Gaza bleeds.
And the world turns its face,
but what breaks us most
is the silence of our “own.”
Children sleep beneath rubble,
their lullabies replaced
by drones and screams,
their small hands reaching
for a liberation
that never came.
The mothers,
they do not wail anymore,
their grief is too heavy
for sound.
Their tears have dried
into dust.
And yet, the palaces of taghoot remain still.
Silk robes, golden halls,
lips moving in false prayers
while hearts are tied
to thrones, not to Allah alone.
The ummah is a body, they say.
But Gaza is the limb
they have let rot.
Every rocket
a betrayal,
Every silence
a signature.
Every handshake
with tyrants
a knife
in the backs of the innocent.
Where are the armies
that once rose for honor?
Where are the banners
that once trembled
at the injustice?
Now, a froth of the sea,
with no value attached to it.
But even in this darkness,
Gaza prays.
They whisper AllahuAkbar
from beneath the ruins,
from behind barbed wires,
with bloodied palms
still raised
to the sky.
So shame on the crowns
that bowed to idols of taghoot,
Shame on the hands
that signed their silence
with ink made of blood.
And mercy on Gaza,
a land broken
yet closer to Jannah
than all the marble mosques
that stayed quiet even on their khutbahs!
AllahuAkbar!
Hasbunallahu wa’nimal Wakeel!