Bethlehem, Christmas Eve 2009. It was a dark, still night. I huddled close with friends and drank hot tea poured from a thermos by a vendor circulating the crowd to keep warm. Red and blue lights illuminated the crosses over the Church of the Nativity. A towering fir tree glistened on the side of the church’s courtyard with tinsel, multi-colored lights and a luminescent star on top. The roof of an adjacent building read “Buon Netale 2009 Merry Christmasâ€. On the stage was a young girl’s choir, who sang all the classic carols you expect at Christmas time—some in Arabic most in English.
The square was peaceful, but at the same time bustling with tourists from all over the globe. I had a hard time finding my friends, so we decided to meet at the minaret. My group of friends consisted of Americans, Germans, other European nationalities I’m not sure of, Israelis, an Indian girl, her Pakistani friend who is studying in Egypt, and a Canadian.
The girl’s choir was followed by some Spanish pop-rock band, who drove my friends and me away. We decided to go exploring down the narrow ally ways instead. Glowing decorations and street lamps wrapped in holiday lights like candy canes shimmered off the white stone bricks that made up the street and the buildings. Far over head were two burning balls of fire. One of the shop owners pointed and said, missile. My friends exchanged looks of concern, I squinted for a better look, and the man reentered his shop with a wide grin.
Around the bend, in a quiet niche were a man and a young boy, presumably his son, selling Chinese paper balloons. I mean Christmas Chinese balloons. Of course, the only thing Christmas about them was that they were being sold on Christmas Eve. They worked like mini hot air balloons, with a burning ember suspended at the base of the balloon driving it upward. The man and his son were releasing them with loud cheering and a festive scream. The burning balloons could be seen clearly juxtaposed against the dark backdrop of night. My friend, Loren, bought one and eagerly ran around looking for the perfect place to let it go. It had to be someplace more open than the ally, but high on a hill so no building would be able to obscure our vision. Everyone followed close behind and offered their opinions as to where he should release it.
We eventually made our way back to the main square. Loren was still clutching his Christmas Chinese balloon. On stage was a group of belly dancers wearing Santa’s Little Helper outfits and dancing to Christmas carols in Farsi. Saba, my friend from Pakistan, turned to me and declared that she could not believe how many Muslims were there. This prompted me to ask if she was Christian. No, she said, I’m Muslim. Then she asked me about my religion. An awkward silence followed my declaration of being Jewish.
We stood still, each celebrating the birth of a different religion’s Lord. It’s funny, she said, we all agree on the same one and only God, but it’s only Jesus we feel comfortable sharing. I smiled and added that we all share a fondness for the Sabbath, although we can’t even agree when that is.
The next and final band on stage was from Puerto Rico. The only Christmas thing about them was the green elf hat the lead singer wore. Her dance crew didn’t wear any green or red. When the night was over my group of friends met at the minaret once again and caught the bus back to Jerusalem. The last time I saw Loren, he was still holding his Christmas Chinese balloon looking for the perfect place to release it. I wished them all a Merry Christmas and returned to my hostel.
Mario Enrique Uriarte is a Masa participant studying at Ben Gurion University, one of Masa Israel’s 160 programs.
