As Lent Comes to a Close: A Reflection on Betrayal, Wilderness, and the World's Silence

As we approach the end of Lent, I’ve been thinking a lot—not only as a Palestinian Christian but also as a proud Australian. I live a life of privilege here, on land where the First Peoples of this country have suffered—and continue to suffer - injustice. That history isn’t separate from my own. If anything, it has helped me see more clearly how these struggles are connected. And with that comes a responsibility: to bridge worlds. To listen. To honour the pain. And to use whatever voice I have to speak to it, not around it.

This time of year—Lent—is one of deep reflection. It’s never been about ticking a religious box. It’s about going inward, stripping things back, and asking some uncomfortable questions. Where are we? Who are we standing with? What are we willing to see?

For forty days, Jesus stepped into the wilderness. Alone. Hungry. Tempted. Not to escape the world, but to face it head-on. And when he came back, it wasn’t for safety or applause—he came back with clarity, ready to walk towards the ultimate sacrifice, knowing exactly what it would cost him.

Then came the Last Supper. A moment of deep meaning. A table shared with people he loved—people he had taught, walked with, and wept with. And at that same table sat Judas. A man who knew him and loved him. A man who still chose to betray him.

We often rush past that part of the story. But it deserves our attention. Judas didn’t just betray Jesus—he betrayed himself. And when the weight of what he’d done hit him, he tried to give the money back. He tried to undo it. But when he realised he couldn’t, he took his own life.

That’s a hard truth to sit with. But it holds something important for us today. Because there are people—leaders, governments, even neighbours—who may one day realise what they stayed silent about. What they enabled. And when that awareness finally comes, it might come with unbearable grief. Unless we find a way to choose differently now.

Because Judas’s story didn’t have to end in despair. And neither does ours. There is always another path—one that starts with owning the truth and choosing courage, even if it’s late, even if it’s hard.

Right now, we are watching the genocide in Gaza unfold in real-time. The relentless bombing. Children pulled from the rubble. Entire families wiped out. The starvation. The silencing. The merciless killing of healthcare workers and journalists. The targeting of civilians. The deliberate destruction of life. And somehow, it's all happening with the world watching. And in many cases, turning away.

It goes even further. Around the world, people who speak up for Palestinian rights—or simply uphold basic humanitarian values—are being shut down. Academics are being silenced. Students are being threatened. People are losing jobs. In some countries, they’re even being deported. Saying “Palestinians deserve to live” has become controversial. Compassion is being criminalised.

It is betrayal. And not in the abstract. In real-time. On screens. In silence. At dinner tables. In UN rooms. In faith communities. In governments that preach rights while funding bombs.

As Palestinians, this breaks us all. And as Christians, we see it with clarity. Jesus lived under occupation. He stood with the marginalised. He challenged both the empire and the religious establishment of his time. And he was killed for it—not because people misunderstood him, but because they understood him far too well.

And here’s something the world seems to have forgotten: as Palestinians—whether we are Jewish, Christian, Muslim, whether we converted, reverted, or are now secular—we all share something sacred. We are all descendants of the same land that gave the world one of its most transformative figures: Jesus Christ. Palestine didn’t just receive Christianity—it gave it to the world. It is one of the biggest exports in human history. And yet somehow, somewhere along the line, the world forgot that. Or chose to forget it. The land that cradled Christ is now being bombed, erased, and buried under rubble, while many who follow his teachings remain silent.

Today, Palestinians are being treated in the same way Jesus was. Seen as a threat for simply existing. Stripped of dignity. Spoken over. And meanwhile, so many who claim to care—who say they stand for justice—say nothing. Do nothing. Or worse, justify it.

Whether you’re Christian, Muslim, Jewish, atheist, follow another faith—or just trying to live a good life —this matters. It’s not a political issue. It’s a moral one. The question is: now that we know, what will we do?

Because once we know, neutrality becomes a choice. And silence becomes a position.

And yet, through all of it, Palestinians keep showing us what humanity looks like. The weddings in bombed-out homes. The prayers at night with no food. The parents who tuck their children in under tents and still whisper hope. These aren’t acts of resilience—they are acts of love. Of deep, defiant love.

This isn’t about religion. It’s about whether we’re willing to see each other. To feel something. To speak honestly. To act with integrity—even when it costs us something.

The story of Lent doesn’t end in the wilderness. And it doesn’t end at the table with betrayal. It moves through heartbreak, through death, through silence—and into life. But only if we’re brave enough to face the truth first.

So this is what I keep asking myself: Will I be one of the people who looked away? Or will I stay at the table, even when it’s uncomfortable? Will I use my voice to protect my comfort—or to stand with those who’ve had theirs taken away?

Palestine is not a metaphor. It is a people. Our people. And this moment—painful, humbling, urgent—is a call.

Not to be perfect. But to be awake. To be honest. To say: not in our name. Not on our watch.

And maybe, just maybe, to start writing a different ending.