By Iñaki Estívaliz
After spending almost three weeks following the exchange of Israeli and Palestinian hostages between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv with a Spanish television team, I ventured into the occupied West Bank on my own, using Palestinian public transport and forgetting about the daily news.
RAMALLAH, just over 40,000 inhabitants. First day of Ramadan 2025.
The de facto capital of Palestine is Ramallah, although legally, it is East Jerusalem. After about a thirty-minute journey, where walls and watchtowers frequently appear on both sides of the road to separate Palestinians from illegal Israeli settlements, just before entering Ramallah’s territory, large red signs with white letters in Hebrew, Arabic, and English warn: «You are entering a road leading to a Palestinian village that may be dangerous for Israeli citizens.»
After a checkpoint where the bus on line 231 passes without major issues, more and more vehicles with white license plates start to appear. Cars with yellow plates are Israeli, able to move freely throughout the territory. Vehicles with white plates can only circulate within the fenced, threatened, and ever-shrinking Palestinian lands.
Many Palestinian men carry a misbaha (Arabic rosary) in one hand, and before I even realize that none of them are smoking, I light a cigarette, unaware that smoking is also forbidden during the fasting hours of Ramadan. A man from a cart sees me and kindly, with understanding and a smile, tells me in English: «It’s Ramadan, my friend.» I put out the cigarette and saved it for iftar (the dinner that breaks the fast each day). When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I thought.
The first place I visit in Ramallah is the Yasser Arafat Mausoleum, where the first president of the Palestinian National Authority is buried, and which includes a museum that recounts the Palestinian people’s struggle. At the entrance, I see Palestinian soldiers for the first time. They are guarding the site. The museum tour ends with a visit to the rooms where Arafat spent 34 months under siege by the Zionists: two offices—one before the siege and one during—the president’s bedroom, the guards’ rooms with windows covered by barrels filled with sand, a humble kitchen, and personal items such as clothing, office supplies, and weapons. Arafat was evacuated in a French helicopter for medical treatment in Europe on October 29, 2004. He died 13 days later in a hospital on the outskirts of Paris.
The market stalls and shops in the city center are packed with people shopping and vendors shouting out their goods.
I meet Zahran Jaghab at the small Palestinian history museum he has established in a historic Ramallah house belonging to his family. Zahran is one of the few Palestinian Christians left in the city, and before anything else, he makes me break my fast with tea and cookies. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
He explains that before the 7th century, when Islam emerged, Christians made up 80% of the population in Bethlehem, where Jesus was born. In Ramallah, before COVID, they were 20%, but statistics now say that after October 7, they are just 1%. He believes it is even lower, around 0.5%, and that in Gaza, the situation is even worse. Throughout Palestine, Christians who could leave, sold everything and left, while many others died in bombings in the Gaza Strip.
«In a few years, there won’t be a single Palestinian Christian left in the Holy Land,» he laments.
He explains that it is not just about Israeli colonialism: Christians now marry late and have fewer children. They are well-educated professionals who seek better opportunities abroad.
However, Zionist colonialism has also broken the social cohesion among Palestinians of different religions. «We used to live in peace, like brothers, even Palestinian Jews, Muslims, Christians, Druze, Armenians—all lived as Palestinians. We have a Palestinian Arab culture; our culture is the same. And as Christians, we also share much of Islamic culture.»
«But now, religion has been manipulated for political purposes. It is used to cause problems, but that is not true religion,» Zahran argues.
He insists that «the true Arabs were actually Christians, not Muslims.» Israeli studies, he says, have shown that 80% of Palestinian Arabs have Semitic DNA, while «the Jews living in the occupied territories have a different lineage if you check their DNA.»
To leave Ramallah on bus 231, the situation at the Israeli military checkpoint is different from when I entered. All passengers, mostly Palestinian women, must get off. My phone doesn’t work; all apps and social media freeze. We go through several full-height turnstiles. I am the last in line.
Ahead of me, an elderly woman gets stuck in one of the turnstiles. We lose several minutes until they open it again. I had already been warned that Israeli soldiers do everything they can just to mess with those leaving Palestinian territory, but despite being forewarned, I am on the verge of panic.
I have to hand over my passport to a soldier. He looks at me, looks at my photo in the travel document, and makes gestures as if he doesn’t recognize me. He turns around to show my visa to other soldiers. I have to make a real effort to control my sphincters.
Finally, the young Israeli soldier returns my passport and lets me through with a look of disgust.
I run through the checkpoint parking lot to the other side of the wall, looking for my bus. I find another one, but also on line 231 to Jerusalem. They let me board.
I return to the hotel shaking.
BETHLEHEM, about 30,000 inhabitants. Second day of Ramadan 2025.
The taxi drivers and merchants of Bethlehem are desperate due to the absence of tourists since October 7. Most of the hotels have closed. There is nowhere to stay in Bethlehem with a limited budget like mine. I am looking for a Palestinian friend whom I had met on a previous visit. He had guided me through the Church of the Nativity, and we had kept in touch almost daily. I want to interview him. He wants to appear in this chronicle under the pseudonym Mike, which was the first name that came to his mind when I started recording the interview.
I find him opening his shop. Mike hangs up and arranges suits, carpets, keffiyehs, metal tea sets, and mother-of-pearl chessboards in front of his Bethlehem souvenir shop with all the slowness in the world. He is in no hurry. There are no tourists. He also sells Palestinian pottery, olive wood rosaries, leather bags and fabric bags, T-shirts, mugs, costume jewelry, postcards, and refrigerator magnets. Many of these items feature Banksy’s famous graffiti.
I start recording and ask him to introduce himself. Mike begins speaking as if he were being interviewed for a radio show, greeting the listeners.
He speaks with a candid and serene voice, taking his time to find the words, just as he did when hanging the items on the front of his store. Below, I transcribe, almost entirely, the first part of the interview:
**»Good morning, my name is Mike. I was born and raised in the city of Bethlehem. And, as you know, the city of Bethlehem is under Palestinian control. Everyone who lives here in Bethlehem is Palestinian: Arabs, Christians, and Muslims, and we have all lived together in a very peaceful town for hundreds of years, and in fact, even before that, there were also Arab Jews in Bethlehem.
«Not anymore, due to the political situation and what is really happening. I would love to tell you a little about the city of Bethlehem. It is a religious city because Jesus was born here, and here in Bethlehem, we have a very, very famous biblical site called the Church of the Nativity, among many other sites, but the Church of the Nativity is one of the most famous because it contains the birthplace of Jesus. Inside, we have the site of the manger.
«And since we have all these biblical sites in the city of Bethlehem, we used to receive many pilgrimages from all over the world interested in visiting it, which means that more than 85 percent of the city’s income comes from tourism.
«So if tourists come to the city, people keep living, earn some money, and move forward, but if they don’t come, it means that no one will have the opportunity to keep living or to earn money.
«There are many hotels here, many restaurants, many souvenir shops, and many factories that produce gifts for all the tourists from around the world.
«But these days, we are living through the hardest times for us, the people of the city of Bethlehem, because there have been no tourists since October 7. No one has come here because everyone is afraid of what is happening around us.
«However, the city of Bethlehem is one of the safest cities in the world. We pray for peace, we pray for justice so that this war ends.
«I believe this is a big political game where religion is used to make more money and control the entire country. But what can we do? We can only pray and hope that this war ends and that we have the chance to receive tourists again in the city of Bethlehem.
«And not even just because of the war—already before it started, we were also suffering.
«Why? Because we, as Palestinians in the city of Bethlehem, Christians and Muslims, do not have the right to receive tourists through our own airport because we do not have an airport.
«More than 99 percent of tourists arrive through Israel, and this is one of the biggest problems we face. Most tourists spend their time on the Israeli side, which is fine for us, but we would love for them to also stay at least half of their time on this side, the Palestinian side, so that they can spend some money here, not just there. When I talk about hotels, there are many families who depend on them, many workers who live thanks to the hotels, laundries, food, cleaning…
«Many people work in the hotels, and we really have very good hotels here in the city, even five-star hotels.
«But as I told you, most tourists stay on the other side and spend their money there. We would love to ask them to also stay in Bethlehem for at least half of their time.
«You know, life is not just about money, but everything is connected. And, of course, money is important so that everyone can keep living in this world.»**
Mike cannot leave for Jerusalem because he currently does not have the necessary permit. I ask him what the requirements are to obtain the permit, but then his phone rings. He apologizes and tells me he has to step out for a moment. «Just ten minutes,» he assures me. He asks me to sit in a chair on the street so that I can try to sell something if a tourist passes by—I don’t know if he’s serious or joking. He leaves me waiting for almost an hour, but I don’t mind. I play with the children of a neighboring shopkeeper who take a picture of me as if I were the owner of the store. Other shopkeepers who pass by look at me strangely for a second but then immediately smile. No one asks me what I am doing there. I start fantasizing about being the owner of the business. Mike is a very well-known and beloved figure in the neighborhood.
When he returns, he apologizes again and, with the same calmness with which he does everything, sits down next to me on a step, leaving me the privilege of remaining seated in the owner’s chair. I turn the recorder back on and ask him about the permit to leave the city. He continues speaking to his listeners:
**»As I told you, the city of Bethlehem is under Palestinian control, and everyone who lives here cannot go to the Israeli side. When I say ‘Israeli side,’ I mean, for example, the city of Jerusalem, which is under Israeli control.
«And now, these days, there is a border. There is a wall between the Palestinian and Israeli borders. Everyone who lives in the city of Bethlehem cannot go to the city of Jerusalem or the Israeli side unless they have an Israeli permit.
«There are many different ways to obtain a permit to cross to the other side. The easiest way is to get a permit for work reasons. And if you want to get that type of permit, you must be over 25 years old, be married, and provide proof that you are going to work for a construction company. Then, if your political profile is clean, they will give you the permit, but it costs 2,500 shekels a month, which is equivalent to 800 U.S. dollars per month for that type of permit. And if you are lucky enough to obtain that permit, there are specific times in which you must enter and leave the same day. You cannot sleep there. You also cannot drive your own car there. You can only use Israeli public transportation.
«This is one of the easiest ways to obtain a permit to cross to the other side. And yes, nowadays there are many families who are separated from each other. They cannot visit each other because of the wall. That wall was built in 2002 around the entire West Bank. Yes, and it is 12 meters high, taller than the Berlin Wall. Yes, that’s all.»**
He looks at me with deep sadness. I ask him if he doesn’t want to continue the interview, if he doesn’t want to add anything else.
«Better not,» he answers, lowering his head and staring at the ground.
HEBRON, a quarter of a million inhabitants, half as many as 20 years ago. Third day of Ramadan.
In Bethlehem, I take a shared seven-seat taxi to travel to Hebron for 11 shekels, about three dollars. Buses and bread are the only affordable things in occupied Palestine, where despite the poverty, everything usually costs the same as in an expensive Western city.
The various GPS platforms do not mark the roads we are about to travel on. Google Maps only shows me a route to get there on foot in eight and a half hours. To depart, we have to wait until all seven seats are filled, which happens in less than ten minutes. The yellow taxis have green license plates.
As we leave Bethlehem, the driver makes sure that all passengers fasten their seatbelts. Any excuse is enough to get into trouble with Israeli soldiers at the usual improvised or regular «checkpoints.» Two of the passengers are a child with a green mouth, screaming in agony. I assume they are traveling to Hebron to see a dentist or another doctor. No one complains.
Halfway through, we see an illegal settlement very close to the road, and at an intersection, in Palestinian territory, Israeli flags are waving. To the right, at a bus stop, a dozen settlers with long guns wait for a bus. Our driver seems to get nervous. He appears to curse under his breath. The traffic light is green, but we cannot move forward because two soldiers signal us by moving their rifles. They inspect the vehicle, looking for any excuse to send us back or simply to harass us. One of them points at a taxi light. Our driver fiddles with the light controls until he finds a setting that pleases the soldiers. We continue on our way.
The road we are traveling on still does not appear on Maps. I have a headache because the child has not stopped screaming since we left Bethlehem. His mother rocks him and tries to soothe him with affectionate tongue clicks and words that sound loving. The driver also tries to calm him down, but without being harsh.
We cross the random checkpoints along the route without problems. Where there are no walls, we can see terraced olive groves, with vineyard corners in some of them. Under the bare vines, flocks of sheep graze.
From elevated spots, the new illegal settlements are visible, beginning at the highest points of the hills and mountains and gradually descending until they start surrounding themselves with crude stone walls—before the Israeli government erects the official barriers.
In Hebron, looking for a place to stay the night, I find a hostel that has the charm of a squatter house, currently hosting Palestinian, American, and Canadian activists, but welcoming pro-Palestinian volunteers from all over the world. Several of the foreigners have been arrested; they recount horror stories of their encounters with Israelis and express a passionate love for the Palestinian people. Some of them have converted to Islam or are in the process.
Also staying at the hostel is a man from Jerusalem, Aboo Osama, whom everyone calls Abusama. He arrived in Hebron seven months ago for a short job and now cannot return to his family.
The friend who brought me to the hostel, Adel, a Palestinian born in Hebron, guided me through the old city to show me how settlers had taken over streets in the heart of the historic district. Palestinian merchants have had to install iron fences covering some streets because settlers throw stones and garbage at them from the windows of occupied houses.
Adel shows me where, behind a wall topped with barbed wire, Israel has built a school on top of a Palestinian one, and the padlocks that soldiers place on the doors of adjacent shops so that native merchants cannot open them.
Palestinians must endure the torment of passing through checkpoints just to go pray at the mosque or even to return home after going to the market.
«Yes, as I told you, it is one of Israel’s policies to keep Palestinians in constant struggle, to put us in an increasingly difficult situation. We are worse off economically and endure daily abuses from soldiers and settlers. They want us to leave and take everything for themselves,» Abdel laments.
Aboo cooked for the guests at Friend Hostel, where everyone feels like part of a family, a delicious maqduba to break the day’s fast. It was as tasty as the rice with chicken and red peppers my mother used to make—but with cauliflower instead of peppers.
After a wonderful shared Palestinian dinner, the electricity goes out in all of Hebron. Explosions begin to be heard, and military helicopters fly over the city.
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