From Gaza If These Are My Last Words , Let Them Tell My Story

Take Everything From Us, But Know: We Still Have Allah

As a children’s aid worker, I’ve seen the pain of families torn apart. Every day, we try to help, but with each bomb that falls, hope slips further away. This is the story we carry with us—the struggle to keep going, even as the world around us crumbles

Here, in Gaza, we are used to the blasts. It’s no longer the thunderous crashes of airstrikes that scare us—we’ve become numb to them. It’s the silence that remains after that strikes the most fear. It’s the eerie silence that makes you wonder: who will be alive tomorrow? Who won’t survive the night?

I am not a warrior. I am not a soldier. I am just a human being. A mother. A father. A sister. A brother. A son or a daughter. I am a person who was born to live. But the world has decided to turn my life into a struggle for survival.

We have lost everything — our homes, our families, our livelihoods, and our sense of security. Every corner of this land is filled with memories of joy, laughter, and love that have been torn asunder by bombs, by violence, and by an endless cycle of destruction. Our streets, once full of children running and playing, are now desolate — covered in rubble, in blood, in silence.

What remains? What do we cling to when all we’ve known has been reduced to ashes?

Our houses have become nothing more than mounds of rubble. The home where my children used to play without fear is now hidden under the rubble of a thousand bombs. Where my mother prepared meals with love is now just a memory, slipping away every day. Our memories are disappearing as well because there is no time anymore to enjoy the past. There is only the present, and in the present we anticipate the next bomb to drop.

And yet, we endure in Gaza

You, who have stolen so much from us, you want our land? You want our homes, our cities, our lives? Take them. You can have them. You can have the land where we dwelled, the streets where we strolled, and the fields where we planted our dreams. Take our land, our homes, and our families if you wish to.

But don’t forget this — on the Day of Judgment, we appear before Allah, and we take back what’s ours. No bomb, no bullet, no soldiers will ever be able to steal the justice written in the heavens. No matter how much you try to bury us, no matter how many of us you bury beneath the rubble, you will never destroy the truth. And the truth is — we were here. We were present. We existed. And we will never forget.

Amidst all the pain and suffering, we hold on to something more real than the ground beneath our feet — we hold on to our faith. Our faith is one that can never be taken away. The bombs can come down, but Allah remains. The world can close their eyes, but Allah witnesses every tear, every cry, every injustice.

And yet, we say Alhamdulillah—”All” praise is to Allah.
We may not eat. We may not drink. But we still possess Him. We still hold on to our prayers.

To those who have taken our homes away from Gaza — you think that you have won. You think that you have taken everything from us. But you are wrong. You cannot take our dignity. You cannot take our souls. You cannot take our belief. Allah is the Most Just, and on that Day when all hearts will be laid bare before you, you will realize.

We have no illusions. We know that the world has forgotten us. The world refers to us as “casualties”—but” we are not casualties. We are not statistics. We are not numbers on a map. We are mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. We are people who wanted nothing but peace. We are a people who want to live, just like you. Just like anyone.

And if we perish here, on this earth that was once teeming with life, remember this: our death will not be in vain. You will not be able to erase our presence from history. Our tale will live on in the mouths of our children, in the hearts of those who knew us, and in the memory of those who loved us.

We will not be forgotten. The world may try to erase us, but you cannot erase the truth. We are not a footnote in the pages of history. We are the story from Gaza.

You, who have stolen our homes, our families, and our land — be warned: on the Day of Judgment, we will reclaim what was stolen. You may quiet our voices, but you will never quiet our prayers. You may destroy our homes, but you will never destroy our faith.

And to those who continue to be silent — to the world that turns its face away from us as we perish: we are not seeking your sympathy. We are not seeking your pity. We seek your justice. We seek you to stand with us, not as witnesses to our pain, but as defenders of our dignity. Speak. Make your voice heard. Do not let us suffer in silence.

To the mothers who have lost children, to the fathers who lost families, to the children who lost innocence — we will return. We will not be silent. We will not have dominion in this world, but we have one thing stronger than that: we have Allah.

This ends when the smoke clears and the rubble settles. we will rise, we will stand, and we will take back what is ours. Until then, we will hold on. We will keep our faith. And we will never forget who we are.

If this is my last message, let it be clear: We lived. We loved. We believed. And we will rise again — in this life or the next. Pray for gaza.