Gambiaj.com – (BANJUL, The Gambia) – The Christmas season often arrives bearing hope and gratitude, yet it also invites reflection on truths we are less comfortable facing. It draws our thoughts to the night Christ entered the world in innocence, welcomed by shepherds and strangers alike.
Within that sacred story, however, lies a lesson many prefer to overlook: even the purest goodness is not spared betrayal. A ministry founded on compassion, healing, and truth was pierced not by an outsider, but by Judas, one who walked beside Him and learned from Him.
His betrayal stands as a timeless reminder that the deepest wounds rarely come from the world beyond us but from the hands we trusted most. It is a truth that echoes across generations.
Some wounds announce themselves long before they reach us; others arrive without sound, cutting deepest precisely because we never saw them coming. Life teaches that the sharpest pain rarely comes from the blow itself but from discovering who delivered it.
Pain may fade; disbelief lingers. It is that stunned shock, the betrayal of expectation, that leaves the longest mark.
One story captures this truth through a simple image. A bird gliding freely through the sky is struck by an arrow. Startled, it continues flying, wounded but alive.
Then the bird turns its head, searching for the source of its pain, and sees the arrow’s feathers, feathers that mirror its own. In that instant, it falls.
The arrow did not destroy it; recognition did. Awareness transformed pain into collapse. Often, it is not the wound itself but the moment of recognition that the heart struggles to survive.
So it is in life. What undoes us is not always the strike, but the realization that someone we welcomed, defended, or uplifted could turn against us.
Had it been a stranger, the wound might have been easier to endure. But when it comes from a familiar hand, the injury settles deeper, becoming a wound of the spirit. We grieve not only the harm inflicted but also the collapse of a belief we once held as certain.
This kind of hurt rarely arrives with warning. It comes through familiar voices, shared laughter, and those who walk closest to us. That is what makes it devastating: closeness becomes the weapon.
Betrayal cuts so deeply because blind trust is not loyalty; it is surrender without discernment. It rests on the quiet assumption that others will honor our sincerity simply because we have honored theirs. But life does not always move in straight lines.
People change. Interests shift. Insecurity whispers. And sometimes, those who once drew strength from you begin to feel threatened by it.
At times, the betrayal we experience from others begins with the small betrayals we allow within ourselves: ignoring what we should question, excusing what we should confront, and trusting without balance. Healing requires honesty not only about others but also about our own choices. Wisdom begins the moment we stop deceiving ourselves.
For this reason, trust must be offered, but also guarded with wisdom. Not with suspicion, but with awareness. We cannot walk through life expecting harm, yet neither can we pretend that all hearts beat with the same rhythm as ours. Protecting trust does not mean building walls; it means knowing where, and with whom, we leave our doors open.
Both the Bible and the Qur’an speak to this unseen pain. The Psalmist states it plainly: “Even my close friend, someone I trusted, has turned against me” (Psalm 41:9). The Qur’an cautions with equal clarity: “O you who believe, do not betray Allah and the Messenger, nor betray the trusts placed in you knowingly” (Surah Al-Anfal, 8:27).
These teachings endure because betrayal is not new; it has travelled with humanity for centuries. Integrity, in every relationship, remains a timeless measure of character.
Yet even here, there is an unexpected gift. Such experiences sharpen us. They reveal what we did not want to see. They turn innocence into insight. And though the pain is real, it clears a path for relationships grounded not in convenience, but in sincerity.
The wound we do not see is the one within: the shock, the disappointment, and the quiet questioning of our own judgment. But once it heals, and it does heal, it becomes strength. It becomes steadiness. It becomes the ability to stand not hardened, but wiser.
This truth is echoed in our own region. In Thioul Anta, a song by Youssou Ndour, Ma Samba is reminded that when someone does good for you, it should neither be forgotten nor repaid with harm.
Today’s favor should never become tomorrow’s injury, for tomorrow will surely come. Gratitude, after all, is not merely a feeling; it is a discipline of memory.
And as this season reminds us, light will always shine. No being, no betrayal, and no darkness has the power to extinguish it. Light shines not because it is permitted to, but because it is what light is.
May we step into 2026 with clearer eyes and steadier hearts, carrying wisdom earned, trust refined, and a spirit that has healed without hardening.
