“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.”- Book of Matthew 5:6
It was spring in the Holy Land, when the hills of Judea were clothed with the scents of flowers, and the ancient stones of Jerusalem whispered the names of ancestral prophets to the wind. Among the sighs of time, a young Galileo mounted on a donkey descended the dusty roads of the Mount of Olives. He carried neither sword nor crown of gold, but a voice that disarmed empires and hands that healed without asking for anything in return.
“Hosanna!” they shouted from the crowd, spreading branches of palm, wearing their humble robes to the passage of Jesus of Nazareth. They did not know that this echo would be joined by millions of voices centuries later, in churches from Bethlehem, in the present-day Occupied West Bank, to San Salvador, my native land. On that day, the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, was born not only a Christian symbol, but also a feeling rooted in the earth itself: Palestine, soil of the divine and human.
Today, two thousand years later, the stones are still there. But the roads are divided by walls, the olive trees mutilated by the machinery of occupation, and the children of that land, Christians and Muslims, walk among ruins with the dignity of those who have inherited the cross without seeking it. The transition of Usbu al-Alam1 to Passover in Palestine is no longer just a sacred memory, it is also a testimony of resistance because the passing of the processions between militarized streets, prayers in churches surrounded by soldiers, Remember that faith that blossoms with the season for that justice that has not yet arrived.
Yet, despite the pain, spring arrives. As if the soul of the earth did not give up, almond trees dare to bloom on the roadsides, poppies sprout in wounded valleys and lemon trees spread their fragrance as an act of silent resistance. It is a spring that does not ignore the bad taste of conflict, but embraces it with the stubbornness to understand that in small things there are also hints of joy. In Palestine, spring is also a melting pot of feelings, dreams and yearnings.
¡And that’s when the Passover comes! The time where the silence of Golgotha is transformed into song. Where death is replaced by hope. It is the invisible crossing between the solemnity of Holy Week and the promise of the Resurrection. In other places, families gather around tables full of people, hide painted eggs in the gardens, and children laugh as they follow the famous Easter bunny among bushes and flowers.
There are no open gardens in Palestine, but small courtyards with fertile land. There are no chocolate piglets in supermarkets for this Christian minority, but there are parents who, with what little they have, paint colored eggs and hide them in cracked pots, just to make the little ones smile. That Easter bunny who in other lands brings sweets, here brings symbols: a caress in the midst of pain, a game in the midst of mourning, a sigh of childhood in a territory that has so often wanted to take it away.
In Gaza, where flowers barely manage to sprout from the rubble, Easter becomes a whisper of illusion. Some time ago there were mothers who would bake ma’amoul2, but now the few remaining Christians celebrate the Resurrection without electricity.
The world celebrates Easter without remembering that the Word became flesh in a Semitic language, in humble villages, among grandmothers who weaved dreams in sheep’s wool. The West has sung hallelujahs, has lit its candles, has covered the altars with expensive linens, processions have passed through avenues with dozens of saints, statues in gold-embroidered costumes, opulence, incense and canticles. But few remember, or prefer not to remember, that where it all began, there has been an abysmal silence, a faint song, a tear for every empty chair in the middle of a mass.
However, no matter how much discomfort my speech may cause, I cling to my roots and narrative: Jesus was Palestinian. Not for ideology, but for geography, culture and blood. He spoke Aramaic among the olive trees of Galilee, walked along the paths and cities that are still there today, but today they are not besieged under the Roman yoke, but under that of the wall, the checkpoint, the occupation.
In the middle of 2025, another Easter is living.
Instead of sweet melodies, sirens have sounded, more than any ear would listen and the Christian Palestinians, direct heirs of that incarnate faith, celebrate under surveillance, with temporary permits, surrounded by soldiers and tanks, after electrified fences, Suffering evictions, surviving bombings. Golgota is no longer a distant hill, it is every demolished neighborhood, every crying family, every church empty of pilgrims.
And meanwhile, in cathedrals of the world, the Resurrection is sung without remembering the daily cross of those who still live where their faith one day began. How to celebrate Christ without looking at his homeland? How to transmit his message without listening to his people?
Christianity was not born in Rome, Paris or Seville: it was born in Palestine, among peasants, fishermen and weavers of hope. The first hallelujah sprang from an empty tomb in Jerusalem, not from European marble. Nevertheless, there have been many who have bleached the brown face of Jesus, silenced the accent of his parables, and turned their eyes away from the suffering of the Holy Land.
That is why I give myself the task of bearing in my heart those words which al-Masih3 wrote in John 13:34:
“A new commandment I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, love each other.”
Although I am not a practitioner or believer in any religion, I consider that being from a Palestinian Christian family, Christianity is not only a theological heritage but also a cultural legacy, human and geographical that springs from the wounded soul of a people still crucified. And it is the duty of those who see in Christianity the source of all virtue to show the least empathy, since all lives are equally valuable.
Easter, then, can not be only liturgical memory, it must be a denunciation, a call to remember that the land of Jesus continues to bleed, and that his people, the Palestinian Christians, who every day there are fewer, are living witnesses of a faith that does not give up, but it is consolidated and becomes stronger.
And so, in the shadows of occupation and lights of resurrection, Palestine sings:
“Hosanna in the heights4“, because even in pain, love has not been defeated.
And because as long as a poppy blooms, as long as a child hides a painted egg behind a broken pot, as long as there is spring in Palestine, there will also be hope.
- Arabic translation of Easter ↩︎
- Sweet filling of dates and nuts, representing the crown of thorns that Jesus wore on his head. ↩︎
- Arabic translation of “Messiah”. ↩︎
- Referring to the passage from the Book of Matthew 21:9, when Jesus entered triumphantly into Jerusalem. ↩︎
Moisés Saca,
Defender of a story, heir to a cause.
Malaga, Spain.
