Five hundred yards from where Jesus was born in Bethlehem sits the Holy Family Hospital. It was known as a rescuer of orphans who, by all accounts, should have been killed if their parents had listened to their culture.
This was where my life began.
Many are fascinated by the fact I was born in Bethlehem. When I was young, they asked, predictably, “was it in a manger?” A couple years ago, I found out the answer was yes. They called the area where the babies were kept, the crèche, or manger. Today, it’s a full maternity hospital, but when I was born, the crèche was a place for abandoned children. One story said:
“The ‘La Crèche,’ as the orphanage is called, is committed to the care of children, most of whom are illegitimate and rejected by Palestinian families, ‘ashamed’ of a daughter’s pregnancy out of wedlock.”
I’ve have had brief email correspondence with Sister Sophie, the nun in charge who told me I was “placed in the crèche.” Otherwise, I was met with stunning replies from government offices in Jordan, where my adoption was processed. One wrote an official letter, saying if my birth were discovered, even now, “great harm” would come to my mother. The tone was so matter of fact, that I believed it.