By Joy of Ghazza
In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci’s Last Supper,
I once gazed upon that solemn silence,
my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue.
My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene,
returning again and again to that eternal grace.
Questions surged within me like waves:
Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper?
Why bind those final moments into a canvas
that became an immortal emblem of human art?
Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful,
carries a beauty that renders it eternal?
Why does the world exult in elegy,
in the rituals of farewell,
when so often it yields to slumber
at the very moments it should resist
the causes of parting?
My eyes roam again:
now around Christ, now around the disciples.
I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting:
How could you not save him?
How could you not save the scene
from the last farewell, from the Last Supper?
I search with my eyes, O Lord—who among them is the traitor?
All surround Christ with warmth and love.
Now you have made it harder for me:
encircling him from every side,
sharing bread, exchanging words,
fearing for him as he fears for you.
Who, then, is the traitor?
Christ speaks of betrayal.
Perhaps deep within he knows the one.
But why this air of tension?
Why did the disciples divide,
each defending his innocence with all his might—
instead of protecting him?
John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus),
Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew,
Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot
and… Judas.
I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas:
shadow and light.
How the shadow unmasked the traitor,
and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent.
I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again.
But I found no disciples,
only a family gathered round a still body.
A mother’s hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life.
Sisters read the Gospel,
imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath.
My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one.
Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor?
The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one.
Is it the mother who weeps for her son?
The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today,
to grant him a few more days in their embrace?
Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep
to keep vigil by his brother’s side before losing him forever?
For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause,
and a brother’s death is graver than all.
But still—who is the traitor?
Again I trace the two heroes:
shadow and light.
But today I see no light.
O Lord, how have they betrayed me now?
Is it no longer a masterwork?
All that remains is shadow—
no light at all…
save for the faint glow upon the dead man’s face.
So who is the traitor?
Is it I? You?
Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell,
a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds?
There is no traitor today
but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it.
There is no traitor today
but the one who watches.
O Lord,
how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality.
The colors have faded, some features lost,
yet the deepest element still remains:
sorrow… grief… betrayal.
And silence,
that savage silence,
which once rose from the traitor of Christ,
and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
Support Joy’s survival and evacuation from Gaza at tinyurl.com/evacuate-joy.
https://linktr.ee/joyfromghazza
About the Author
My name is Farah, and my nickname is “Joy.” I’m a 22-year-old writer from Gaza, currently studying English Literature at the Islamic University of Gaza, which has sadly been bombed. I’ve lived most of my life through war, enduring five conflicts that have stolen my right to live in safety, peace, and love.
I write stories, reflections, and poems. Since I was young, I’ve been passionate about poetry and literature, and I also enjoy simple crochet, which helps me distract myself from the tragedies I experience. Recently, I started my biggest project yet: writing a book documenting everything I’ve lived through during the ongoing genocide, which has now lasted over a year and a half.
I currently live with my mother and four siblings in a shelter, seeking refuge from the constant threat of death due to the violent airstrikes shaking the ground around me. I am my mother’s eldest daughter, her close friend, and her supporter (just as she supports me); together, we decided to launch our chuffed campaign to raise funds for our basic needs during this brutal war that’s ravaging our weary bodies. My father hasn’t been with us since we were young; we’ve always been under our mother’s care. I’ve lost my beautiful, warm home. I’ve been displaced to over 17 different shelters and locations, each one worse than the last due to the lack of any safe place to go. We face countless struggles, most notably the starvation we endure as part of the siege and strangulation, designed to create a complete cycle of Nazi-like genocide against us.
With all the love and longing in my heart, I aspire to pursue a Master’s degree in Translation and Intercultural Communication. It is my ambition, my goal, and my dream—one I am determined to fulfill, with unwavering passion and hope.
Not even the harshest of circumstances could stop me from walking steadily toward my dream. Neither the absence of safety, nor the brutality of bombardment, nor the heaviness of war has ever planted despair in my heart.
Thank you for your continuous generosity in supporting me to deliver my message to the world.
With deepest respect and hope,
Support Joy’s survival and evacuation from Gaza at tinyurl.com/evacuate-joy.
