The Christmas story in the Holy Land is alive for some and painfully quiet for others. Since October 7, hundreds of thousands of Gazans have left their homes, traveling with only what they can carry in a bid to stay alive. This year, Bethlehem hardly feels like a city prepared to celebrate. The once-busy streets are empty, trees and lights are scarce, shops remain largely closed, and the Nativity Church feels hollow. The city of Bethlehem, sacred to Christians, sits in a state of deep sorrow as conflict stretches across the region. The mood is a shocking grief that many had not anticipated for this season.
The public sentiment echoes through the market stalls and storefronts. Bethlehem is quiet, a place known for hosting visitors from around the world, now facing a stark silence. The sense of loss is clear in the words of a shopkeeper who describes an empty town, a place stripped of its usual tempo by war and displacement. The community condemns the absence of Christmas celebrations and the lack of seasonal decor in Manger Square. Those who rely on tourism face a harsh reality—two months without income and no public support—an immense hurdle for a city already fraying at the edges.
As the Israeli military continues its operation in Gaza, the pain of Palestinian families is carried through the deserted streets. A shopkeeper notes the irony of declaring joy while his neighbors suffer. A Christian bookstore owner describes a storefront stripped of life, where conversations are dominated by news reports rather than customers. Before the war, Bethlehem drew visitors from far away, especially to visit the Church of the Nativity, but now international travel is halted and the city cannot host the usual crowds. Christmas is not just a display of lights; it is a reaffirmation of the message of the season, and this year it feels distant for many here.
Belén, a key access point in the West Bank, has seen all entry points tightened. The city remains under the long shadows of a military occupation that controls roads and checkpoints, and residents face daily uncertainty about whether they may leave their homes. The sense of safety evaporates after sundown as soldiers patrol the streets. The daily reality of life under occupation—restricted movement, constant alarms, and the looming threat of violence—shapes a holiday season that should be about gathering and joy into something more fragile and restrained.
The ongoing restrictions affect livelihoods across Bethlehem. Tourism, once the backbone of the local economy, employs a significant portion of the population. The winter season used to draw millions of visitors, many coming to see the birthplace of Jesus. But the war and its repercussions have driven visitors away, leaving local businesses struggling. An unemployment rate already elevated before the crisis has surged, leaving shops and services largely inactive. Those who remain describe a day-to-day life dominated by the absence of customers and the struggle to keep routines intact while turmoil continues outside the city’s gates.
In this climate, communal prayers and quiet reflection gain a different intensity. Some residents express strong wishes for peace for both sides and hope for a future when the people can move freely again. A bookstore owner speaks of faith amidst hardship, noting that the holiday spirit remains, even if the festival itself cannot be fully celebrated. Local Christians maintain their faith through small gatherings and personal prayers, hoping that the shelters of religious spaces offer comfort even when public ceremonies are canceled. The Nativity Church continues to hold spiritual significance for believers, and the city’s heart remains tied to the enduring story of birth and hope.
Inside Bethlehem, a sense of closed access shapes daily life. The biblical message of escape from danger resonates with local families who know what it means to seek safety away from the front lines. The barriers around the city echo a centuries-old history of exile and displacement, now renewed in a modern context. Residents navigate a landscape marked by checkpoints, roadblocks, and security measures that require patience and resilience. The daily reality is that travel is limited, and the ability to reach relatives or markets remains uncertain on many days.
Despite the hardship, the people of Bethlehem find moments of faith and solidarity. The region’s religious leaders emphasize the core meaning of Christmas as a call to justice and dignity for all humanity. A few tourists who pass through continue to contribute in small ways, renting guides or buying local crafts, even as numbers dwindle. The church remains a focal point for those who seek solace, and many followers speak of the shared belief that peace will come through mutual understanding and compassion.
This year, a different kind of manger appears in Bethlehem. The scene at a local church features a humble display that speaks to a fragile moment in history—a reminder that the birth of Jesus carries a message of peace for people on all sides. The city endures, and its residents cling to the hope that the season’s spirit will prevail. The broader conflict in Gaza casts a long shadow, with casualties mounting and the dream of a quick resolution growing fainter. Yet the narrative of Bethlehem continues, a testament to endurance and faith in the face of ongoing hardship.