Sunday Mezze: Occupied Bethlehem / The Feast of the Holy InnocentsMezze - المزة - a wide selection of small dishes served as appetizers, including such delicacies as hummus, cheese, eggplant, brains, stuffed grape leaves, calamari, and much more
Good Morning Family, Friends, and Colleagues, It’s a season of people being brought together, whether we arrange for it or not. Whatever we believe, or don’t believe; whether we worship or not during this season of holidays, materialism, vacations, travel, and party-going, we cannot help but be caught up - occasionally entangled - with the lives of loved ones, friends, neighbors, competitors, and strangers. At such times default to favor the vulnerable - if you can help make someone else’s life a little easier, healthier - do it! You’ve done it with me. I’ve been blessed by having you all in my life since i started this column and will be forever thankful for your presence and support - even when you don’t agree with me. I love you all, Sunday Mezze: Occupied Bethlehem / The Feast of the Holy InnocentsToday is the fourth day of Christmas - also known as the Feast of the Holy Innocents, honoring the infant boys in Bethlehem massacred by King Herod in his manic attempt to kill baby Jesus. For some it will be a day spent returning fine but mis-sized cashmere sweaters and cross-country skis, for others watching football; for many others it will be a day of picking up and cleaning up, finishing up refrigerated leftovers. For Palestinians throughout the Israeli-occupied territories - Christians and Muslims alike - from Gaza to East Jerusalem, from Nazareth to Bethlehem there are no such privileges or choices: it’s just another day, a day not unlike all which have preceded it for decades. For Palestinians throughout the occupied territories it’s a life endured under the oppressor’s heel, endured under occupation, apartheid, disenfranchisement, torture, administrative detention, death - a life of trying to protect the innocent. My own memories of Bethlehem remain strong - I have told this story often, I think, because I fear for it’s very survival I first visited the little town of Bethlehem in the late 60s. Having recently moved from the United States to Beirut, it was my first Christmas in the Holy Land. I arrived in Palestine - via the Allenby Bridge -in the late afternoon two days before Christmas and went directly to Bethlehem. As darkness fell that day the sky became amazingly clear, so filled with stars it seemed a theatrical set. I looked for one that stood out above the rest but none filled the bill: I was about 2,000 years too late. I remember the night was cold. Crisp and cold. I spent the night outdoors, in the hills outside Bethlehem, with Palestinian shepherds encamped with their sheep, as had generations of Canaanite, Jewish, Christian, and Muslim shepherds before them. I pulled my blankets close and snuggled closer to the fire. Cups of hot, sweet tea kept my hands warm. Beyond our camp I could see the twinkle of lights in Bethlehem, and aside from occasional murmurs from my companions, and a dog barking, all was still. Silent Night. I had come to Bethlehem to take photographs on behalf of UNWRA, the United Nations Relief and Works Agency that worked to support and provide assistance and education to Palestinians refugees. 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 be revered also by Muslims as the most important prophet after the prophet Muhammad. Today, as a Muslim, I still love the story of Jesus and Mary and Joseph, citizens of a land oppressed by Roman occupation. Indeed, according to the Gospel of Matthew, King Herod felt so threatened by news of Jesus’ birth that he ordered the slaughter of an unknown number of infants in a futile attempt to eliminate any potential threat to his illegitimate regime. Tout ne change pas. Jesus was a Semite. Unlike his portrayals in Renaissance art he was probably short, dark, swarthy, of olive-skin complexion - like mine - with dark, curly-hair. Unlike me he was born under military occupation in a land controlled by usurpers who built walls and barricades, controlled movement of the indigenous peoples by force, and did not hesitate to use excessive force to control the populace. Tout ne change pas. The next day was Christmas Eve, and I moved from the shepherds’ fields to Manger Square, where I met my Palestinian host, 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, high ceiling, dark, damp and cold, and a small open fire, used for both heating and cooking, that 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 lighted. No presents for the children other than what I had brought with me. They welcomed me as long-absent 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 some support and presents to supplement Abdul Majid’s meager income as a day laborer. Holy Night. Hospitality. Such a lifetime ago. A lifetime worth recalling, especially considering the war crimes, genocide, ethnic cleansing and other inhuman circumstances today being endured by Palestinians in their Occupied Territories. Today, if you love Jesus, I insist you recognize that for Palestinians Bethlehem is not a carved wooden crèche set out on a windowsill or on a tablecloth for a couple of weeks each year - that you recognize that the story of Bethlehem is where, for believers, God appeared, standing with the oppressed and occupied - and that is the Christmas story. A story of survival and intersectionality, about Nakba, settler-colonialism, Zionism, dispossession, permits and checkpoints; about genocide and ethnic cleansing, indiscriminate settler violence - even about the willful destruction of centuries-old orchards of olive trees. Nothing is Calm. Nothing is Bright. It’s a story of recognizing the Other, of living in a place where the faces that haunt our waking hours and dreams are the faces of thousands of Holy Innocents, of children who look like Baby Jesus, all crying out - from a 2,000 year-old manger - for justice, liberation, dignity and peace. A story that calls on believers to remember that Bethlehem is where God stood with the oppressed; that followers of Jesus - along with all humanity - are called upon to do the same - called upon to stand with the marginalized, the disenfranchised, the oppressed, not just for twelve days but every day, whether in Palestine, Ukraine, Sudan, or Somalia; whether on Pine Ridge Reservation SD or in Exeter NH. That is the Bethlehem story. Holy Night. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Stay strong, loved ones, and resist. Salamaat, ** I don’t remember who sent me the photo of the Christmas cactus above. It is dated 12/24/2022. If I learn who it is I will add their name as a caption.Robert Azzi / The Other is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. You're currently a free subscriber to Robert Azzi / The Other . For the full experience, upgrade your subscription. © 2025 Robert Azzi / The Other |