A Church From the 4th Century and a Stalemate From the 21st

May 9, 2002
By CAROLYN COLE, TIMES STAFF WRITER


BETHLEHEM, West Bank--You can't say I wasn't warned, considering I'd just run through a dark entrance called the Door of Humility.

Inside the Church of the Nativity, candy bars are divided into 20 pieces. Crackers are broken into thirds. Occasionally, there is a meal--four macaroni noodles one day, a dozen spoonfuls of soup the next. During particularly desperate days, some of the Palestinians venture into a courtyard behind the sanctuary to strip leaves from a lemon tree. They cook the leaves into chips that smell like burnt popcorn.

They sleep sporadically, mostly lined up against the walls and away from the windows, adhering even then to the principle that if you can see outside, someone on the outside can see you. The men wrap themselves in pink blankets that offer little protection from the cold stone floor.

Mornings are oddly peaceful, marked by the sound of birds, snoring and strains of Arabic music from a hand-held radio. Some days, I can hear the early risers sweeping 21st century dust from the 4th century floors and scraping away the residue of candles.

Typically, members of the three religious orders that operate here--Armenians, Greek Orthodox leaders and Roman Catholics--are chanting prayers by 6:30 a.m. The Palestinians, almost all of them Muslims, sleep nearby, next to their rifles and under icons of Christianity--depictions of the Last Supper, 6-foot-tall crosses.

I entered the church around dusk last Thursday. In Manger Square, near the sanctuary, I had heard that members of a group called the International Solidarity Movement planned to make a run past the Israeli soldiers surrounding the church to deliver food to those inside. I went with them.

Soldiers gave chase. About 10 of us reached the Door of Humility, hands raised over our heads, and rushed inside.

The main sanctuary of the church is about 45 yards long, lined with four rows of enormous marble columns under a vaulted ceiling. The men inside had not eaten for three days, and they eagerly, but patiently, gathered for the meager rations brought by the activists.

There is a routine of sorts in here. Boredom and hunger are standard. So are headaches, a result of not eating. A backgammon board gets passed around, but mostly small groups gather around candles to swap morsels of gossip. They talk about their families, their children, and what they will eat when they get out. They ask me questions about U.S. Middle East policy and my life back in California.

The Palestinians' relationship with the priests is good. The clergymen have been kind to the Palestinians and have helped carry the bodies of those slain out of the church.

The Palestinians spend hours on end figuring out how to charge their cell phones from a jury-rigged power source. Ringing phones, not church bells, are the dominant sound. As night falls, men gather in darkening corners of the church, the candles casting their long shadows on the walls.

That serenity is often shattered by spasms of violence.

Saturday afternoon, a single shot rang out upstairs. I ran up with a small group and found 40-year-old Khalaf Najazeh on the floor. A member of a Palestinian security force, he had been walking along a covered walkway when a bullet hit him in the chest.

While one comrade gave him a tranquilizer, another stroked his face and held his hand. After 35 minutes of negotiations with the Israelis, he was taken to a hospital in a jeep. He died before he got there.

Najazeh had been shot by a remote-controlled Israeli weapon hung from a nearby crane. Another Palestinian, Abdallah Duwood, was shot in the right leg about a month ago. He lies next to the main altar, unable to stand. Well-wishers try to keep his spirits up. He says he will not leave the church.

Frequently, spirits soar as word spreads that negotiations are moving along. Just as suddenly come moments like Tuesday morning, when two Palestinian mediators entered the church--the first newcomers since our arrival.

They came with a list of 13 people inside the church wanted by Israeli authorities. The group would be exiled to Italy. Some of the men wept.

Ultimately, that deal fell apart when Italy balked at accepting them.

The Palestinians in the church are a family of sorts. Some are already planning a reunion--same time, next year. There was a wake recently when one man learned that his father had died. As the days drag on, many of them hold hands and stand with their arms around one another's shoulders. And they pace together along the sanctuary floor, fingering their prayer beads, hoping for a way out.

Originally published at:
http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-000032817may09.story?coll=la%2Dheadlines%2Dworld