Share the Journey — ‘I met Jesus in Bethlehem,’ sort of

My journey to Catholic Charities started in the West Bank. Specifically, Bethlehem on Christmas Eve in 2018, where I met a four-year-old refugee named Jesus.

Actually, the little boy’s name was Fadi. But Fadi translates to “Savior” in Arabic, so I’m going with that because “I met Jesus in Bethlehem on Christmas Eve” makes for a much better story.

I had gone to Jerusalem for a two-month consulting gig with a foreign affairs publication called the “Palestine-Israel Journal.” There, I edited articles and wrote about political conferences and events in and around East and West Jerusalem.

Ostensibly, I went to Jerusalem to work. But I really went there to shake myself up, to get uncomfortable. My kids were grown and I had been divorced about four years, so I needed to get out of the life rut.

I chose Jerusalem because I was curious to learn more about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict — something I knew little about (enough to be dangerous) — and thought there was no better way to learn than to see it first-hand. Plus, the thought of living in the West Bank terrified me.

If Jerusalem is the epicenter of Christianity during Holy Week, nearby Bethlehem calls dibs on Christmas. Bethlehem is in the “Occupied Palestinian Territories,” which means visitors must go through an Israeli checkpoint at the Separation Barrier to get there.

After clearing the fortified passage, I checked into Banksy’s “Walled Off Hotel,” which promotes itself as having “the worst view in the world.” 

They don’t exaggerate. The view outside my window was the graffiti-filled Separation Barrier, a guard tower and the Aida refugee camp nestled on the hillside.

I closed the curtain. I was there to celebrate the birth of Jesus, I reminded myself. I made a beeline to Nativity Square and the Church of The Nativity, where I knelt and prayed at the spot of Jesus’ birth.

Still, I couldn’t shake the view from my room. So, with hours to kill before Midnight Mass, I decided to take a private walking tour of the Aida camp. My guide was Mohamed, a Palestinian refugee who had arranged to give tours to hotel guests as a way to make some extra money. 

Aida was as dreary and dirty and absent of hope as one might imagine of a refugee camp. Bullet holes pockmarked the walls.

As Mohamed was sharing the history of the camp, in marched a little boy. He looked to be no more than four. He walked straight up to Mohamed and tugged at his jacket. Startled, Mohamed looked down.

“I’m Fadi,” the boy declared and stuck out his hand. They shook hands like two grown men. 

“Will you tie my shoe?” he asked. 

I noticed Fadi was wearing teal-colored soccer cleats, hand-me-downs at best. He chattered away in Arabic while Mohamed knelt to tie Fadi’s cleat. When he was done, Fadi inspected his work. Satisfied, he took off running down the street to catch up with his friend. 

At that moment, one thought struck me: “kids are kids.” Fadi didn’t care about politics, how desolate the camp was, the color of his cleats, nor what his future held. He wanted someone to tie his shoe so he could play with his friend. That was it. 

Fadi inspired me to learn more about refugee children, what they need and how I could help them live better lives. 

When I moved to Louisville in 2020, one of the first things I did was volunteer with Catholic Charities’ Migration and Refugee Services to pick families up at the airport, set up apartments and drive them to appointments. To do my small part.

The more I volunteered, the more inspired I became to help with the mission of Catholic Charities. So much so, that I’ve chosen to make this my career.

Now, that’s a shake up.

Neal Sullivan is the director of marketing communications for Catholic Charities of Louisville.