Commentary: When freedom rings in Texas, will it reach Bethlehem?

Every Juneteenth, Americans—especially Texans—gather to remember a delayed but powerful declaration of freedom.

On June 19, 1865, Union General Gordon Granger arrived in Galveston and issued General Order No. 3, proclaiming the enslaved people of Texas now were free.

That freedom already had been signed into law two and a half years earlier, but it meant nothing until it was enforced. Until that day, thousands of men, women and children remained in chains—many never living to see the promise fulfilled.

Today, Juneteenth is marked with family cookouts, worship services, parades, music and moments of sacred remembrance. While I’m not Black or Texan, I find myself drawn to the deep, spiritual truth embedded in that day.

I’m from Palestine—the place where our faith was born and took root. And yet, in the very soil of that sacred story, freedom still feels heartbreakingly far away.

Dividing walls

When I was a boy, summer meant running with my siblings and cousins beneath the olive trees at my aunt’s house outside Jerusalem. Those trees were old—older than all of us—planted by hands long gone.

We used to imagine angels swaying in the olive branches, convinced Jesus probably had sat under one, or touched it, or eaten its fruit. But that grove is no longer open to us.

A towering 25-foot cement wall now cuts through it like a scar. Water that once ran freely to my aunt’s garden has been diverted to serve illegal Israeli settlements—populated by new immigrants from Ukraine, the United States and elsewhere—perched on the hilltops above.

The jasmine she once tended now wilts. She sits quietly most afternoons, sipping Arabic coffee in the shade, whispering prayers over dry soil, hoping for a cloud that never comes.

Delaying checkpoints

My friend Sally, a nurse in Ramallah, has to pass through an Israeli military checkpoint every day just to get to work in Jerusalem. She was born there. Her family is buried there. But she needs a special Israeli permit—constantly reviewed and sometimes arbitrarily revoked—just to enter her own city.

On Christmas Eve, a baby arrived at her hospital with a dangerous fever. Sally was stuck at the checkpoint for six hours. A journey that should take less than 30 minutes stretched into agony. By the time she made it through, the baby had developed sepsis. He lived. But his parents—Christians like us—since have left the country. They couldn’t bear the fear anymore.

Stories like Sally’s aren’t rare. And they aren’t told to stir pity. They’re shared in the hope someone will listen and remember.

The Jesus I follow

When Jesus stood up in the synagogue and read the words of the prophet Isaiah—“The Spirit of the Lord … has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives”—he wasn’t speaking from a place of privilege or ease.

He knew what it meant to live under occupation. He saw how power was wielded and misused. He walked roads patrolled by armed soldiers. He sat with people taxed, humiliated and cast aside.

That Jesus—the one who called the poor blessed and set the oppressed free—that’s the Jesus I follow.

A similar weight

Juneteenth, for many, is a celebration of justice finally being carried out. But it’s also a sobering reminder of what happens when justice is denied—or even delayed. For two and a half years, freedom was law but not reality.

Imagine giving birth in slavery after freedom already had been declared. Imagine working someone else’s field while your liberty sat idle on paper.

We Palestinians carry a similar weight.

Since 1948, people like me—Christian, Samaritan, Muslim, atheist alike—have lived under military occupation. Our roads are broken up by checkpoints. Our farmland is taken or burned. Our homes are demolished or stolen. Our dignity is tested at every turn.

We carry ID cards that determine where we can go, whom we can marry, whether we can study, pray, work or receive medical care. Bethlehem is no longer just a Christmas hymn; it’s a city under surveillance.

One with the other

Some of you reading this may not be sure what to make of a “Palestinian Christian.” I get that. Come visit and see. I’ll take you to our Palestinian churches.

You’ll hear hymns and sermons in Arabic. You’ll see children lighting candles in ancient sanctuaries. You’ll taste our bread and wine, sit at our tables and realize we’re still here—living, worshiping and witnessing.

Supporting Israel doesn’t mean turning a blind eye to Palestinian suffering. It’s not betrayal to question policies and actions that strip people of dignity.

Loving the Jewish people—which I do—doesn’t mean silencing the cry of Palestinian mothers pleading for permits so their children can receive cancer treatment. Our lives are not threats. We’re not enemies. We’re neighbors who want to live in peace and feel safe as well.

Freedom for the captive

I’m not writing to accuse anyone. I write because I believe the gospel calls us to see each other as God sees us. Jesus didn’t ask to see permits before healing the sick. He didn’t build walls to keep the hurting out. He broke bread with strangers. He reached out to the marginalized. And he spoke truth to power—even when it cost him everything.

That’s what makes Juneteenth so sacred. It’s not just a historical milestone; it’s a theological one. It echoes through time: God does not forget the captive. And when people of faith act—even when it’s late—the chains fall.

So, this Juneteenth, as you lift your voices in worship and remember your ancestors’ long walk to freedom, remember also the people of Bethlehem, Ramallah, Jerusalem and Gaza. Remember the children born behind walls and under siege, the fathers praying for safety, the grandmothers watering dry soil with tears.

Christian solidarity

Let this be more than a holiday. Let it be a prayer. A reckoning. A commitment.

Pray for us. Tell our story. Invite a Palestinian Christian to speak at your church. Support ministries that bring healing and love to everyone—Israeli and Palestinian. Write your elected officials and ask them to uphold justice and dignity for all.

And when you sing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” next Christmas, don’t just picture a star and a manger. Think of a living town, full of real people, still longing to breathe free.

We’re still here. Still believing. Still holding on. And we wait for the day when we, too, will mark our own Juneteenth—a day when no one needs a permit to pray, when water flows where it’s needed, and when children run freely through olive groves their ancestors planted in hope.

Until that day comes, we ask only this: Remember us, love us and stand with us, as your forebears once stood for freedom.

Jack Nassar is a Palestinian Christian based in Ramallah, Palestine. He holds a Master of Arts degree in political communications from Goldsmiths, University of London, and brings professional expertise across multiple sectors, driving positive change. He can be reached at: jacknassar@aol.com. The views expressed in this opinion article are those of the author.