Foreigners are the only people who can move around freely in the birthplace of Jesus - but they are staying away, writes Nuala Haughey in Bethlehem
The Palestinian tourist police are idling in the bright winter sunshine outside Bethlehem's Church of the Nativity, smoking cigarettes and lamenting the dearth of pilgrims to this, the reputed site of Jesus's birth.
Even the usually hawkish souvenir vendors nearby can only muster a half-hearted sales pitch for their over-sized rosary beads and kaffiyehs, the chequered headdresses worn by Arab men. This West-Bank city, 10 kilometres south of Jerusalem, is facing its third consecutive Christmas bereft of seasonal cheer, the sombre mood of locals reflected in the lacklustre Christmas decorations draped across Manger Street.
Since the start of the current Palestinian intifada, or uprising, more than three years ago, Bethlehem's tourism industry - the lifeblood of the economy in what is one of the most important Christian pilgrimage sites in the world - has ground to a virtual standstill.
In spring last year, the sight of Israeli tanks laying siege to the Church of the Nativity, where Palestinian gunmen, civilians and local clergy were holed up, is exactly the kind of global publicity that this self-proclaimed city of peace and "capital of Christmas" could do without. The siege was part of Operation Defensive Shield when Israel reoccupied Bethlehem and other Palestinian cities following a wave of Palestinian violence.
Greater Bethlehem, with its population of 60,000 divided almost evenly between Muslims and Christians, used to be one of the most prosperous Palestinian cities. Now, unemployment in the city runs at around 60 per cent. Hotels built to accommodate two million visitors each year have been forced to close down, souvenir shops open for only a few hours each day and restaurants equipped to feed coachloads of pilgrims find their large dining halls empty.
Its mayor, Hanna Nasser, says 1,500 people from Bethlehem and its two satellite towns have emigrated in the past three years, and millions of US dollars have been lost to the local economy. The only hotel bookings for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day this year are from a group of some 600 Italians, he says.
"The economy and celebrations go together . . . tourism and stability go together. We are still paying a price for the Israeli incursion last year. The economy is very bad . . . When you see that most of the Christian families cannot have the minimum to buy presents for their children, it's very painful," Nasser says.
Bethlehem is an attractive city of pale stone buildings built on the summit and sides of a narrow limestone ridge almost 800 metres above sea-level. It has lovely views of olive groves and the rolling hills of the Judean Desert, some of them colonised by Jewish settlers who claim these biblical lands as theirs, and theirs alone.
A visitor could pleasantly while away time in the old city district, sightseeing and learning about the tensions between the three Christian denominations who co-own the mighty Church of the Nativity: the Catholics, Greek Orthodox and Armenians.
But Bethlehem is surrounded by military checkpoints and before reaching the sanctuary of its revered ancient sites, visitors must submit themselves to the rigours of Israeli security. The permanent Israeli Defence Forces' checkpoint on the northern edge of the city is like a mini-fortress with a high stone perimeter wall. Pedestrians have to go under a covered walkway some 15 metres from the main hut and wait until they are called forward, one by one, for their documents to be inspected.
There are frequent delays at this checkpoint for cars trying to leave the West Bank and enter Israel. Foreigners living in the city say they regularly wait for an hour and a half here; it doesn't depend on how many cars are in line, rather on the disposition of the Israeli soldiers.
But at least foreigners can come and go as they please. Bethlehem's Palestinians, however, require a permit to move between the West Bank and Israel. This is due to Israel closing in on the Palestinian territories, which not only restricts the movement of workers (and, say the Israeli, suicide bombers) but also chokes commerce.
In addition to requiring a good reason to travel, Palestinians must in some cases be aged over 35 and married before they can qualify for a permit. These rules are regularly flouted by Bethlehemites who use back-roads and even resort occasionally to donkeys, which can be hired in the city during the olive harvesting season. One local man said he has not left Bethlehem for three years.
"I don't want to go and beg a permit from a Russian or Ethiopian [Jewish immigrant] soldier who doesn't even speak the language," he says.
On an afternoon visit to the city this week our guide was Suad Sfeir, a Colombian-born Palestinian who lives in the adjacent village of Beit Jala. She speaks several languages and used to get plenty of work as a tour guide throughout Israel and the Palestinian territories. But not any more.
Suad starts the tour in the 1,400-year-old Church of the Nativity, built over a cave which is the accepted birthplace of Jesus, who was visited there by the Magi from the east, who came bearing gold, frankincense and myrrh.
She leads us to this underground site, now a small grotto lit with pendant oil-lamps and candles, its marble walls partially draped in embroidered fabric. Set in the marble ground of an alcove altar is a silver 14-point star bearing the Latin inscription: "Here of the Virgin Mary Jesus Christ was born."
Outside the church, the tourist police say only 10 people have visited today.
"If you compare the situation to the year 2000, the queues used to reach the mosque," says policeman Khalid Shawabkeh, gesturing to the Islamic building on the opposite side of the large Manger Square plaza.
"We used to host more than 150 buses daily. Now, it's only a few groups from Italy, the States and Denmark, and they are mostly solidarity groups, not tourists. Even our English is getting weak. No one is coming to talk to us, only the journalists, and they know everything."
Yousef Giacaman, the owner of a nearby gift shop, the somewhat pretentiously named Holy Land Arts Museum, says his family now rely financially on exporting their products. The shop sells expensive nativity scene figurines made from olive wood and delicate mother-of-pearl trinkets and crucifixes, as well as glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary figurines and assorted Judaica.
Along with his brothers, Yousef owns two shops and an olive-wood factory, which was taken over during the church siege last year by Israeli soldiers, who burned some of the stock of olive-wood sculptures to keep warm. The family business used to have 12 full-time workers; now it has four, who work only part-time, he says.
Yousef claims attempts to send orders to clients overseas have been thwarted in recent weeks by the Israeli authorities, who have begun refusing to handle packages if the sender's address is Bethlehem. He flicks through a file of registered mail receipts, showing how he recently changed the sender's address to a friend's house in Jerusalem.
"When they see Bethlehem, they don't accept it," he says with a shrug. "Why? Who knows? They make it so difficult for people."
The Bethlehem municipality has not even bothered to remove the decorations it installed on the southern side of Manger Square for the year 2000 jubilee celebrations. One is a millennium countdown clock donated from Athens; the other is a set of bulbs (currently switched off) spelling out a welcome for "His Excellency President Yasser Arafat and his Esteemed Guests" to the Catholic Christmas midnight Mass, an event he had attended annually since 1995, when the city was turned over to Palestinian rule. The Jubilee Mass was the last he was able to attend, however, as Israel two years ago effectively confined him to the rubble of his Ramallah compound 20 kilometres away, blaming him for failing to prevent suicide attacks. He is allowed toleave, but without guarantees that he can return.
Last year, a black-and-white kaffiyeh, an Arafat trademark, was placed on his empty seat in the front row of the church. It will be there again this year.
"This Christmas won't be joyful," says the mayor. "It will be ceremonial but not joyful."