A Short Story: Christmas Day Journal – Bethlehem

Christmas Day Journal – Bethlehem

I woke this morning to the sound of boots on stone. The soldiers had already begun their patrol, their voices echoing down the narrow streets, mingling with the distant call to prayer. It is Christmas Day, though here in Bethlehem the word “Christmas” feels both heavy and hollow. The town that once welcomed shepherds and angels now lies behind barbed wire and barricades, its holy streets bound by fear.

I write these words as if to remind myself that joy once belonged here. Yet the sight outside my window tells another story. Concrete walls rise where olive trees once stood, and checkpoints replace the open gates of hospitality. Herod would laugh, I think, at the irony, his ancient cruelty mirrored in modern forms. What crime have we committed, we who live here? No special sin, only the misfortune of being born in a place where suspicion reigns.

Last night, as the stars pierced the winter sky, I thought of the old carol: “O Little Town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.” But there is no stillness here. The silence is broken by the hum of drones, the clatter of rifles, the restless shifting of those who guard us. Fear has become the air we breathe. To step outside is to risk being mistaken for a menace, a stranger whose face is read as threat.

And yet, even in this prison camp in all but name, life persists. Children laugh in courtyards, their games defiant against the shadow of watchtowers. Mothers bake bread, the scent of yeast and fire rising above the dust. Fathers tell stories of shepherds and kings, of angels who once sang peace on earth. We cling to these fragments of hope, as if they might drive out the darkness.

I remember the inn of the nativity story, the one with no room. Today, there is room at no inn, for none can enter. Pilgrims are turned away, their journeys halted at gates that lock each night. The act of love—reaching hand to hand across divides—is smothered beneath military orders. Instead of carols, we hear the brass of a military band, rehearsing its parade.

Still, I cannot let despair have the final word. Beneath these darkened streets, I sense something stirring. Hope is stubborn, like a seed pushing through stone. It whispers that acts of love start small, that pride may rise huge before a fall, but humility endures. Perhaps one candle lit in a window, one loaf shared across a wall, one prayer spoken aloud, can begin to unravel the cords of fear.

This morning, I walked to Manger Square. The church bells rang, though muffled by the barricades. A few pilgrims had managed to enter, their faces weary but radiant. They sang softly, “Gloria in excelsis Deo”, and for a moment the soldiers paused. I saw one young guard lower his weapon, his eyes flickering with something like recognition. Perhaps he too longed for goodness to come again, to reveal the light.

I write now by candlelight, the wax dripping onto the page. Outside, the stars shine bright, just as they did two thousand years ago. I imagine shepherds on the hills, angels in the sky, a child in a manger. That child’s cry was once louder than the clash of empires, stronger than the decree of kings. Could it be so again? Could love fight fear, even here, even now?

I do not know what tomorrow will bring. The gates will lock again tonight, and pain will remain within these walls. But I choose to believe that reflected glory can return. That Bethlehem, small and scarred, can yet be the place where light breaks through.

So I end this entry with a prayer:

Let goodness come again.
Let love drive out hate.
Let the world not despise one small town.
Let the stars remind us that even in the darkest night, light endures.

And may this Christmas, though bound in chains, still whisper freedom.




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