Dearest Gaza,

Today I heard that content from Gaza is being restricted. Videos are being removed, accounts are being silenced, and timelines are being reshaped to hide your truth. But I have already seen too much. And what I have seen has settled in my heart like a stone I cannot put down.

I watched a video of people evacuating a residential block. They were given only minutes. The sirens were deafening. The streets were filled with dust. Someone carried a child. Another shouted for the civil defense to bring out those still trapped inside. There was no time to think — only to run. But where does one run in Gaza? What corner is safe when the sky itself is your enemy?

I read about Rahaf, the little girl with prosthetic legs who skips through destruction as if the world hasn’t broken her. She doesn’t have what others would call a normal childhood, but she carries something stronger than comfort — she carries dignity. Watching her, I felt something shift inside me. I remembered that when Allah takes something, He often replaces it with something greater. Perhaps He took Rahaf’s legs, but gave her courage that walks straighter than most who stand tall.

Then came the story of Dr. Alaa Al Najjar — a pediatrician who received the bodies of her nine children, burnt beyond recognition. Her husband is in critical condition. Yet she continued working at the hospital. She stood among the wounded and kept treating them, even as her own wounds were still bleeding. That is not something I can explain. That is sabr beyond what I have ever understood. She did not collapse. She did not curse. She stayed. And in her steadiness, I saw something that made me think of the prophets. Maybe this is what it means to be purified by trials.

In contrast, I read the words of Sofia Emuna, a journalist who said:

“In war, you must destroy their offspring so they don’t produce more.”

She said “offspring.” Not fighters. Not threats. Not children because that might produce compassion.

This is not a conflict. It is not even just a genocide. It is a declaration of pride in oppression. It is a shameless attempt to erase a people and feel nothing while doing it. And yet, Gaza still stands.

Today, I also saw a public statement by Piers Morgan. He said he has held back from criticizing the Israeli government for years, but he cannot remain silent anymore. And I thought to myself — if even those who built their careers on being careful are now breaking their silence, then it must mean something. I am not here to praise him. But I am reminded: Allah makes the truth rise, even from the most unexpected mouths. He forces truth out of those who fear Him, and sometimes even from those who don’t. This is not about him. But the moment he chose to speak only confirms what I already know — this is not a conflict. This is cruelty exposed.

I am not Palestinian. I don’t have your language. I don’t carry your flag. But something about your struggle enters my bones like it has always belonged there. I don’t have your pain, but I carry it anyway. And some days, I wish I could stand among you — even if it meant being buried beside you. Because being buried in truth feels lighter than living in silence.

I have started to understand the names of Allah more deeply because of you.
Al-Ḥakīm — The Wise.
Al-Ḥafīẓ — The Preserver.
Al-ʿAdl — The Just.

Allah sees everything they do to you. I believe that completely. I believe that even if no government defends you, Allah will. That even if no camera records your last breath, Allah has. And I believe that He is never late. Not by a minute. Not by a second.

You remind me that īmān is not meant to be easy. That faith isn’t soft or poetic or convenient. That true belief sometimes looks like rubble and loss — and still, it chooses Allah over anger.

You have changed me. Your endurance forces me to look inward. To ask myself what I am doing with my comfort. With my safety. With my words. I cannot carry your body. I cannot shield your home. But I can refuse to forget you. And I can refuse to lie about what is happening to you.

That is the smallest thing I can do — to witness. To name the crime. To never pretend that this is anything but a slaughter. And to remind myself that Allah will not let your blood be spilled in vain.

He has promised:

“And never think that Allah is unaware of what the wrongdoers do…” (Surah Ibrahim 14:42)

I hold onto that. I hold onto Allah.
And I ask Allah to hold onto you.

Until I am worthy of standing beside you, I write.

— ever your sister in the ummah you honor more than most