THE MIDDLE EAST: The bi-weekly three hour shopping festival is in full swing when my taxi drops me at the entrance to Bethlehem. The streets are jammed with people walking shoulder to shoulder and cars creeping bumper to bumper, hooting.
Boxes of tomatoes and potatoes, mounds of animal fodder and ears of maize, bunches of mint, coriander and parsley and cartons of eggs command sidewalks and traffic islands.
A few shops are doing business. "Come and see, come and see," a man selling souvenirs calls to me from the door of his store. "It's the first time I've been open for a month."
In Madibasseh Square, sturdy women in traditionally embroidered dresses and headscarves hover over apples and oranges. Bargaining is brisk. Children are everywhere, pushing, jumping, under foot. Girls wave gaily from a veranda. "Welcome, welcome", they cry, happy to see a new face after so many days of captivity in their family circle.
A total curfew has been lifted on Pope Paul VI Street which leads down to Manger Square and the Church of the Nativity, where nearly 170 or so Palestinians remain besieged.
On Monday, 26 men left the church, two policemen come out, escorted by a priest. But as I make my way towards the square to witness the hand over, there is a crackle of gun shots. I pause beside the burnt out hulk of a car.
Boys of eight and nine in T-shirts and jeans run past and scatter into the narrow side streets or dodge into the courtyard of Saint Mary's Syrian Orthodox Church. These stone-throwing children and flack-jacketed Israeli soldiers carrying M-16s still skirmish. Ms Umm Muhammad, a bold woman in coat and headscarf, falls into step with me. "Where do you want to go?" she asks. "The church," I reply. "Come, come," she leads the way down flights of steps, turns a corner and peers up the road into a tangle of barbed wire. "Not here."
She leads me into the home of the Thaljieh family, whose son Johnny (17) was shot dead last October during Israel's first armoured foray into the little town as he was returning home after the evening service in the church. From their sitting room window I can see its bell tower.
At eye-level, three Israeli armoured personnel carriers present their backs, engines ticking over.
"Until a few days ago, there were 60," remarks Johnny's father. By the time I climb to the top of Farahieh Street, everyone is gone. Empty boxes lie everywhere, a stiff breeze stirs eddies of paper scraps and whips up the dust.