Bethlehem, Star Street: among the light-colored stone buildings lining the road to the Church of the Nativity, there is one that holds the childhood memories of many city residents.
The city of Bethlehem feels bare during these cold December days: there are no shimmering lights in the streets, no Christmas tree bringing festive cheer to the Basilica Square. While there is no open war in Bethlehem—no bombs raining down daily on rooftops—the war is palpable everywhere: in the deserted streets, the closed shutters of shops, and the checkpoints that unpredictably open and close, making it nearly impossible to organize daily life or movements freely.
"Today in Bethlehem, tension is high; we feel even more isolated from the rest of the world, and tourism has stopped," says David Tabbash, a Bethlehem native deeply connected to his city and its childhood landmarks. "The lack of pilgrims also means a lack of work because most of the people in Bethlehem are employed in souvenir shops, hotels, and restaurants, which are now empty."
David himself, who used to work in a souvenir shop, has lost his job. He has a wife and four children and a story deeply intertwined with the city of Christmas. "Our city is beautiful, just like our country," he says, his words filled with emotion. "I feel lucky to have been born where Jesus was born." Among the houses lining Star Street, there is one place especially dear to him: the CAB, the Catholic Action Cultural Center of Bethlehem.
Founded by the Franciscan friars in the 1950s, the CAB is the main gathering point for the city’s youth. It is a place where the young people of Bethlehem meet, play, fall in love, and, through their interactions, lay the foundation for a united and peaceful community. "I started going to the CAB when I was seven, playing basketball, and most of my childhood memories are tied to that place. One of the best memories," David recalls with tenderness and nostalgia, "is from the night my friends and I stayed there with sleeping bags during an important basketball tournament. It was an experience filled with laughter and friendship, and I still cherish it today."
David has dark hair and eyes, and his face softens when he talks about his wife, Reem. His gaze drifts to a sweet past, ready to relive and share. "I met Reem at the CAB. I remember it well; it was a Thursday because Thursdays at the CAB were bingo nights. I saw her among some mutual friends and asked one of her friends to see if I could approach her to talk. That’s how it all began. Back then—it was 2002—the Center also had a cinema, and I asked if I could join her and her friends to watch a movie. That evening they were showing Titanic," David says, embarrassed as he recalls that the most clichéd love movie in the world marked their first date. "I sat next to her, but—damn shyness!—I didn’t even talk to her."
As David recounts his stories, the deep connection between the events of his life and the places where they happened becomes evident. It’s as if he believes that without those spaces, without the lighthearted opportunities for connection that the CAB offered, many of the good things in his life might never have happened. "Bethlehem is a very small city," he explains, "and the CAB is its largest and main point of reference. It’s a place where young people learn to socialize, build their personalities, and discover their talents. It’s a safe environment with rules that unite families and offer sports and educational activities, keeping kids off the streets and away from violence."
"Today, my thoughts are conflicted," David admits, his forehead furrowed with worry. "The situation in our city and our country is difficult, both economically and politically. I believe in prayer and that better days will come: I pray for peace, but I fear for the future of our children."
"As a Christian and a minority in the city, sometimes I feel hopeless for them. I see them watching international TV shows, looking at the world through social media, and imagining that life outside Palestine is easier, better, and safer. My fear is losing them, that they will think about emigrating when they grow up."
At this point, David pauses, gathering his thoughts. After a few seconds of silence, he looks up and says resolutely, "But I believe that by improving the CAB and its facilities, we can give them more hope and show them a brighter perspective."
This hope might seem simple, like the claim that renovating an abandoned, partially unsafe building could solve a political and human drama. But for David and the citizens of Bethlehem, it represents something much greater. For the people of Bethlehem, a communal space—a place to gather and laugh amidst the fear of bombs, the anxiety of closed shops, and the uncertainty of tomorrow—is a hope powerful enough to illuminate a different future. "We want to create a new world inside the CAB, where children can fulfill their dreams, make friends, and perhaps meet their future partners, just like I did with my wife." This is why Pro Terra Sancta supports the Center’s renovation.
To give the children of Bethlehem a place for the future, a place of memory and hope for those who were once children there and now wish for the same carefree joy and serenity for their own children.
