Palestinians Grieve

Sandra Olewine, United Methodist Liaison in Jerusalem, addresses the one image we have seen many times — Palestinian children dancing in the streets celebrating the events of September 11.

Dear Friends,

I've had numerous emails from people asking me to help interpret the scenes they have watched of Palestinians 'celebrating' after the event. Yes, there were some gatherings of people, particularly in Nablus, who were shown in the very early hours of the horrible attacks in the US on the street, dancing and cheering, and passing out chocolate. But, these expressions were few and certainly did not represent the feelings or mood of the general population. The deep shock and horror of the Palestinian people, the real sorrow for all the dead and wounded, was, and continues to be, unseen by the world, particularly in the USA. It is the story unheard.

What was important to me is what has mostly gone unseen by the American public. I have to ask why these scenes of a few Palestinians have been shown again and again and again, as if they capture the ‘truth’ of Palestine. How few cameras have caught the spontaneous sorrow, despair, tears and heartache of the vast majority of the Palestinian people.

As the news unfolded here on Tuesday afternoon about the extent of the attacks, people gathered, as people did everywhere, in front of television screens to learn as much as possible. My phone rang and rang as Palestinians from around the West Bank called to express their horror and their condolences.

Yesterday following a prayer service held at St. George’s Anglican Cathedral, I talked briefly to the US Consul General in Jerusalem. We talked about the scenes from here which were most prevalent on the TV. He told me that his office had received a stack of faxes of condolences from Palestinians and Palestinian Organizations ‘this high’ (indicating a stack of about 12 inches). He asked his staff to fax a copy of every last one of them to CNN to give a different visual image from Palestine.

When we left the cathedral after the service, we drove by the American Consulate in East Jerusalem. Gathered there were about 30 Palestinian Muslim schoolgirls with their teachers. Looking grief-stricken, they held their bouquets of dark flowers and stood behind their row of candles. Silently, they kept vigil outside our Consulate. But no cameras captured their quiet sorrow.

Friends, then, began stopping by my home. Palestinian, Christian and Muslim came together, visiting me to express their sorrow and to ask what they could do. Again, the phone rang incessantly with Palestinians asking if everyone I knew was okay and asking if they could do anything to help.

As we talked many went on to tell of stories of their loved ones who are in the States who have been injured or killed or subject to harassment in the last couple of days. Others talked of having received emails from people who had been supporters of their work who wrote saying “I can never again support the Palestinian people,” as if somehow Palestinians everywhere were suddenly responsible for the attacks in the States.

The remarkable thing to me, though, was that despite such messages, these same people still wrote letters of condolences, made phone calls to friends, and asked what they could do to help. Despite the world, and particularly the American world, not seeing them or seeing them only as 'terrorists’, Palestinians continued to express their common humanity with people everywhere as they shared in the heartache and dismay.

Trusting in God's everlasting presence,

Rev. Sandra Olewine, United Methodist Liaison - Jerusalem

Harsh Realities in Palestine

By Rev. Sandra Olewine

The harsh realities of Palestinian life under Israeli occupation are far too seldom exposed to the Israeli public, let alone the world at large. While Palestinians and others, including myself, write stories about the situation experienced here, conveying the depth of frustration, pain, loss and anger through words alone often seems an impossible task.

How do any of us adequately express the grief of the parents of the five Palestinian children killed in Gaza yesterday when a suspicious object exploded while they were going to their school on a road near an Israeli military installation? Whether caused by an unexploded tank shell or a land mine, how do any of us describe the reality of parents having to identify the remains of their children by looking at their school bags because so little was left of their bodies? How do any of us portray the anguish of one family losing five children in one morning: Akram Na’im Abdel-Karim El-Astal, 6; Mohammed Na’im ’Abdel-Karim El-Astal, 14; Omar Edris El-Astal, 13; Anis Edris El-Astal, 11; and Mohammed Salman El-Astal, 11?

How do I convey what it feels like to sit with friends in their home in ’Aza Refugee Camp in Bethlehem, invited to breakfast with them during Ramadan, while a frigid wind blows wildly through their bullet-riddled walls and windows? How do I describe being taken by the hand of Wathik, 3 1/2 years old, to be shown all the damage in every room of this humble dwelling, knowing that most likely at least part of this damage was done by American-made or supplied weapons?

How do words capture the despair and humiliation of being turned back time and time again at an Israeli checkpoint when one wants only to go to pray, to work, to school, to hospital?

Words surely must not be enough, because if they were, then everyone would understand the violence of occupation, would understand that this occupation is the root cause of Palestinian violence. Words surely must not be enough, because if they were, then everyone would understand that seven days after the occupation ends and quiet is restored, negotiations can begin.

Rev. Sandra Olewine is a United Methodist Liaison in Jerusalem.

Reflections of a Palestinian-American

By Susan Muaddi

I am a Palestinian-American. My parents came to the United States in 1967. I have visited my family and friends in the West Bank on numerous occasions. I have family in Ramallah, one of the centers of the current conflict between the Israelis and the Palestinians (what is being referred to in the Arab world as intifadaht al-Aqsa, or “the intifadah of al-Aqsa”), and they have suffered more in the last three weeks that I expect to in my lifetime.

Because there is nothing else that I can do, I have become a television and telephone addict. I watch the news for several hours a day. I call friends and family to hear the latest updates on the clashes: which city has been blockaded, whose neighbor has been shot, whose window was blown out. I study the photographs taken by news journalists, because I often recognize certain buildings or even people. One summer, about three years ago, I rented a room in a dormitory that stands exactly one block away from the police station that was bombed in Ramallah. I was remembering how I used to walk past it every day on my way to the grocery store or to the taxi stand: this is what was going through my mind when I saw the building explode in a rain of missiles on television.

Perhaps it is because I have been so steeped in the media language lately, but I am tired of hearing phrases such as the “Palestinian attack on” and the “Palestinian violence against” Israel. I have a difficult time understanding how a largely unarmed civilian population could lead an “attack” of such magnitude on the professionally trained Israeli Defense Force that the IDF would have no choice but to respond with live ammunition and missile attacks. Indeed, the number of casualties should offer ample proof that this is not a fair battle; of over 100 deaths to date, only seven of these have been Israelis.

Furthermore, the Israelis have insisted on a “blame the victim” rhetorical tactic that Yasir Arafat is the one responsible for the deaths of young Palestinian stone throwers. Such remarks understandably upset Arab and Palestinian-Americans such as myself, because we know that this is untrue. This latest Intifadah is, like its predecessor, one born of frustration. These youths are fiercely independent and do not obey such commands as “go open your chests to the Israeli bullets” (this is what one Israeli source quoted Arafat as saying to young Palestinians). As Hanan Ashrawi said, “We (the Palestinians) cry every night because these are our children who are dying.”

For Palestinians who grew up under occupation, patience is a virtue that goes largely unrewarded. The kind of inhumane response their protests have received have only fueled the fire. Unless the Israelis understand that people can only be pushed so far until they explode, and until Israel's government decides that Palestinians have the right to protest their occupation, the rage will continue and it will know no end.

Last Friday, I returned home from a pro-Palestinian rally in Philadelphia. I felt spiritually buoyed by the sight and sound of over 1,000 people chanting slogans such as “Stop Using Bullets Against Stones” and “Demand Protection of Palestinian Human Rights.” I was also refreshed and encouraged by the presence and participation of many non-Arabs in the rally, including members of the Black Muslim community, Jewish-Americans and members of the Religious Society of Friends.

Eager to catch the evening news coverage of the rally, I boiled water for a cup of tea and settled down on my couch.

“Demonstrators today burned the Israeli flag,” said one anchorwoman. Another said, “Muslims gathered in downtown Philadelphia today to denounce Israel.” I continued to flip through the channels: “Men carrying flags and waving their fists walked alongside women who wore veils and pushed baby carriages.”

I was terribly upset by the lopsided coverage of the rally. Yes, someone did burn the Israeli flag, but the demonstration was largely peaceful. Yes, many Muslims were in attendance, but so were Christians and Jews. In fact, one of the speakers at the rally was the Reverend Paul Washington, a long-time civil rights activist. And yes, some women were veiled and some mothers were pushing their children in baby strollers as they marched, but as far as I could tell, that information was relevant only insofar as it exaggerated and maintained the age-old stereotype of Arab Muslim women as oppressed and silenced creatures.

As I sat on my couch that evening, hoping to hear a semi-accurate account of the day's event, I realized something: I was tired.

I turned off the television on Friday night and went to bed earlier than usual. I was not anticipating any positive coverage of the rally in the morning's paper either, so I wanted to be well rested for the disappointment. It is difficult enough to know that one's homeland — one's family and friends — is under siege. It is even worse to know that one's current homeland often distorts the truth of the tragedy.

Realities of Palestine

By Laurel Severns

Laurel Severns traveled to Israel/Palestine in March 2001. She was part of a delegation of staff of the American Friends Service Committee, an international Quaker peace and justice organization. These were her reflections.

I had never seen a soldier shoot at a group of children before, but that is an experience that I can now chalk up on my list, something that will supposedly make me tougher to the other harsh realities of this world. We were on our way back from the West Bank town of Ramallah, in the ceaseless traffic jam at the checkpoint into Jerusalem when we saw some boys, probably aged 9-15, throwing stones over a barbed-wire fence, on the other side of which was an Israeli army post. Soon a soldier came to the fence and aimed his gun at the kids. I can't describe the anger and frustration I felt watching that soldier shoot, as the boys ran for cover behind the big boulders on the hillside. Fortunately they were able to dodge the bullets, at least while I was watching, but I heard that someone was killed later that afternoon.

As we got closer to the border, we realized that the Israeli army had placed a TANK at the checkpoint to Jerusalem. There were boys running between the cars backed up at the checkpoint throwing stones at this tank, and an army jeep started heading toward us and shooting, and eventually veered around our van. And even as we were ducking down behind the seats of our van to avoid bullets, I was surprised to find that I wasn't really afraid; I was furious. I had spent the last two days witnessing the effects of this occupation—homes and schools hit by missiles, children who couldn't go to school because the army had sealed off their towns, meeting a family whose father was just killed in his living room after a missile from a nearby settlement struck his house, trying to get past a roadblock myself earlier that day that the army had set up to cut off Ramallah from Birzeit, and waiting in a group with a bunch of Palestinian villagers who were just turned back by a young soldier.

As activists often say with regards to Israel, “remove your boot from their throat, and you may find that the Palestinians are very reasonable people.” The daily humiliation that the occupation means for the Palestinians should not be taken lightly; it is easy to see how violence is born from it.

One of the important lessons that I learned from this trip was how I (and Americans in general, I think) refer to “terrorism.” Why isn't the mass killing of innocent civilians considered terrorism just because it's sponsored by a state government? I had a close call with a Palestinian terrorist attack—a triple suicide bombing—when I was in Jerusalem in 1997, and some very close calls with the Israeli army on this trip. And I would like to testify that the latter was no less grotesque than the former, and worse, it is completely funded by the US. One of the missile casings we found on the ground said in bold print, “Made in Pennsylvania.”

After a relatively relaxing day in quiet Nazareth, we spent two days in the Gaza Strip, which is more tense than the West Bank. There are army tanks everywhere and we later found out that they were watching our every move. We had gone to visit an elementary school in one of the refugee camps that had been shot through with missiles while the children were in class along with a family who lived near an army post and was often under fire. When we got to a checkpoint, we could see the soldiers in the army posts and the tank turn their guns to point at us. We were stopped and pulled aside by the soldiers, who interrogated our bus driver about where we had been, who we had talked to, and whether we had taken any pictures. One of the soldiers told our guide, a local Gazan, that she shouldn't have brought us there, and that they had almost shot our bus. I found it shocking that he admitted in front of a group of Americans that his tank had almost shot at our bus without provocation, but as we had seen, this is what they do, and the devastation they have caused is enormous.

That night, in the safety of Gaza City, which is so far free of army posts, we stood on the balcony of our hotel and watched flares going up in the sky in the southern Gaza Strip. I stood shaking with tears streaming down my face, thinking about the families we had visited who were hiding under their beds and about the extent of human evil. It was awful, awful.

I know that this account may seem biased to some, and maybe it is, but it is what I witnessed and felt, and I am still reacting to it. I feel that the Israeli side of the story is laid out ad nauseam in the New York Times, NPR, and most US media. This trip helped me de-bunk a lot of myths that even I still hold against the Palestinians, so I hope you'll take it for what it's worth.

On the upside, we met with with more Israeli and Palestinian peace activists who are doing so many brave things to call for an end to the occupation. This Intifada (uprising) has really brought the best of them to the top, and there are possibilities for real transformation with these people.

(Laurel can be reached at the AFSC in Chicago.)

A Walk Through Jerusalem (Al Quods)

Mourad Chaouch

My last stay in Jerusalem in early 1999 was at the historic American Colony Hotel, right on the old green line separating East and West Jerusalem. The invisible line has been replaced since 1967 by a large avenue to reflect a modern united Jerusalem, “capital” of Israel. I came away with a vision of two Jerusalems, one rundown and shrinking, and the other modern, protected, and expanding. In fact, every hill surrounding Jerusalem seems to have some form of a small or large colony that is heavily fortified, especially if it lies in the territories occupied in the 1967 war.

When I first visited Jerusalem, I was struck by how small the historic center is. In fact, this famous city, holy to at least 3 major religions and the center of world attention for the last 50 years can be walked in a single afternoon. The religious quarters of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism are so close, they are frequently wall to wall. The city is divided into four quarters: The Moslem quarter, The Christian quarter, The Jewish quarter, and the Armenian quarter. The Christian quarter seemed to be the quietest when I was there with many shops closed. The Armenian quarter is the smallest and had many specialty artisan shops that seemed to be bustling with activity. The Jewish quarter was quite accessible and labyrinthine. Once I arrived near the Wailing Wall, I noticed that all visitors have to go through a metal detector manned by Israeli soldiers. That was the only security checkpoint in the old town that I came across.

Before I crossed into the Moslem quarter through a small tunnel, I stopped for a cool drink. The owner was Israeli and the waiters Arab. When they found out I was Arab (a rare sight on that part of the city), they were very welcoming and offered me Arab sweets that they kept for close friends.

Coming through the Jewish quarter to the Moslem quarter, I came across very quiet streets at first and I went up the hill to the Al Aksa Mosque and the “Haram Ash-Sharif” (a.k.a. the Temple Mount). The access was limited to Moslems and Israeli soldiers checked ID’s to ensure security. The mount itself, behind the access doors, is an olive grove with two large monuments: One is the very famous gold domed Haram Ash-Sharif, the other the imposing Al Aksa Mosque. Children were playing ball in the courtyard by the olive grove and women in veils were gathered for the afternoon. On the grounds, it seemed more like a park and an island of peace where Moslems could be free from what seemed to be the stresses of the outside. After the visit to both sites, I trekked down the hill to the bustling “souk” that leads to Damascus Gate. Here, permanent markets for vegetables, meats, sweets, and the like are on every corner and fill every space. It was so close to the other parts of Jerusalem, yet seemed so far.

Outside the historic walls of the old city, depending on which direction you took, it seems that you head into different worlds. On the “west” Jerusalem side, the city spreads across hills and valleys, always keeping the same characteristic sand colored rock for all buildings. There was what seemed like hundreds of new buildings with very organized streets, lighting, highway interchanges, and access roads. If you head into the eastern side of the city, you first notice that it is mostly confined to a deep valley that is dominated by Mt. Scopus and Hebrew University. I went through Arab East Jerusalem and I was shocked by the run down buildings, the poorly maintained roads, and the scarce lighting. Some residents explained that the Israeli authorities would not issue building permits for repairs and would rarely arrange any maintenance to public infrastructure in their part of the city to coerce them to leave for Palestinian controlled pockets of land in the West Bank.

Leaving Jerusalem heading toward the territories, we came across several security roadblocks as we were heading to Hebron, twenty or so miles to the south. The roads were very tortuous and in bad shape. The settlers on the other hand, sometimes with barely finished settlements spread across most of the occupied territories, can use elevated super highways that totally bypass the Arab villages and refugee camps (ghettos) below.

Palestinians confined to the shrinking territories seem to be left in “Palestinian run towns” which have no jobs, little investment, and nowhere to go. Israel on the other hand is growing in (Jewish) population by the arrival of millions of immigrants and is accommodating them by encouraging them to settle in the occupied territories.

At the heart of Jerusalem, I felt an aura of peace every time I was in any of the holy sites but as I went farther and farther away from the old city, I felt tension and frustration, especially in the Arab neighborhoods, towns, and refugee camps. In the Israeli neighborhoods, the same tension was in the air but everybody seemed to be trying very hard to completely pretend that it was not there. What is happening today in and around Jerusalem is very sad, but I truly believe that it is the result of a spark that met that tension.

Mourad Chaouch is a board member of the Habiba Chaouch Foundation.

A Palestinian's Journey

By Sabi Atteyih

The radio was blaring with news that the British army, which occupied Palestine at the time, turned over the country to a handful of European Jews; they decided to call the land Israel. News stories recounted atrocities and massacres committed against the Palestinian people. The year was 1948. For Sabi Atteyih, the news started his life story fifteen years before he was born.
I

Like many other Palestinians, Sabi's grandfather, Mohammad Atteyih, decided to retreat temporarily to neighboring countries such as Syria, Jordan and Lebanon with his wife, six sons (one was Sabi's father) and two daughters awaiting the promise that the Arabic army would restore peace and give the lands, homes, businesses and olive groves back to their rightful owners.

In Syria, away from the destruction of innocent lives, the Palestinians suffered a similar fate as the Palestinians in other neighboring countries; unemployment, crowded schools, unbelievable living conditions and discrimination top the list. In a few years life was unbearable for Ismail, Sabi's father, who was only 19 at the time. Faced with the responsibility of helping his father (Mohammad), unable to tolerate dreadful living conditions and seeking an education, he traveled to Yemen southeast of Saudi Arabia.

Once in Yemen, Ismail had a bit of luck balancing school and work, in addition to being able to send some money to help the rest of the family in Syria. After ten years, Ismail armed with a degree in pharmaceuticals, moved north to Kuwait and found a job in his field. While traveling back and forth to Syria to visit a his family, Ismail met a young woman named Khayreia who was a Palestinian. After a year, Ismail and Khayreia married and she moved to Kuwait with her husband. There, three children, two girls and one boy, were born. They were also Palestinians.

In 1966, just when things started looking good for the whole Atteyih family in Syria and Kuwait, the Kuwaiti government accused Ismail of conspiracy to overthrow the king of Kuwait. Ismail was seen in a group of Palestinians that may have met to demand better living conditions. With only 48 hours to leave Kuwait, the family of five was deported, never to be allowed back. Once again Syria seemed to draw Ismail back, but this time with a bigger load. Syria continued to absorb many Palestinians from the 1948 immigration which contributed to the housing shortages. Ismail, his wife and three children lived at his parents' house until able to find a place to call home. (One can imagine what it must have been like at “Grampa's house.”)

Living in Syria and working in the same city with his brothers, Ismail's life was once again stable. Ismail and Khayreia were the proud parents of another boy, bringing the family to two boys and two girls.

In the summer of 1973, Ismail received an invitation from his brother-in-law. Khayreia's brother had moved to Syria in 1948, then on to the United States in 1959. At his request, Ismail, Khayreia and two of the children packed their suitcases and visited him in the United States. While the visit in New Jersey was brief, the United States “bug” bit Ismail: He was fascinated with the American way of life, the open market economy, five-day work weeks, innocent until proven guilty in a court of law and — baseball.

Ismail returned to his home in Syria dreaming the impossible dream: “I need to help provide a better future for my kids. I want them to experience peace, happiness, good education and, most of all, success.” Years went by, yet the dream was still running. In 1978, Ismail applied for immigration to the United States of America. At that time, Sabi was fourteen years old and he again spent the summer in the States while his father, Ismail and Uncle Saleh were working on moving the entire family to the States. The application took three years to process. In 1980, a heart attack ended Ismail Atteyih's life, but not his dream. A visa arrived several months after his death which enabled Khayreia to carry on the dream with her four children. In August of 1981 they moved to the United States. At the time, the oldest of the children was 18.

Sabi was only sixteen when his father died, but the years spent with his father, traveling around Europe and the Middle East, taught him so much. The most important lesson was that he is always a Palestinian. No matter where or how they traveled, they would always be treated suspiciously—like criminals. While living in Syria, the passport issued was a Palestinian passport. The Arab countries, to preserve Palestinian nationality, issued Palestinian passports. With the Palestinian passport, they were often denied entry into certain countries.

Sabi was born in Kuwait but has never been considered a Kuwaiti. While this policy helped keep the Palestinian issue alive, it also enabled the whole world to discriminate against more than 10 million Palestinians scattered around the planet.

In 1986, Sabi received his American citizenship. For the first time, Sabi realized his father's dream: to roam the planet free without interrogation and to be simply treated like a human being.

Eleven years of isolation from aunts, uncles and cousins ended in December 1992 when Sabi was finally allowed to enter Syria for a period of thirty days. Because of a new Syrian law, Sabi returned for a short time without being forced to serve in the Syrian army. This law went into effect in 1992. Free to roam, Sabi felt as if he were in Europe once again with Ismail, but these feelings came with tears. They were Sabi’s tears as he walked the streets of Milan, Italy remembering a sweet past, when his father was showing him the landmarks; and remembering the bitter past when he had a label that frightened the world around him— Palestinian. No one can better describe the trip to Syria than Sabi Atteyih: “It was like a dream. I still cannot get over it. I can see the picture of the plane touching down in Damascus (Syria); the highway lights lead my eyes to the city, twinkling at night like a faraway galaxy. I can still smell the fresh winter air with a slight hint of a pine scent. I felt the earth shake, but it was I that was shaking, trembling as chills raced down my spine. What will they say? Will they remember my face? What are they thinking? These were the questions that echoed in my head the entire distance from the plane through the terminal and into the lobby. I could not believe my eyes when I saw the crowd that came to greet me. Had the entire city come out? It was impossible to recognize all the faces. It seems that some of the people had features I have seen but on a child's face twelve years before in 1981. It was as if I expected that nobody would change but myself. I felt like a stranger among my family. Yet I was in a place I called home for fifteen years. It was like asking a sailor to navigate in the Sahara Desert. I felt out of place.”

In Syria I visited the cemetery that holds my father's grave. For most of an hour, I sat like a messenger telling the stone that represented my father all the events that shaped our lives in the last twelve years. Oh, how I wished I could see Ismail's response when I described how successful his wife, sons and daughters are and how handsome his grandchild is. Somehow, I felt that he had been with us during our long and painful journey.

As the days went by, my relationship with my extended family grew stronger and before leaving I was loaded with memories, hugs, kisses, stories, photographs and gifts to connect us all. I headed back to Wisconsin (my new home), fueled by anger but directed by love. As I walk through life, I look forward to my next visit, hating the distance that has torn us apart. I find security in the thought of reuniting our big family (now scattered over seven countries) in a place called Palestine.

(Sabi Atteyih branched off from the family restaurant— “Lulu's” in Madison and now owns Casbah, also in Madison. His feelings and sense of isolation from his homeland are a common thread among millions of Palestinians in this world.)

The Bethlehem I Knew: An Advent Reflection

By Rita McGaughey

I had many opportunities to visit Bethlehem during the years I made my home in the Galilee region of Israel. The village of Rama in the Upper Galilee was my home while serving as a retired volunteer from 1989-95.

An early trip—it was Christmas Eve—was especially illuminating. Leaving my home in an Arab village not far from Nazareth, I found it easy to imagine a similar journey taken by Mary and Joseph, who likely traveled along this Jordan Valley route, past Jericho and around Jerusalem to reach Bethlehem.

It was also easy to picture the Roman soldiers along the way as I and my Palestinian colleagues were stopped at the frequent military (always called “security”) check points throughout the West Bank. As a rule these young, gun-slung soldiers displayed a grim disbelief at finding an American who sided with Palestinians, but on the trip they waved me through with beaming smiles.

That was the first signal that our Christmas Eve drive to Bethlehem would be totally different from ordinary trips across the Green Line into the occupied territories. Approaching Bethlehem I discovered television cameras set up to report the extra security for “protecting” Christmas tourists. There were not TV cameras, however, at the spot where Christian Palestinians underwent body searches before entering their own churches.

I had arrived in Israel earlier that year to volunteer with a small private health organization serving the Arab minority within the “Green Line” of Israel.

For nearly six years I lived in what has been home for centuries for Palestinians who today make up Israel's 18 percent Arab minority. It is a humbling experience to live among people made powerless by political forces. It is also an enlightening one. For one thing, it goes a long way to dispel colonial expectations that people ought to be grateful for what they never requested.

Witnessing the patience, the pride and the grace of life in a traditional Arab village was a revelation. I found the word “terrorist” totally inappropriate, as was “democracy” to describe the controlling powers.

At first I found it mildly peaceful in Israel, seduced by the indifference that comes with being ignored by authorities. Gradually I came to see the inhumanity behind such slights. A former hostage in Lebanon described it thus: “We were angry,” he writes, “not because we were hungry but because we were forgotten.” Think of Palestinians in the 1950s when the world came to believe Israel was “a land without people for a people without land.”

Even today, few media reports give adequate information for any real understanding of this area’s complexities. For example, most reports on the violence erupting after the opening of the tunnel next to the Haram al-Sharif Mosque in Jerusalem fell short of comprehending its implication for Israel's claim to exclusive control of Jerusalem.

The tunnel opening prompted “Churches for Middle East Peace” to place a full-page ad in the New York Times entitled “Christians Call for a Shared Jerusalem.” The signatories to the ad urged the U.S. government to call upon negotiators to move beyond exclusivist claims and create a Jerusalem that is “a sign of peace and a symbol of reconciliation for all humankind.”

Few remember an early United Nations resolution that declared the Israeli law concerning Jerusalem “null and void.” The U.N. invited countries with embassies in Jerusalem to move them elsewhere. When the Vatican entered into diplomatic relations with the state of Israel (December 1993), it opened its nunciature (embassy) in Tel Aviv. Subsequently, it has consistently drawn attention to the need for an international commitment to the protection of the holy city's identity.

The Vatican—along with Europe's political leaders—refused to participate in ceremonies to mark “Jerusalem 3000,” calling it a political statement that “marches in lockstep with other Israeli efforts to assert sovereignty, de-Christianize the city and alienate Jerusalem from its Palestinian city and its pluralistic religious heritage.”

As recently as August of 1996, the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue and the Vatican's Commission for Religious Relations joined with representatives for the Jewish faith, the World Council of Churches and the Lutheran World Federation to call attention to the extent to which indiscriminate closure of Jerusalem endangers the prospects for peace. “We are particularly pained,” their statement stated, “when as a result of the closure people are denied access to their holy sites and places of worship and their places of employment, education and health care.”

Another statement opposing Israeli plans for a “Greater Jerusalem” cites the United States for “failing to recognize and support Palestinian rights and interests in Jerusalem.” Signatures include the bishop and primate of the Episcopal Church, a bishop in the Evangelical Lutheran Churches of American, the president of the National Conference of Catholic Bishops and the president of Roman Catholic Conference of Major Superiors of Men's Institutes.

This list is impressive. But wait. When the Israeli prime minister addressed the U.S. Congress and was roundly applauded for declaring Jerusalem his undivided capital, not one religious leader questioned his declaration. Will Bethlehem be accorded the same fate?

The Bethlehem I knew is already vastly changed as a result of cruel confiscation of Palestinian land. The motive for taking these lands is filled with irony. Israel's annexation of a new tourist infrastructure with nearby Jewish (illegal) settlements is destined to deny Arab Bethlehem its vital tourist income.

“Bethlehem 2000” is now under way, with new highways being constructed for easy transport of tourists from the holy sites to the new hotels and restaurants planned for the nearby settlements. Depriving Palestinian Bethlehem of this revenue is a sure way to bring about its economic collapse.

A similar project called “Nazareth 2000” has identical aims, with tourist buses stopping only for brief visits to that city's holy sites. Hotel and other accommodations are arranged at nearby Tiberius where Caesar's Palace competes with other Western-type hostelries for the patronage of Christian tourists.

The real impact of these changes on the Middle East peace process goes far beyond tourism. An inability to describe the human dimensions behind these moves makes me almost sympathetic to those media reporters who attempt to convey some sense of the hardships imposed on the victims who fall prey to these manipulative political powers.

Unknowingly, tourists too are manipulated into imposing “West is Best” concepts. I can see it now: “Visit Bethlehem and stay at Days Inn.” Sorry. My preference will continue to be those small guest houses within close range of the smells and sounds of souks—and yes, even the tortuous traffic confusions.

After all, we're talking about Bethlehem, Palestine—not Pennsylvania.

Rita McGaughey's reflections shared in this article were first printed in the Times Review, LaCrosse, Wisconsin where she resides.