Me, Moon & Gaza

I strolled onto the rooftop, seeking solace under the open sky. 

Above me, the heavens had donned their nightly gown—an endless cloak of darkness adorned with countless shimmering gemstones, each one winking softly as if sharing secrets with the wind.

Yet, it wasn’t the stars that held my gaze. 

It was the moon—a silver orb of mystery, bathing the world in its cold, indifferent light.

Its glow caressed the buildings around me, including the magnificent Shaykh-ul-Hind Library, standing like a sentinel of knowledge and faith.

To its left, Masjid e Rasheed stood proud, towering in its spiritual grace, gleaming faintly under the moonlight. 

These forts of faith whispered stories of our Akaabir, the heroes who bled for our freedom, who gave their lives so we could breathe in the open air.

But my thoughts strayed to another place, another tragedy. My heart tightened as my gaze returned to the moon. 

You were there, I thought bitterly.

You must have watched it all. 

The atrocities in Gaza. 

The blood staining the earth. 

The cries of children tearing through the night.

A lump rose in my throat, and my vision blurred with tears. 

My soul cried out to the moon. “How could you?” I whispered.

“How could you witness such cruelty and still shine so brightly? So mercilessly? How could you light the path of those who walk on the graves of the innocent?”

The Moon didn’t answer. It didn’t waver.  

Instead, it smirked—a cold, mocking curve.  

And suddenly, I realized the truth.  

The Moon wasn’t mocking me. It was reflecting me.  

I had done the same. 

We all had. 

'The so-called leaders had. 

Standing, watching, mourning—but doing nothing.  

And then, as if to deepen my shame, the moon pulled me back into history and played before my mind’s eye a scene:  

A tyrant’s jeering voice, his hand striking a trembling slave girl.  

“Where is your Mutasim now?” he sneered. “Will he come riding to your rescue on his white horse?”  

The girl’s trembling lips and tear-streaked face faded into another scene.  

Miles away, I saw the face of the Caliph Mu'tasim, his voice trembling with fury when the cry of the single enslaved girl reached him. 

I heard him demand, “Where is Amuria?” I watched as he turned to the East and roared, “Labbaik, I am coming to answer your call!”

I saw his armies march—unstoppable, unyielding—just for her honor.

Just for her tears. Just to answer her call "Wa Mu'tasimah!"

And I saw the face of the present—mine. Ours.

No armies marched for Gaza. No caliph raised his sword. No leaders wept for its children.

Where are our leaders now? Where is our Mutasim? Our Tarik bin Ziyad? Our Salahuddin?  

Now, we have shadows of men, not saviors. Leaders who bow to power, not to justice.  

I realised,

The moon had not lost its glow, but I had lost my soul.

The stars blurred behind the tears streaming down my face. I wiped them away with trembling hands, but the weight in my chest only grew. 

My mind screamed at the injustice. 

My heart burned with the guilt of my inaction.

And yet, I stayed silent.

For all my anger, all my sorrow, I turned away from the moon. I turned away from Gaza. I turned away from justice.

The moon continued to shine, unbothered, untouched. And I? 

I walked back inside, leaving the rooftop behind.

The world outside was still drowning in darkness.

 But perhaps, the greatest darkness was within me.

~ BINT -E- AZHAR