For some, Palestine may feel far away. Maybe even confusing. We’re often told it’s a “conflict,” or that it’s “complicated.” But let me be clear—it is not complicated. It is oppression. It is the dispossession of a people, the blockade of an entire population, the killing of children, the destruction of homes, and the slow suffocation of a people who have done nothing to deserve it.
As Muslims, our hearts are taught to feel the pain of others. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said:
“مثل المؤمنين في توادهم وتراحمهم وتعاطفهم مثل الجسد إذا اشتكى من عضو، تداعى له سائر الجسد بالسهر والحمى”
“The believers in their mutual love, compassion, and empathy are like one body; if one part feels pain, the whole body responds with sleeplessness and fever.”
And right now, that part of our body is Palestine. And we cannot ignore the fever.
In Gaza, there are mothers who bury their children beneath olive trees and still whisper Alhamdulillah—“All praise is due to God.” Not because they are not grieving, but because their faith is rooted deeper than their sorrow. These are women who have lost everything and still hold onto God. They clean up broken glass with one hand and cradle their babies with the other. They are the definition of sabr—patience not as passive endurance, but as fierce resistance. As belief that something better is coming.
And the children—Ya Allah, the children. These are not just numbers on news reports. These are bright-eyed girls who loved school, and little boys who could name every star in the sky above Gaza. Some of them now lie under rubble. Some carry trauma far too big for their tiny hearts. And yet, we see them smiling. We see them laughing through tears. We see them carrying books, not bombs. That is resilience the world rarely deserves.
Social work teaches us to walk with those in pain. It teaches us not to look away. It calls us to restore dignity in places where it has been stripped. And Islam teaches us the same. In the Qur’an, Allah commands:
“وَلَا تَرْكَنُوا إِلَى الَّذِينَ ظَلَمُوا فَتَمَسَّكُمُ النَّارُ”
“And do not incline toward those who oppress, lest the Fire should touch you.”
This verse is not just about faith—it’s about action. It’s about refusing to be neutral when lives are being crushed. Because neutrality, when injustice reigns, is a form of complicity.
My faith tells me that justice is sacred. That the oppressed have a special place in the sight of God. That the dua—the prayer—of the one who is wronged is never rejected. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said:
“اتق دعوة المظلوم فإنها ليس بينها وبين الله حجاب”
“Beware the prayer of the oppressed, for there is no barrier between it and Allah.”
And so I believe that every tear shed in Gaza, every cry of a mother, every whisper of Ya Allah—is heard. And it matters.
To those who are not Muslim, who may not know this story, I invite you to see beyond what the media tells you. To see the humanity that has been buried beneath years of silence. Ask yourself—if it were your children, your town, your people—what would you want the world to do?
To be a social worker is to stand with the brokenhearted, to hold up mirrors to truth, and to say: “You matter. I see you. I will not turn away.” It is not easy work. But it is sacred work.
And to those in Palestine—though they may never hear this speech—I say: You are not alone. We see your pain. We carry your names. And we will not be silent.
May we all have the courage to speak when it’s uncomfortable, to care when it’s easier to detach, and to act when it feels like there’s nothing we can do.
And may Allah grant freedom to the people of Palestine, dignity to the oppressed everywhere, and the strength for us all to never look away.
dededos
blakekathryn
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
