“Where Is Allah?”: Stories from Gaza That Shouldn’t Exist..

We are Muslims. We believe in sabr, in du‘a, in the mercy of Allah. But in Gaza today, faith is screaming beneath the rubble.
And a question we’re taught never to ask is now whispered in the darkness:
“Where is Allah when everything is lost?”

This is not a question of disbelief.
It is a cry from hearts that are crushed, from souls still clinging to Allah while drowning in pain.
These are not stories. These are wounds. Deep, open, bleeding.

A Father’s Silent Jihad
He is 45. A father. A Muslim.

Before the war, he stood in prayer at night, tears on his sajjadah:
“Ya Allah, bless my children. Give them more than I ever had.”

Now his du‘a is different. His eyes are hollow. His lips shake.
“Ya Allah, take them… Please. Let them die. At least in Jannah, they’ll have food. They’ll laugh. They won’t cry themselves to sleep.”

He sold his jacket to buy bread. His shoes to get milk.
Sometimes the charity kitchen gives food—sometimes not.
When there’s no food, he leaves the tent during the day and returns only after the children have fallen asleep.
Why?
Because they can’t bear to see their father helpless.
And he can’t bear to see their hunger.

“I used to make du‘a for Allah to give them life,” he says. “Now I beg Him to take it. Is this what it means to be a father during war?”

This isn’t just poverty.
This is a man breaking—alone—with only his faith left to scream into the sky.

The Sister Who Became a Ghost

She is 32. A Muslimah. Single. Her mother died in the war.
Her brother—the only family left—turned violent.
She lives in a tent that offers no protection, no space, no peace.
Her sister-in-law treats her like dirt. Her brother beats her for breathing.
She once nearly lost an eye.

But she doesn’t cry for revenge.
She doesn’t raise her voice.
She hides her bruises.
And whispers one request:
“Can I have my own tent? Just a small one. I just want to be covered. To breathe. To feel human again.”

Her family told her:
“We don’t have time for you. Survive on your own.”

She goes for secret counseling sessions—terrified of being found out.
She lives like a shadow. But she’s still here.
Still saying, “Ya Allah.”

And You—Ya Akhi, Ya Ukhti—Are You Listening?
Would you survive this?
Would your faith survive this?

These are not just victims.
They are Muslims, suffering silently, holding onto the last threads of hope and belief.

Gaza is not just a warzone.
It is where faith and fear sleep in the same tent.

Even as their world burns, they still whisper:
“Ya Allah, I know You see me.”

So we must see them too.
And we must never forget.

“Where Is Allah?”: Stories from Gaza That Shouldn’t Exist