This Easter, may we rise.

A reflection from UNRWA USA’s Jason Terry, Director of Strategic Programs, and Laila Mokhiber, Senior Director of Communications

We asked two members of our team—Jason Terry, a Quaker, and Laila Mokhiber, a fifth-gen Arab American Orthodox Christian—to share what Easter means to them this year, and how its story continues to shape their work, their witness, and their hope.

This year, Western and Eastern Easter fall on the same day—April 20—which rarely happens! Though Jason and Laila’s Christian traditions differ in practice, this overlap invites us to reflect on the holiday’s meaning and how its lessons apply to our lives in these dark, dark times.

Easter Where I’m From

Laila:

My maternal grandparents came from Ramallah, just miles from Jerusalem, where the Easter story begins. While I was born and raised in the United States, Easter has always rooted in me something ancient, mystical, and alive. For me, Easter is not just bunnies and brunches. It’s incense and iconography, chanting, and candlelight. It binds me to a place and a people often left out of the story.

Most people don’t connect that Christianity began in Palestine—and no, not the one in Texas. Jesus was born in Bethlehem. He lived under military occupation. His family fled violence as refugees. He walked the same roads where Palestinian families now face checkpoints, surveillance, displacement—or worse.

The story of Easter is inseparable from the land and the people still there today.

This year, I can’t stop thinking about the Church of Saint Porphyrius in Gaza—the third-oldest continuously operating church in the world, founded in the 5th century. A church older than nearly every cathedral in Europe. In the land of Jesus. Bombed.

Not just any church, but a sanctuary, sheltering hundreds of displaced people, both Muslims and Christians, when it was hit by an Israeli airstrike in October 2023, killing at least 18.

Even the oldest churches in Christ’s homeland are not safe. These are the places where Jesus' teachings come alive—not in ritual but in the radical act of sheltering the vulnerable.

And I ask myself: Where is the global Church? Where are our voices?

What does Easter mean to you?

Jason:

Though in Quaker practice no day is any more sacred than any other, I think the Easter story is ultimately one of hope, but—and this is important—before that hope is a period of deep-seated apprehension, unimaginable sacrifice, and having to cope with the profound realities and mysteries of loss. 

Christians seem to not want to talk about crucifixion anymore, and I don’t just mean the event itself. I mean a moment when both political and religious authorities condemned a man to a brutal death for his words. And yet, there was a resurrection. 

When you translate that story to our current moment, all of those things—apprehension, sacrifice, loss, and the forced death of innocents—are swirling all around us. Hope is so hard to hold onto. But through the season of Easter, we learn that a day of peaceful skies and calm waters is always coming.

Laila:

Like Ramadan is for Muslims, Easter is a mirror. A time to reflect not just on personal faith, but on collective responsibility.

Jesus lived under military occupation. His family fled violence. He was poor, brown, and stateless. He lived among the outcasts and the oppressed. And yet today, the people who most resemble that reality—Palestinians, including Palestine refugees—are often ignored or vilified.

This Easter, I ask: Do we recognize the face of Christ in Palestinians? In refugees?

Easter is a call to rise, yes—but also a call to see. And once we truly see, how can we remain silent?

How do you keep hope close to your heart?

Jason:

First, it’s tremendous gratitude. At UNRWA USA, tens of thousands of supporters have joined us in the last 18 months, giving as much or as little as they can. Yes, the big gifts are exciting, but it’s the smaller ones that I celebrate most. The folks who sit down one day and say to themselves, “I don’t have much, but I’ve got $5, and I can share a post.” That’s the first step toward building a more hopeful world. 

There’s a recent translation of the New Testament I love that translates the Sermon on the Mount with the word “blissful,” rather than “blessed.” The translator argues that while blessed is technically correct, it leaves out the notion of the divine gift that comes from a life of being gentle, merciful, peaceful, and continuously seeking to make right in the world.

Laila:

I find hope in our people.

I find it in the UNRWA staff in Gaza and across the Middle East—humanitarian heroes—still saving lives under impossible conditions.

I find it in the UNRWA teachers and counselors continuing to hold space for children to learn and laugh through their trauma.

I find it in the parents finding ways to celebrate Palm Sunday and Holy Week, and carry on Easter traditions passed down over centuries.

I find it in the young journalists and creators documenting the truth and believing in a better future.

I find it in the resilience of Palestine refugee children—displaced, grieving, yet still dreaming—whose dignity and determination challenge us to do better.

And I find it in Americans who care—people from all walks of life who refuse to look away. They remind me that hope isn’t about optimism. It’s about action.

What lessons are you hoping others can draw from the situation in Palestine?

Jason:

So often, I feel like too many people—especially among world leaders—have forgotten the lesson to “love your neighbor as yourself.”

Quaker practice challenges me to see that of the divine in every person. As difficult as that challenge is, especially right now, pausing to see the divine spark in someone also keeps me humble and tempers my gut reactions to something more loving. 

Loving your neighbor also means speaking up when your neighbor is under attack. Remember that justice requires a verb in front of it. When we challenge ourselves to love our way through difficult times, the world starts to bend around us in ways both imperceptible and noticeable.

Laila:

That this is not just about politics—it’s about people. It’s about dignity, humanity, and moral clarity.

This Easter, I hope we can reclaim the story—not just as something to believe in, but something to live out. I’ve been deeply moved by those in the Church who are already doing this, including many who have joined Orthodox Christians for Palestine, a movement born from within my own parish. It gives me hope.

And still, I hope more of us—especially within the Orthodox Christian community here in the United States—find the courage to speak out, to stand with the suffering, and to resist the urge to stay silent for the sake of comfort. There is so much more we can do.

This Easter, may we rise.

May we rise to love our neighbor.
May we rise to speak when silence is easier.
May we rise to care—and to act for Palestine refugees.

If this reflection moved you, don’t let it end here.
📣 Advocate for the rights and dignity of Palestine refugees.
💸 Donate to support UNRWA’s life-saving services in Gaza and beyond.