Nine humbling days inside Nativity

Although the Israeli soldiers surrounded the church, the siege was not airtight. Supporters brought the Palestinians food. The Palestinians slipped out to steal blankets. They made scores of calls on their cell-phones 8212; at least one to the Israelis troops outside.

We had run in, our hands up, through the low, wooden entrance. It is called the Door of Humility. Some say humility is what it teaches as you stoop to enter. 8216;8216;Thank you! Thank you!8217;8217; the Palestinians said. Many shook hands.

Blankets were spread on the floor. In the left arm, slept the older men. In the right arm was a man who had been shot, and around him were the leaders, including Abdallah Daud Kader, head of the Palestinian intelligence service in Bethlehem, and Ibrahim Abeiyat, the Bethlehem commander of the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, a militia that has taken responsibility for suicide bombings and is affiliated with Fatah movement.

The church smelled of burning candle wax and the fried leaves from trees in the backyard. The blackened leaves had the scent of burned popcorn. Those leaves and weed soup had been the staples until we arrived.

They gave us blankets and showed us where to sleep: in the grotto under the floor of the front center of the sanctuary, not 15 feet from where Christians believe Jesus was born. The birthplace is marked by a star.

Our meal had been thin soup, hastily prepared with rice brought by the Solidarity members. Morning came with a surprise. I awoke to priests in vestments singing their liturgies, a cappella, at a small altar in the grotto. At one point, they turned to face the Solidarity members and me. The priests seemed to be praying for our safety.

When the Palestinians prayed, they faced the right wall of the church, toward Mecca. The Palestinians said they had promised the Christian clergy in the church compound that they would not shoot out of the church. I never saw a Palestinian in the church fire his weapon.

At 2 pm, a chubby Palestinian cook, named Abu Ibrahim, had lunch ready, made with more of the rice and lentils brought by Solidarity. He was a good chef, positioned on the raised altar floor in the main sanctuary. He apologised for making it his kitchen, but he said this was the only safe place to cook.

His colleagues called him 8216;8216;big chief8217;8217; 8212; mispronouncing chef every time. They loved his cooking. The best thing about it, they said, was that he could make something out of nothing.

The leaders, who speculated that they might be deported to Italy when the siege ended, wanted to take their 8216;8216;big chief8217;8217; along so he could learn to cook spaghetti and teach their wives, if and when they ever returned.

Last Saturday, my third day in the church, a single shot brought down Khalaf Najezeh, 40, a member of the Palestinian security force. He was hit in the chest by a small-calibre bullet. On a cell-phone, one of the Palestinians called the Israelis and told them what had happened. They arrived at the door in about half an hour and took Najezeh to a hospital in a jeep. He died before he got there.

On Saturday, word spread in the church that negotiations to end the siege were almost complete. 8216;8216;Big chief8217;8217; was singing. Food was running low, and by Monday we were eating fried leaves and weed soup again. Negotiations were dragging. On Tuesday, the mother and a sister of Abeiyat, the commander of the Al Aqsa Martyrs, sneaked some food through a hole in a door behind the church. Negotiations sputtered through Wednesday, my seventh day inside the church.

On Thursday, one of the Palestinians, an old man, watched. My clothing was dishevelled. 8216;8216;Wait,8217;8217; he said. He returned with a clean, long-sleeved cotton shirt and a pair of women8217;s panties. It seemed crazy. Where had he gotten them? I8217;ll never know. They were a perfect fit.

At midday, we had a large meal. Should the negotiations succeed, the Palestinians wanted to be full so they would not be tempted to dignify the Israelis by eating the food they were likely to place, once more, on the table outside.

Before dawn on Friday, my ninth day inside, word swept through the sanctuary that an agreement had been reached to end the siege. A little after 6 am, the end came and one by one, the 13 Palestinians whom Israel was sending into exile lined up inside the Door of Humility.

The Israelis brought me to a small prison, where the American consul arrived and spoke on my behalf. The Israelis released me. LATWP