It’s a funny thing coming back to a place that feels like home, but isn’t. It’s even harder to make sense of the sensation, when the said place is so different in every possible way from that space you grew up in. But for some reason, Bethlehem is quite simply that kind of place. I’m not alone in feeling it. I’ve spoken to lots of foreigners who share my love for this remarkable town. And when it comes to identifying why exactly this dusty, age-old locale is oh so special, it’s not really that tricky for me to find the words. Put simply, this is a location that regardless of whether you’re religious or secular, has been hidden in the back of your brain wardrobe from that moment you heard your very first Christmas carol. It’s a place with a true sense of timelessness and power – the latter manifesting itself in the local population who have miraculously managed to remain full of life and good humour even though they’ve had a wall built around them, are constantly under surveillance, are denied freedom of movement – as well as the ability to establish true governance and, continue to have their precious land and resources stolen in blinding day light. I’m not one for believing in miracles, but when you consider just how long these injustices have been allowed to happen and indeed, enabled by the international community, the fact that the people here have not been robbed of their sense of resilience and lightness of spirit, is in itself something not of this world and exceptional.
I arrived on the forth day of Ramadan, minutes before Iftar. In the centre of Bethlehem, the market was awash with frantic trading – men, women and children buying last minute supplies to take back to the family table for the first meal after the day-long fast. At the sound of the Muezzin, a discernible sense of peace washed over the atmosphere like an unstoppable stream. And then, just moments later, almost with the same precision as a machine starting up again, the calls of street vendors selling food and drink filled the zone with a rehydrated energy.
To put you in the picture, here’s a recording of a juice vendor, peddling refreshments from his hand-drawn trolley. I’m not remotely sure of its origins (perhaps Turkish?), but these guys always dress in elaborate costume; red velveteen suits and caps, and can be easily spotted as they weave through the streets ringing their bells and singing their songs.
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