Christmas Tale: the Two-State Solution and the Star of Hope

It is said that one night, when the sands once crossed by the Magi seemed weary of having witnessed so many footsteps passing without ever meeting, a new star began to shine brighter than all the others. Those who were most attentive lifted their heads and sighed as they searched the sky, sensing that something new and mysterious, born of the Great Unknown, was making itself known.

The star did not appear over an untouched land. It shone above a Middle East scarred by walls, checkpoints, ruins, conflicting prayers, and thousands of dead, widows, and orphans.

At the same moment, in a narrow street of Bethlehem, a family was setting up a small nativity scene in front of their home. Nothing elaborate: burlap salvaged from a rice sack, a few battered plastic figurines, a baby Jesus wrapped in yellowed cloth, sheep without shepherds, and a Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph with faded colors. A boy asked his father:

— Dad, why do we still make a nativity scene here?

The father answered simply:

— Because we are still here, my son.

That night, the child saw the new star. It seemed to move slowly, as if waiting for someone to follow it. Far away, a shepherd from the Judean desert was bringing his flock home before nightfall. He had had bad encounters and had heard too many gunshots in recent days. He too looked up. And elsewhere— in Baghdad, Gaza, Amman, East Jerusalem — men and women felt the same unease mixed with a strange calling: not to remain still, to hope against all hope.

So they all set out. There were shepherds who entrusted their flocks to others; a schoolteacher who wanted to understand why “the future had packed its bags”; a cobbler from Nazareth whose shop survived mostly on repairs, because no one bought anything new anymore; two brothers separated by a wall but speaking by phone; a shepherd who knew the roads without signs; a bishop; cobblers with hands still full of leather, glue, and dust, telling themselves that tired feet would soon need good sandals; anxious adults carrying questions heavier than their luggage.

They met at roadblocks, on overcrowded buses, in waiting rooms. They did not always speak the same language, but they shared the same silence.

Along the way, they encountered unexpected figures. They met three wise men who had seen it all. They did not share the same language, the same prayer, or the same clothing. But they were all staring at the same star.

A few miles away, in air-conditioned buildings behind reinforced doors, they saw political leaders surrounded by guards and speeches. They were searching for a solution to a riddle dating back to the first Flood.

— What are you looking for? the children asked.

— The two-state solution, the leaders replied.

Then an elderly man dressed in white, bearing a name from the thirteenth century, stepped forward. At his side walked a sage from Al-Azhar. They spoke to each other through understood silences. At last, they all arrived at a very simple place. Not a fortress. Not a citadel. A damaged church in southern Lebanon. A family was living there. They saw a newborn girl whom her parents had affectionately named Hope.

The shepherds shared milk and honey. Someone offered olives. The generals and heads of state, for once, fell silent. Coffee was served. Words were exchanged in clusters. The travelers then understood that God is often found where no one thought to look. A journalist covered the event, and a filmmaker took an interest in the story.

As for the star, it split into billions of small lights, one for each person setting a wrong right. And the world, slowly, learned to walk again, like a child taking its first steps.