For the first time in my life, I am experiencing Jerusalem in a way I never have before. Even during the pandemic, it was not like this. Today, there is fear. Restrictions limit gatherings, churches, including the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, are either closed or open only to a very limited number of people. Checkpoints surround the city, and often only residents of Jerusalem are allowed to enter. The celebrations that once filled the streets are now confined within walls.

On Holy Saturday, as we stood in church, our phones suddenly sounded with missile sirens. It is a sound that freezes the heart. And yet, no one moved, no one ran. We continued the prayer, we continued the Mass. In that moment, faith was stronger than fear.

This has become our life, sirens interrupting the ordinary, uncertainty in every direction. Missiles do not choose a place or a time, and still, people pray, holding on to God’s protection.

At home, we tried to keep the spirit of the feast alive. We gathered as a family, shared a festive meal, laughed together, and held on to joy in the simplest ways. Usually, after celebrating Easter at the church, we , as an extended family, go for a picnic in the beautiful forests of Jerusalem, enjoying the freshness of spring and the blessing of being together. But this year, for the first time, we stayed home. The fear was present, the discomfort undeniable.

And yet, life continues around us in different ways. In Tel Aviv, people gather by the sea, trying to hold on to normal life. In Bethlehem, celebrations continue with fewer restrictions. But in Jerusalem, it feels different, more restricted, more tense, especially around the Christian holy places.

And still, spring comes. It does not wait for war to end. Flowers bloom, the air softens, and something deep within us refuses to surrender.

Because at the heart of Easter is not only celebration, but a message.

The empty tomb was not completely empty. Inside, there was the shroud, and the folded cloth. In a place that should have been filled with chaos, fear, and haste, there was order, calm, and peace. Whoever left it that way had time, intention, and peace. This was not the scene of a stolen body, not something done in panic or in a rush. If the body had been taken, everything would have been carried away quickly, without care. But what remained spoke of something else entirely.

It spoke of resurrection.
It spoke of a presence that passed through death, not in confusion, but in peace.

In Jerusalem, even now, this truth remains. The streets may be quieter, the celebrations more limited, and fear may linger in the air, but the message of the tomb is unchanged.

And as we hear people congratulating one another, we proclaim with one voice, Christ is risen, and the answer echoes back with unwavering certainty, indeed He is risen, and we are witnesses to that truth.

It does not matter how we celebrate Easter, it does not matter where we stand in the world, across borders, fears, or circumstances, we remain one body in Christ, bound not by place, but by faith.

And we are not only believers of a story told, we are living witnesses to the glorious, victorious resurrection of Christ.