In the hills of the occupied West Bank, Taybeh — the last all-Christian Palestinian town, a place tradition holds as the very ground where Jesus once sought refuge — is being slowly unmade. Over the past year, coordinated settler incursions have stripped residents of land, water, livelihood, and safety, while the institutions meant to protect them have largely looked away or arrived too late. What unfolds here is not merely a local crisis but a question that echoes across centuries: whether a community whose roots predate the modern world can endure when the ground beneath it is taken piece by
Settler attacks threaten Taybeh, West Bank's last all-Christian town
Residents live in constant fear; children traumatized and unable to play outdoors; 15 families have emigrated in two years; one woman's arm broken by settler during olive harvest.
What's left for them to take? My children? My house?
Mark
Why has Taybeh been spared for so long, when other Palestinian communities have faced this for years?
Mimi
It's partly geography and partly identity. Taybeh is small, isolated, historically Christian in a region that's become overwhelmingly Muslim. For decades, that isolation protected it. But once settlers began consolidating control of the surrounding hills, Taybeh became visible in a different way—as land to be taken, not as a community to be left alone.
Mark
The military zone declaration seems like it should help. Why doesn't it?
Mimi
Because enforcement depends on who's doing the enforcing. These orders have been used before to keep out international observers and activists trying to protect Palestinians, while settlers continue operating. The residents understand this from experience. A piece of paper doesn't change the balance of power on the ground.
Mark
Roland documented everything—videos, complaints to every authority. Why did that not matter?
Mimi
Documentation matters for the historical record, but it doesn't stop someone from coming back the next day. He was appealing to institutions that either can't or won't enforce the law against settlers. After months of this, he simply stopped trying.
Mark
What does it mean that fifteen families have left in two years?
Mimi
It means the town is beginning to hollow out. Not because people want to leave—they've said repeatedly they won't—but because the conditions are becoming unsustainable. Children can't play outside. Businesses collapse. Access to your own land becomes uncertain. At some point, staying becomes a choice only the most determined can make.
Mark
Is there any scenario where this reverses?
Mimi
Not without a fundamental shift in enforcement. The Israeli government has acknowledged the problem exists and that outposts should be removed. But the political will to actually remove them, against opposition from far-right officials, hasn't materialized. Without that, Taybeh's residents are essentially waiting to see if their town survives.
El Pulso
- A quarry owner who spent two decades and five million dollars building a livelihood watched armed settlers — some barely teenagers — burn his machinery, seize his land, and return the very next day after he filed police complaints with video evidence in hand.
- Seven settler outposts now ring a town of 1,200 people; private farmland is grazed bare, the local spring has been seized, fires have been set near a fifth-century church, and a woman's arm was broken by a settler during the olive harvest.
- When settlers walked into the town centre on a false pretext, the Israeli civil officials who responded did not remove them — they walked alongside them, broke open a family's door, and helped carry out their livestock.
- Israel declared Taybeh a closed military zone after a home invasion, but the order has changed almost nothing: settlers broke into the quarry office the same day it was announced, and the mayor still does not know if he is permitted to enter his own vineyard.
- Brewery revenues have collapsed by eighty percent, fifteen families have emigrated in two years, children cannot play outside, and yet nearly every resident who spoke publicly said leaving was unthinkable — because the town itself is the inheritance they refuse to surrender.
In the hills of the occupied West Bank, Taybeh — the last all-Christian Palestinian town, a place tradition holds as the very ground where Jesus once sought refuge — is being slowly unmade. Over the past year, coordinated settler incursions have stripped residents of land, water, livelihood, and safety, while the institutions meant to protect them have largely looked away or arrived too late. What unfolds here is not merely a local crisis but a question that echoes across centuries: whether a community whose roots predate the modern world can endure when the ground beneath it is taken piece by piece.
Sandra Basir now keeps fire extinguishers beside the painting of Jesus and his disciples in her home. She and her husband Roland placed them there after settlers set a car ablaze outside their house and no one came — the civil defence arrived only after everything had burned. The couple, who once felt safe enough to raise four children in Taybeh, now sleeps in shifts, listening for intruders.
Roland spent more than two decades building a stone quarry and concrete-block factory on the edge of town, investing roughly five million dollars and employing forty local Palestinians. In the past three years it has been methodically dismantled. Settlers chased his workers away at gunpoint, set his heavy machinery on fire, and in March stormed the site in a coordinated assault — raising flags, performing prayers, smashing his office, and tearing cameras from the walls. He documented everything and filed complaints with every institution he could reach. The settlers returned the next day, and have kept returning. This past week, he abandoned the quarry entirely.
Taybeh is extraordinary: the last Palestinian town in the West Bank whose entire population is Christian, roughly 1,200 people living among centuries-old churches and the ruins of the fifth-century Church of St George. Traditionally identified with biblical Ephraim — where Jesus withdrew before his final journey to Jerusalem — the town survived the second Intifada, the Arab Spring, and every war on Gaza untouched. Madees Khoury, who runs the brewery her family founded in 1994, never imagined it would change. Now it has.
Seven settler outposts surround the town, with several sitting directly on its municipal land. Settlers graze livestock on private agricultural fields, fires have been set near the church and its cemetery, and armed settlers recently prevented firetrucks from reaching burning farmland. Sandra's mother had her arm broken by a settler during last year's olive harvest. The town's water spring — which supplies the brewery and surrounding communities — has been seized by settlers. When Madees called Israeli authorities to remove settlers who had walked into the town centre on a false pretext, the officials who arrived instead helped the settlers break open her family's property and carry out their horse.
The mayor has watched a settler take over his own vineyard over the past month: the locks were cut, sheep were brought in, a tent was pitched by the well and furnished with sofas, and the settler bathed in water meant for the vines. The army removed the tent, but settlers return daily. After a home invasion on August 5, Israel declared Taybeh a closed military zone — but the day the order was announced, settlers broke into Roland's quarry office and smashed everything inside. When he tried to return the next morning and called police, they arrived two and a half hours later, after the settlers had gone.
Fifteen families have left in two years, and dozens more have departed alone, mostly to the United States and Europe. The brewery's revenues are down eighty percent. And yet almost no one described leaving as a real option. Father Bashar Fawadleh put it plainly: this land is ours, and we resist by staying rooted in it. The mayor was starker still — his community has been in Taybeh since Christ walked upon it, and even in death they will remain, because it is holy ground.
Sandra Basir keeps fire extinguishers by the painting of Jesus and his disciples in her home now. She and her husband Roland keep them there because the last time settlers set a car on fire outside their house, no one came to help. The civil defence arrived only after everything had already burned. This is life in Taybeh, a Palestinian Christian town in the occupied West Bank, where a couple who once felt safe enough to raise four small children now sleeps in shifts, listening for intruders.
Roland built his stone quarry and concrete-block factory on the edge of town over more than two decades, investing roughly five million dollars and employing forty local Palestinians. In the past three years, that life's work has been methodically dismantled. Settlers—some armed adults, some barely teenagers—chased his workers away at gunpoint. They set his heavy machinery on fire. In March, between thirty and forty settlers stormed the quarry in a coordinated assault, raising Israeli flags over the grounds and performing prayers on the land before smashing his office, destroying electrical panels, and ripping cameras from the walls. Roland documented everything on video and filed complaints with the liaison office, the police, and every institution he could reach. The settlers returned the next day. They have kept returning ever since. This past week, he abandoned the quarry entirely. "They've taken the quarry, taken the factory, taken the land," he said. "What's left for them to take? My children? My house?"
Taybeh itself is extraordinary—the last Palestinian town in the West Bank whose entire population is Christian, roughly 1,200 people living among centuries-old churches and the ruins of the fifth-century Church of St George, one of the oldest Christian sites in the Holy Land. The town is traditionally identified with biblical Ephraim, the place Jesus withdrew to before his final journey to Jerusalem. For decades, through the second Intifada, the Arab Spring, and every war on Gaza, Taybeh remained untouched. Madees Khoury, who runs the Taybeh Brewery her family founded in 1994, never imagined trouble would come. "Taybeh was always safe, untouched—never, never, never did I imagine it would come to this," she said.
But the attacks began last year. Israeli settlers, after driving Bedouin and herding communities from areas to the east, turned their attention to the hills around Taybeh itself. The mayor estimates roughly seven settler outposts now surround the town, with four or five sitting directly on Taybeh's municipal land. The violence mirrors what has been happening across rural Palestinian communities for years. Settlers graze cattle, sheep, and camels on private agricultural land. Last year, Christian leaders say fires were deliberately set near the church and its cemetery. A couple of months ago, armed settlers set large fires along the village's farmlands and prevented firetrucks from reaching them. Sandra's mother had her arm broken by a settler during last year's olive harvest.
The town's water supply has been seized. Ein Samiya spring, which supplies all the water to Taybeh Brewery and other Palestinian communities in the area, is now controlled by settlers. In February, a group of settlers walked into the centre of town claiming to search for a horse that didn't exist. When Madees and her family called Israel's Civil Administration to have them removed, the officials who arrived instead walked in alongside the settlers, broke open the door to her father and uncle's property, and helped carry out their actual horse and its foal. "Instead of removing them," Madees said, "the officials who came walked alongside the settlers onto my father and uncle's private property, took the horse and the foal, and walked out."
The newest outpost was established just last week on the western edge of town. Mayor Suleiman Khourieh has watched a settler take over his own vineyard and its well over the past month, following the establishment of a nearby outpost. The settler cut his locks, brought sheep to graze, pitched a tent by the well and furnished it with sofas, and bathed in the water meant for his vines. The army eventually removed the tent, but the settlers still return daily to water their flock from his well. "We still don't know whether I'm even allowed to go to my own vineyard or not," the mayor said.
On August 9, after an invasion of a Taybeh family's home on August 5, the Israeli army declared Taybeh and the neighbouring village of Rammun a closed military zone. The order bars entry to Israelis and foreigners without a specific connection to the village, but almost no one in Taybeh believes it will actually keep settlers out. Such orders have been issued before in cases where settlers were attacking Palestinians, only to be enforced selectively against activists attempting to offer protective presence while doing little to remove the violent settlers themselves. The day the military zone closure was announced, settlers broke into Roland's office at the quarry and smashed everything inside. When he tried to return the next morning, settlers confronted him again. He called the police; two and a half hours later they arrived, but the settlers had already left. "The decision hasn't amounted to anything practical," the mayor said, "because the settler is still exactly where he was."
The Palestinian Christian population in the West Bank has shrunk to about 40,000 people, just over one percent of the total population. In Taybeh, the quiet of emptiness is replacing the quiet of safety. Fifteen families have left in the past two years, along with dozens of individuals who departed alone, mostly to the United States and Europe. Madees Khoury's brewery revenues are down eighty percent compared with before October 2023. The well-known hiking trail that begins at the brewery sees almost no visitors anymore. And yet almost no one who spoke to journalists described leaving as a real option. "Where is there to go?" Roland asked. Father Bashar Fawadleh, priest of Christ the Redeemer Church, framed it differently: "This land is ours. We cannot leave it easily. We want to resist by staying rooted in this land, to be part of this land, for dignity, for security, for peace, and for justice." The mayor was starker still: "We are Palestinian Christians. We have been in this town since the Lord Christ walked in it. This is our town. We will not leave it. Even if we die, we'll be buried in it, because it's holy ground."
Citas Notables
Taybeh was always safe, untouched—never, never, never did I imagine it would come to this.— Madees Khoury, owner of Taybeh Brewery
We are Palestinian Christians. We have been in this town since the Lord Christ walked in it. This is our town. We will not leave it. Even if we die, we'll be buried in it, because it's holy ground.— Mayor Suleiman Khourieh
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