Inside the Church of the Nativity By Larry Hales Jr

On May 2, I, along with nine other international peace activists, delivered humanitarian aid to starving, sick, and injured Palestinians holed up in the Church of the Nativity.

The decision to challenge and attempt to break through the siege at the church was made the day before in Jerusalem, and the final plans were hatched out at a location that was only a ten-minute walk from the church. We worked out our strategy during two hours when the curfew in Bethlehem was lifted, so the people moving about gave us the cover we needed.

We were seven men and four women: three men from the United States, two from Sweden, one from Great Britain, and one from Denmark Two women were from the United States (one a journalist from the Los Angeles Times), one from Canada, and one from Ireland. With the exception of the Times journalist, we were all in Palestine with the International Solidarity Movement -– an organization that uses peaceful methods to help end the Israeli occupation of Palestinian lands and the removal of all settlements, and that supports the right of return for all Palestinian refugees.

In addition to delivering humanitarian aid, we wanted to stay until a deal was struck for the Palestinians. We didn’t want the Israeli military to kill and starve the Palestinians out, and we believed our presence would prevent them from doing so.

Me (far right with big backpack) and other
internationals going into the Church of Nativity.

The Israelis did kill one man, Khalef, while we were in the church. He was on the second floor balcony in the Greek Orthodox side of the compound. He was unarmed, although, the Israeli military told the media that he had a weapon and was threatening Israeli soldiers. There were no soldiers around for him to threaten. A gun that was on a surveillance crane, which reached nearly 200 feet in the sky, shot him.

I will always remember the look on his face, his skin turning pale as his life passed slowly away. He mumbled, most likely saying prayers, because he was fingering his prayer beads. My heartbeat quickened and I could feel my pulse in my ears. My stomach was like a boiling cauldron. As I looked at the eyes of the internationals and the Palestinians, I marked the differences. The Palestinians had seen murder at the hands of the Israeli military -– they were used to it and, though I’m sure they were more enraged than we internationals were, they understood it to be the course of things.

We were in the church for eight days. The Palestinians had been there for 31 days; 39 by the time they walked out on May 10. Thirteen went to European countries, 26 to the Gaza Strip, and, after questioning, the other 85 went free.

Days before the exodus from the church, we, the internationals, were enticed to come out first. We had no reason to trust the Israeli military, the priests who were urging us to come out, or their lawyer.

I was being led off by the Israeli police after being
dragged from the church when the seige was ending.

If we left first, the situation for the Palestinians inside the church would revert back to where it was before we came in -– they would be alone. So, we stayed. We remained to the very end, eating from the same dishes as the Palestinians and drinking from the same cups. We listened to their stories -– tales of living under occupation -– and we slept close to them, and laughed, brooded, and cried with them.

May 8 was a memorable day because that is when our food resources were exhausted and we were dreading going back to eating leaves. While Israeli soldiers tossed grenades at them,

courageous Palestinian women pushed large bundles of food through a door that had a gun-blast hole in it. The sounds of the grenades were loud in the church; I can only imagine how loud they must have been landing at the women’s feet.

We celebrated that night after we learned the women had gotten away and were safe. The Palestinian men dancing and singing, while we all feasted on a meal of rice and orange-flavored lentil soup, was a sweet moment. Now, we are all obliged to share what we have learned from each other. For the internationals it means we must tell what we saw and be vigilant now that we are back in our home countries. Our experiences can teach more than books and news stories. The Palestinians need only accept and acknowledge the individuals in other countries who support them. We are not our countries; we are people within the borders of our countries.

This is the view right before we entered Manger Square.

On the day the siege was ending, we formed a line in the church and shook hands and hugged. The priests and their lawyer were not among us. Though the deal the Palestinians received was unfair, they were ready for the ordeal in the church to end -– they were tired.

I cannot recall when the first 13 came out, nor can I remember when the 26 after them left or the 85 after the 26. It must have been late morning. I can still feel the wetness of tears against my face, though, as the last Palestinian to leave hugged every last one of the internationals, and I can still feel the sting of realizing that they were all gone. We were alone except for the priests and they were everything save for hospitable. They enshrined us and demanded that we leave, going so far as to shove some of us. The priest called us selfish and suggested that we were glory hounds and said they wanted their church back. We couldn’t go. We didn’t want to hand ourselves to an occupying force to be beaten or and interrogated, so we sat.

The media deluged us with phone calls. They wanted to know why we weren’t leaving. A BBC reporter asked why we were holding up the occupation of Bethlehem. I can’t begin to explain how absurd I thought this question was. The International Solidarity Movement lawyer was helping us work out our options: stay in the church and hope the Israeli military would withdraw, attempt an escape over rooftops, or walk out and hope we would be let free.

We contacted someone who had Yasser Arafat’s ear and were told to stay in the church, that the priests would provide us with sanctuary. Obviously, Arafat had not spoken with the priests because they were close to jumping on us with their full fury. Regardless of the inanity of the order, we stayed and took our chances with the "holy" men. Seconds after we disconnected the call that had provided us with our order to remain in the church, a dozen Israeli police and a few priests and their lawyer arrived. We were picked up and dragged out through the Door of Humility.

With our departure, the siege was over. We were put on a bus, searched, and taken to a processing station. After our pictures were taken and after we refused to sign any documents, the men and women were separated and taken to separate prisons.

I have been home nearly a month and have found it difficult to write about my sojourn to Palestine. I would like to tell the entire story. I want people to know about the invasion of Hebron. I want people to know about the people of Hebron and Bethlehem. However, I’m moved to write about being in the church because of the constraint on my words and the confusion of my soul. I am safe now and so are the other internationals, but the Palestinian people are still under the same occupation and there seems to be no resolution in sight. My safety and my sanity are daggers inching closer to my lungs; the fact that I am faced with the routines of life in the United States seems like I am a traitor, but what can I do? I am doing what I should be doing, what I promised the Palestinians I met -– I’m baring my spirit to galvanize other people.