As politicans remind us, we have peace and prosperity in America,
so we should enjoy Christmas parades and singing seasonal songs while sharing
love with laughing children.
But I find it hard to sing about the little town of Bethlehem this year
because most American Christians, caught up in bright lights and shopping,
don't care about Palestinians who live there.
When we visited Bethlehem last year I was not so impressed by the monument
of glass and marble where they say Jesus was born as I was with the shepherd's
field, which hasn't changed much.
I was more impressed by the view of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives
than I was by the church on its crest, more impressed by grassy slopes
overlooking Galilee than nearby tourist traps.
Standing on the wall around the Old City I was more impressed by women
selling herbs on blankets by the Damascus Gate than by young Israeli soldiers
watching the city through binoculars.
In the occupied territories of the West Bank I was able to look beyond
the illegal obscenity of Lego-like white settlement clusters with red roofs,
and I saw remnants of an ancient culture.
I saw olive trees and grape vines on terraced slopes, old men with donkeys,
young boys on horses, stone dwellings, and prickly pear cactus that have
been used as natural fences for centuries.
While dining, sleeping, and talking with a gracious family in a refugee
camp I learned more about dignity and courage than I was ever taught by
American teachers, preachers and film producers.
In other places I laughed with a boy pulling a wagon full of friends,
two children staring at a shark hanging by a market, a boy feeding goats,
another eating ice cream.
The only time my habit of smiling and waving at strangers drew a negative
response was from a child in the old city of Acre, as we were walking down
a narrow street.
The little boy, five or six years old, was playing with other children,
but he stopped when I waved, and said something to me in a loud voice,
without smiling..
Our personal tour guide, who happened to be our son, responded sternly
to the boy in fluent Arabic. The boy's look and voice softened, he said
something else to me, and we walked on.
"What was that all about?" I asked my son.
"He said 'God damn your father.' I told him you were my father,
that he was rude and should apologize, which he did."
This Christmas season I remember that little boy because Americans don't
understand what Palestinians are saying, and the only translators we have
are journalists who believe Zionist lies.
Americans who insisted on the rule of law during election squabbles
apparently have no regard for international law which Israel disregards
flagrantly, with American support.
Christian Americans who call Jesus the Prince of Peace apparently believe
that peace is no more than the absence of conflict in the Middle East,
and that justice is irrelevant.
Politicians who proclaim that America is governed by principle more
than power don't care that we have armed the occupying force with tanks,
while the oppressed throw stones.
I was that little boy's age, more than 50 years ago, the first time
I wore a bathrobe as a shepherd hearing angels sing of glory to God and
good will to men.
I was 11 years old in 1954 when "Under God" was added to the
Pledge of Allegiance, and I remember thinking, as we practiced in public
school, that it was pretty big stuff.
Do we think our "American" God approves of Christians and
Muslims in Palestine becoming victims of Israeli apartheid and having their
homes demolished, their olive trees destroyed, their children murdered?
If truth is irrelevant to foreign policy, if Zionist power and money
cloud our world vision, then maybe it's time Americans had a reality check
and removed God from our Pledge of Allegiance.
Our hypocrisy makes us deserving of the little boy's curse, and I cannot
sing of a holy night in a little town of Bethlehem when American weapons
and policy help to make every night there a living hell.
