No future?

Lutheran, The, Apr 2001 by Golden, Karris

In Bethlehem, Palestinian Lutherans struggle to make ends meet

GEORGE NASSAR WANTS A GOOD LIFE FOR HIS FAMILY. So he works two jobs-as a gardener in Jerusalem's Old City and on his family farm five miles south of Jerusalem (above).

But he can't get to either job because Israel closed its doors to thousands of Palestinian workers when the second intifada (uprising) broke out last September.

Until then, Nassar had a permit to enter Jerusalem, which Israel will no longer renew. The family farm is located between three Israeli settlements-Efrat, Newe Daniel and Betir-all of which want to confiscate it.

"I could go to work [at my farm], but I don't want to put myself in danger," said Nassar of the several checkpoints where he could be interrogated or strip-searched. Even this won't guarantee entry. "Every person in the world must know what the Israelis are doing to us. No one hears about it. But we feel it."

"A friend of mine went to his farm and the Israeli soldiers searched him, then sent him home," said Nassar, a member of Christmas Lutheran Church, Bethlehem.

Arabs say crops rotted in the fields because Jewish settlers kept them from their olive groves. In some cases, Israelis have burned and chopped down trees for security reasons, reporting that Palestinian stone-throwers or gunmen use the groves for cover.

Many Palestinians insist this wave of violence is much worse than the first intifada (December 1987 to 1993). "It was never this bad," Nassar said. "I don't know what we will do." The building across the street was bombed by Israeli soldiers, and his daughters, ages 3 and 8, are afraid to sleep in their own beds.

What hurt Nassar most was watching one of the best olive crops in years come and go. From each tree he would have gotten about $75 worth of olive oil. Although the farm has been in his family since the 1920s, this season passed without him touching a single fruit.

"Some try to go to their farms, but if the [Israeli soldiers] see you working, they will shoot you," Nassar said in December.

And like nearly 90 percent of Palestinian workers, Nassar isn't even sure he still has his other job in Israel. It helps that his American wife, Allison, picked up some translation work, but it's not enough to sustain their family of five.

Feeling the financial blow

Economic depression affects every facet of life in Palestine. Before this intifada, the average Palestinian made about $400 to $500 a month when the Israeli government reported the national poverty level at about $1,200 a month. Now many have no income, so they exhaust their savings and borrow.

In Bethlehem and other tourist cities, merchants feel the financial blow too. Pharmacist Giacaman Saleh, a Roman Catholic, runs a shop on a major thoroughfare. He opened his drugstore as shoppers prepared for the Muslim Feast of Eid ul-Fitr, hoping to draw some foot traffic. He doesn't know if the lack of holiday tourism will force him to close his shop.

"Normally it's busy, busy, busy all day," he said. "But since this intifada, no one comes. I don't even open every day like I used to. I thought I'd have customers today, but I've only had one."

Income from Christian tourists is also down. Although only 2 percent Christian, the City of David welcomes pilgrims year-round. But few tourists visited last Christmas, and the same is expected this Easter.

Business people invested a reported $200 million for what they thought would be the largest ecumenical celebration of Christianity ever-Bethlehem 2000. With more than 1.5 million visitors expected, the city also received a facelift: new roads and building projects.

Yet for the most part, the little town of Bethlehem was still. At Christmas more than 95 percent of tours were canceled and most hotels closed their doors.

Hotel owners like Samir and Georgette Khoury, members of Christmas Lutheran, had big plans for Bethlehem 2000. The couple borrowed thousands of dollars to turn their restaurant into The Bethlehem hotel. It was booked solid for the festivities, but when the conflict broke out all reservations were canceled. "We thought we'd be millionaires," Samir said with a bitter laugh.

On Sept. 28, Israeli troops closed the Khourys' hotel and occupied its upper level. "They came in by force [and] broke in the doors," Samir said. "They told us our hotel was a `security problem."'

Georgette added, "They won't allow us to enter, but we're the owners. ... [Christmas] is the biggest season of the year, when we make the most money. Even if people start coming again at Easter, we've lost so much, it won't be enough."

Since they can't gain entry, the Khourys can't earn income or gauge -- any possible damage from the conflict. So they borrow more to stay afloat. This also affects their son, Samir Jr., and the 14 others they employ.

Each day Samir goes to the hotel and is turned away. Returning home, he puts on his pajamas, lights a cigarette and waits. "I can do nothing," he said. "I've lost everything."

A future like the past?

Georgette is more optimistic than her husband, possibly because she's experienced similar loss. In the 1940s her father owned the largest printing business in what was then Palestine.