967.
The United Nations considers these settlements a violation of international law and an obstacle to lasting peace. Israel disagrees.
Efrat was founded in 1980 and is one of the largest Israeli settlements in the West Bank with 15,000 residents. And although there has been no direct attack since October 7th, it is indeed a mountain town under siege.
The difference in living standards between the settlers and the Palestinians living in Bethlehem is huge.
Efrat’s urban planning and municipal efficiency have a Californian suburban feel. The shopping center, with its bagel cafe and immaculate flowerbeds, separates household waste into recycling bins.
Friends and relatives of Israeli hostages kidnapped by Palestinian militants in the October 7 attack gather outside the Knesset in Jerusalem
We meet the mayor, a lawyer named Oded Revivi, who speaks bluntly about how the world has changed and why Palestinian olive farmers are right to be afraid.
“We now face a security challenge,” he says. “We are very close to three Arab villages and the city of Bethlehem. Until October 7th, we were able to rely on our very good relationships with our [Arab] Neighbors. We didn’t even have one [security] Fence.
“But since October 7th, our reality has changed. Fear and mistrust have reached unprecedented levels.
“We can understand why the local Arabs are afraid that the Jews will no longer be as understanding as they used to be.” But we are in danger. There is a massive breach of trust.”
As we part, he adds, “I say to your friends on the Bethlehem side, ‘What are you doing about these terrorist attacks?’ How loudly do you condemn October 7th?
“Israel has made all sorts of proposals to bring peace, and all of these offers have been rejected… by the Palestinians.”
“Recently, more and more Arab states are rebuilding their relations with Israel, recognizing that it is the Palestinians who represent the obstacle to peace.”
Before we leave Efrat we stop to look towards Bethlehem.
The distance is less than a mile. But when it comes to peace and community relations, it appears to be an unbridgeable gap.