My Faith Between the Wall and the Cross: How I Live My Christianity as a Palestinian Woman in a World that Claims to Be Christian
August 5, 2026
I was not the one who chose to be born in Palestine, nor to be a Christian. This gift was not the fruit of a decision, but a grace poured into my being from the very first moment. I was born in a land the world calls the “Holy Land,” but to me, it is not merely the stage of an ancient Gospel—it is an open wound where the Gospel still lives every day.
To be a Palestinian Christian means to live faith not as a preserved doctrine but as a daily experience of the cross. In this land that witnessed the resurrection, we continue to live the Passion— as though Good Friday has not yet ended. We know all too well what it means for the innocent to be crucified, for the oppressed to be condemned, and for the oppressor to be forgiven because “he does not know what he is doing.”
I grew up in a simple family, wavering between faithfulness and shortcomings in belief. Yet something within me was always searching for the face of Christ. I read the Bible more than once and memorized its words that tell of God incarnate in weakness and mercy. Then I drifted away from the church for a while—like the prodigal son leaving home—until I heard that strange, deep call in my heart, summoning me back: to the altar, to the sacrifice, to prayer. Since then, I have lived my relationship with Christ not as a religious duty but as an ongoing dialogue with the One who understands the wounds of the land and of humankind.
But this faith does not live in a vacuum. When we moved to Bethlehem, the first thing I saw was an Israeli tank blocking the road to the city where Christ was born. What a contradiction: Bethlehem, the City of Peace, welcoming me with a tank instead of a star! I grew up to the sound of gunfire instead of church bells, with fear inhabiting childhood instead of innocence. During the Second Intifada, I realized that the occupation does not only steal the land—it tries to steal faith itself. It seeks to make us doubt divine justice, to plant despair where there should be hope.
Yet each time, I returned to the Gospel and found that the Christ who was crucified here does not belong to any occupation or power. He is the resisting Christ, who drove the merchants from the Temple and faced the empire with the word of truth. This Christ cannot stand with the oppressor, nor can He be used to justify bloodshed.
And here begins the painful question: Where is the Christian world in all of this? Where are the Western churches that preach love yet remain silent before killing? Has Christ become the property of the West? Has He turned into a national god worshiped within the borders of modern empires? How shocking it is to see churches justifying occupation—an insult to the conscience of the faithful! How can those who raise the cross turn away from a people being crucified every day?
I often reflect on this contradiction. The Christ we know here in Palestine is the Christ who suffers with us—who shares our hunger, fear, and tears; who is crucified with us on the wall, buried beneath the rubble, and rises again in every child who survives, in every stone rebuilt, in every mother who prays amid the ruins. The political Christ of the West, by contrast, is emptied of meaning— decorated with slogans, used to justify power instead of serving the weak.
To live my Christianity here, under occupation, is to resist the idea of a partial God and to cling to the God who became human in Bethlehem to lift up all humanity. It is to believe that the resurrection is not a past event but a continuing promise—that the wall will fall as the stone rolled away from the tomb, and that justice will rise as Christ rose from the dead.
Yes, we Palestinians carry the cross twice: the cross of faith and the cross of identity. Yet we carry it with hope, because we know the cross is not the end of the story but the path to resurrection. And in the face of silent churches, we will remain the voice of the land where God once spoke a word of love that has not been extinguished: “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.”
This piece was originally published in the Vanguard Journal of Theology and Ministry, Volume 4 (2026), No. 1, pp. 64-66.
About the Author: Shatha Bannoura is a Palestinian Christian who holds a master’s degree in International Relations, a Diploma in Community Trekking Tour Guiding from Bethlehem University, and is currently completing a master’s in Public Theology at Bethlehem Bible College. She also serves on the board of Sabeel, a center for Palestinian liberation theology, and the Palestine Society for Environment and Sustainable Development, where she promotes eco-tourism and environmental protection. Her experience working with Palestinian refugees further strengthens her commitment to sharing the authentic realities of the land. As a determined Palestinian woman, Shatha carries the spirit of perseverance. She climbs mountains—both literal and symbolic—to see the world from a higher perspective, and she invites others to climb with her. Through guiding, community work, and scholars hip, she connects people to the land with sincerity and passion, making her a unique voice in sustainable tourism, social justice, and agroecology in Palestine.