It’s crazy how human beings do this. We have this weird habit of looking back at old parts of our lives with so much love, even if we were so stressed out at the time.

We always look back at old homes, old friends, old routines and even older versions of ourselves, and we talk about them like they were filled with this magic light.

We remember the people, the random boring days, and all the blessings we barely noticed back then. And literally everyone says the exact same thing:
“Man, those were the good days”

But here is the thing.
A year from now, we’re gonna be saying the exact same think about right now.
About today.
About this exact life.
About the people sitting across from us at dinner tonight.
The annoying routines we’re tired of.
The conversations we keep putting off.

The present is so good at hiding how beautiful it is, mostly because we get used to things. Familiarity kills gratitude. We get so comfortable with people that we assume they’ll always be around. We get so used to our current blessings that we stop seeing them, and we get so stressed about todays problems that we forget tomorrow’s version of us would give anything to have this specific day back.

But life changes so fast, and it does so quietly.

Suddenly a seat at the table is empty. A voice you’re used to hearing goes silent. A close friend moves across country. Parents get older. Kids grow up. Chapters close without any warning that it’s the last page. And it’s only after it’s gone that we realize how much of our life was made beautiful by stuff we didn’t even think we appreciate.

That’s honestly why gratitude is such a profound act of worship.

Gratitude forces you to see the blessing before loss forces you to. It trains your heart to recognize the gift while it’s actually in front of you, not just when it becomes a memory. A truly grateful person doesn’t wait for something to be gone to appreciate it. They appreciate it while they still have it.
while people are still here.
while the doors are still open.
while your health is still good.
while the normal, boring moments are happening.

Because the stuff we call ordinary right now is the exact stuff that becomes extraordinary later. The random laughter, a quick dinner with family, the drive home , the friend who always replies back, being able to call your parents and here their voices.... even just waking up and having another day. None of this is guaranteed. These are all gifts.

The worst kind of nostalgia isn’t missing the past. It’s realizing that you were surrounded by blessing the whole time and you just… missed it.

Before this current day becomes another memory. Just pause for a second. Look around. Notice who is still here with you. Notice what Allah has already put in your hands right now. Notice all the little mercies woven into your normal day-to-day life.

One day. You’re gonna be longing for this exact moment. Don’t wait for loss to teach you how to say Alhamdullilah

Learn to see the blessing while its still here.

the days you’ll miss was originally published in The Muslims Inn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Life is shorter than we imagine.

We spend years gathering, planning, building, and saving thinking we have forever. Yet when the journey reaches its end, what remains is rarely what we owned. The things we accumulated stay behind. What travels with us is what we gave away.

A kind word. A heavy burden lifted from someone’s shoulders. A heart comforted. A soul guided toward what is good.

These are the things that truly last.

Many of us delay goodness because we imagine it requires a lot. A generous bank account, extra time, or the perfect set of circumstances. But the economy of the Hereafter is far more merciful than that. Not every charity leaves your hand; some leave your tongue, your intentions, or your heart.

A word that brightens someone’s day is charity.
Listening patiently to a friend is charity.
Helping someone find their way is charity.
Even wishing goodness for others with complete sincerity is a form of giving.
A heart free from envy and resentment is itself a gift.
A smile that softens the distance between people is an act of generosity that costs nothing and yet may mean everything.

The tragedy is not that opportunities for goodness are rare.

The tragedy is that we assume they will still be there tomorrow. That those opportunities will wait around for us.

We treat acts of kindness as though they can be scheduled for a more convenient time. We tell ourselves we will call later, visit later, forgive later, give later, and pray later. Yet life has a way of closing doors suddenly. The person we intended to help may no longer need us. The moment may pass. We may pass.

Sometimes the greatest regret is not a sin committed but an opportunity for kindness neglected.

So do not underestimate the small opportunities placed before you today.
Send the message.
Make the call.
Offer the apology.
Give the encouragement.
Share the smile.
Make that dua.

A life is not measured by how much we managed to keep but by how much we managed to leave behind in the hearts of others and in the record of our deeds.

The road is shorter than it appears.

And goodness is rarely asking for more than this moment.

life is but a brief journey was originally published in The Muslims Inn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Since childhood, Eid al-Adha has always been dearer to my heart than Eid al-Fitr.

Eid al-Fitr, though blessed and beloved, arrives carrying the ache of parting from Ramadan.

Its joy is never untouched; it comes intertwined with longing, with the quiet grief of farewell, as though happiness itself pauses to mourn the departure of sacred days.

And without doubt, I rejoice in both Eids. I honor them, cherish their beauty, and love what they bring of warmth, kinship, and mercy between hearts.

But what drew me more deeply toward Eid al-Adha, what truly made it settle closer to my soul was the sound of takbir echoing from the mosques after every prayer, stretching through the days of Eid like a river of devotion.

I still remember how, as a child, I would eagerly wait for congregational prayer during Eid al-Adha, not merely for the prayer itself, but for the moments afterward, when the takbir would rise.

The prayer would end. People would begin to rise.

And then it would come.

Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…

How majestic those words are.
How immense their weight upon the heart.

They fill the soul with reverence and drench the spirit in the meanings of tawhid, praise, and surrender before the Lord of the worlds.

And this is precisely why the Qur’an ties takbir to gratitude itself:

“…Allah intends for you ease and does not intend for you hardship and [wants] for you to complete the period and to glorify Allah for that [to] which He has guided you; and perhaps you will be grateful. ” Qur’an 2:185

Takbir is among the greatest remembrances legislated in Islam. It is no coincidence that the Sharia placed it at the heart of prayer itself, repeated day and night, woven into the rhythm of a believer’s life.

And within the heart of the one who remembers Allah with wakefulness, takbir pours a strange and beautiful mixture of emotions: love and awe, fear and hope, tranquility and surrender.

Allah is greater than anything.
More manifest than anything.
Higher than anything and anyone.

Allah is greater than the glitter and distractions of this world.
Greater than every doubt that pulls us away from Him.
Greater than every desire placed before His pleasure.

Allah is greater than my anxieties, my griefs, my fears, and my sins.
Greater than tyrants, oppressors, and all who spread corruption upon the earth.
Greater than His enemies and ours.

Allah is greater in His mercy, forgiveness, gentleness, and generosity.
And greater still in His majesty, power, might, and perfect justice.

To truly say Allahu Akbar is not to pronounce a phrase. It is to surrender, to trust, and to know with certainty that nothing rivals Him.

Placing Allah above everything in this Dunya.

Above your anxieties.
Above your ambitions.
Above your ego.
Above your wounds.
Above your fears of the future and your regrets about the past.

And once that meaning settles into the heart, the soul cannot help but arrive at tawhid:

La ilaha illa Allah.

For the Greatest and Highest cannot share His place with anything lesser.

The more sincerely a servant affirms the oneness of his Lord, the more his heart grows in reverence and glorification, and so he repeats the takbir again and again, unable to tire of it.

Then comes praise.

Alhamdulillah

All praise belongs to Allah for His greatness, His uniqueness, and His perfection.
All praise belongs to Allah in hardship and ease, in decree and trial, in every state we pass through.

All praise belongs to Allah for guiding us to know Him, for showing us glimpses of His majesty and beauty, and for keeping hearts firm upon faith until they meet Him.

All praise belongs to Allah for allowing our tongues to speak His remembrance, to proclaim His greatness, His oneness, and His praise.

And all praise belongs to Allah simply because He is Allah.

And how beautiful Islam is.

That it does not allow a believer to rejoice alone. Instead, it invites him to share joy with others, transforming celebration into worship and turning takbir into a public declaration of faith, gratitude, and glorification of God.

The writer Mustafa Sadiq al-Rafi’i once described the takbir of Eid in words that seem to breathe with longing:

“If my hearing were returned to me, no melody or anthem would delight me as much as the voices of people in the mosques on the morning of Eid:

Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.

The mosque trembles with it, and the people resound with it.

I wonder .. do people truly hear these words, or do they merely hear sounds?

For if everyone who uttered them or heard them truly understood their meaning, life itself would be set aright, and no one would lose their way.” ^source

May Allah heal our wounds, soothe our hearts, forgive us, and envelop us in His mercy.

And may every Eid find you in goodness, faith, and well-being.

some joys feel larger than the world itself was originally published in The Muslims Inn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Every year when Ramadan approaches, and even before the month enters, the world around us begins preparing for it. We see a whole tapestry of customs, traditions, and communal celebrations. Lanterns decorate streets in welcome, mosques get crowded, warm gatherings occur, and tables are prepared with meals that seem to fit to break the fast of an entire year, not a single day.

During Ramadan, worship becomes easy because it is collective. The entire ummah seems to move in one direction. Mosques overflow, conversations change. Even ordinary life begins revolving around the month. The pillar of fasting and the sunnah of night prayers are carried out by the masses. We lean on each other's energy.

But here lies the paradox in our behavior.

When the ten days of Dhul-Hijjah arrive, even though they are the best days of the year, the community's enthusiasm is often quieter.

Why? Because the worship here is individual. There is no folklore to carry us. There are no lanterns for these nights. It's just us, our heart, and our Lord.

Perhaps the reason why many people find worship easier in Ramadan than in the first ten days of Dhul-Hijjah, even though the latter are greater in virtue before Allah, is because Dhul-Hijjah arrives after life has resumed its pace.

The gathering has quieted down. The atmosphere no longer carries you. The streets are not rearranged around worship, and the world does not pause to help your heart turn toward Allah.

Responsibilities remain. Distractions remain. Desires remain. Even the devils are not chained as they are in Ramadan.

So whoever turns sincerely toward Allah in these ten days has turned with a heart that consciously chose Him over everything else.

And perhaps that is part of their secret.

These ten days are not merely a season of deeds; they are a season in which hearts are revealed.

In them, the sincerity becomes more visible. The ranks of those journeying toward Allah quietly emerge, for there is a difference between the one carried by an atmosphere and the one who walks toward Allah while the world pulls him elsewhere.

Allah himself selected these days from among all others and swore by them in the Qur’an.

And the Most Great swears only by what is great.

The Prophet ﷺ also described them as the greatest days of this dunya, days in which righteous deeds are more beloved to Allah than any other time, because within them gather the foundations of devotion together: prayer, fasting, charity, remembrance, and Hajj (pilgrimage).

These are days of rebuilding.

Days for restoring the promises we once made to Allah in the nights of Ramadan, only to slowly neglect them beneath the heaviness of ordinary life.

There is something uniquely intimate about the worship during these days. worship beneath the brightness of ordinary daylight. Worship that rises while life continues moving around you unchanged.

This is why the heart sees differently in these days.

The illusions of Dunya loosen slightly. The temporary nature of things becomes clearer, and the soul begins glimpsing even faintly the reality toward which all journeys are moving.

Especially on the day of Arafah, that great gathering, which resembles an early unveiling of the hereafter itself. Humanity standing equally before Allah, stripped of illusion, stripped of status, stripped of everything except need.

And even for those who never reach Makkah, there remains a pilgrimage of the heart.

In these ten days, we answer the call inwardly. We wear the ihram of our souls. Our hearts circle the Ka’bah of nearness.

The most beautiful way to enter these days is not merely with checklists of goals but with presence.

With sincerity…

With the awareness that Allah doesn't merely look at the size of the deeds but the truthfulness hidden within them.

Many of us become occupied with counting rewards; we search for the exact numbers, exact multiplications, and exact measurements of rewards. How many rewards for this? How many multiplied for that?

But these sacred seasons were not revealed so the heart could become obsessed with calculations.

yes, righteous deeds are multiplied in these days. A single letter from the Qur’an carries immense rewards. A single act of sincerity may outweigh years of heedlessness. But revelation teaches us reverence, not obsession with numbers.

So if you recite one Juz' of the Qur'an, then you have recited one Juz’, but one embraced by blessed days, magnified by Allah’s generosity, and elevated beyond what ordinary days can hold.

And this is what we forget. That Allah is not in need of our numbers. He is looking at our hearts.

A single, quiet, sincere du’a whispered from exhaustion is more beloved to Allah than a thousand distracted words.

One tear shed in secret outweighs years of outward performance.

One sincere moment of repentance and return alters the direction of an entire life.

So enter these days honoring them, because hearts are opened according to how deeply they revere sacred things.

Enter them as though they may be your last, as many who welcomed these days last year now exist only in the prayers of others.

Fill these days with takbir, because whenever Allah becomes immense in the heart, the world naturally becomes smaller in the eyes.

Revive the forgotten sunnahs.

Compete in hidden deeds.

Carry a daily portion of the Qur’an, because hearts in these sacred seasons thirst to be watered, and nothing revives them like the words of Allah.

Give charity even if it's little because Allah looks at the warmth of giving before the size of the gift.

And correct the heart before correcting the deed. One person may stand long in worship and gain nothing except exhaustion, while another is raised entirely through sincerity.

And above all.

Do not let your share of these days become merely watching them pass across your screen.

Do not let the takbirat remain only a sound inside videos while your own tongue remains silent.

Do not let reminders become posts you share on your socials while you own hearing remains untouched by them.

These days were not honored by Allah, so we could observe others striving.

They are honored so that we ourselves might become among the people of remembrance, striving, repentance, and return.

Bring these acts to life with your limbs, your tongue, and your heart, not only through your devices.

Let the Takbir live in your home.

Let it soften your chest while walking through ordinary streets.

Let remembrance interrupt your distractions.

Let the Qur'an sit beside your exhaustion.

Let du’a rise from places within you that words rarely reach.

And when the days begin departing, leave them with humility rather than admiration for yourself.

The righteous before us were never deceived by their worship. Their obedience only increases them in awe, concern, and fear that their deeds might not be accepted.

These ten days are the closing fragrance of the Hijri year.

A final opening before another page of life folds away forever.

The Messenger of Allah ﷺ said regarding the fasting of Arafah that it expiates the sins of the previous year and the coming year.

What generosity is this? a Lord who continues opening doors for us even after all our shortcomings.

Glad tidings to the one who recognizes the worth of these days and trades sincerely with Allah within them.

They pass quickly like everything eventually does.

But their impact remains written across the entire lifetime.

Perhaps these days become the beginning of healing.

Perhaps they become the return of softness to a hardened heart.

Perhaps within them is one sincere du’a that Allah uses to change everything.

So do not deprive yourself of them.

Ya Rabb, grant us Your light and Your protection.
Renew faith within our hearts.
Preserve within us the purity of turning toward You.
Keep us dependent upon You without becoming deluded by ourselves. Grant us a repentance that pleases You, guide us back to You, and protect us from misguidance through Your light.

Amin

devotional folklore was originally published in The Muslims Inn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Pause for a moment and try to imagine the unthinkable.

Imagine you are no longer able to recite Surah Al-Fatiha. The words simply evaporated from your memory.

Imagine that the few verses and chapters you’ve carried since childhood suddenly slip away, leaving a void where rhythm and comfort used to be.

You reach for your shelf for a physical copy of the Qur’an, but the pages are blank. You open an app, but the screen is empty.

The Qur’an has been “lifted” from our world.

Imagine facing your own inevitable death without a single verse to hold onto.

This haunting thought didn’t come to me randomly.

It came to me while I was looking at a recent photograph of my parents standing by the sea.

Looking at them, their faces, and their postures, I struggle to recognize the passage of time. It feels like only a heartbeat ago I was that small boy who would disappear for the entire day into the roar of the Mediterranean.….

Back then, my mother’s heart would boil with worry, mirroring the midday sun beating down on my head.

My father, knowing the geography of my soul, always knew where to find me, at the furthest possible point, where the water meets the sky, as far from people as a boy my age could get.

Then, I flip the page of the album. I find a photo from twenty-five years ago.

They are in the prime of their youth, both of them younger than I am today. And there I am, sitting between them with a naive, radiant smile, completely satisfied with the world.

As these memories began to pull at me, threatening to sweep me away into a tide of nostalgia and longing, I found that my own words failed me.

I had nothing of my own to say that could capture the weight of that love and the sting of that time passing.

The only thing that could anchor me was a single verse:

“…Rabbi irhamhuma kama rabbayani saghira.”
“…My Lord! Be merciful to them as they raised me when I was young.”
Qur’an 17:24

That was it, a verse that summarized everything a human heart could mean to say.

Al-Hakim Al-Tirmidhi rahimahullah once said:

“Every name in the quran is a reality”.

I came across this years ago, and I have pondered it deeply, but I recently realized that I have never truly applied it to the name “Al-Nur” (The Light).

Allah describes the Qur’an as light.

It is not a metaphor. It is the most accurate description of the Qur’an.

It is more deserving of this description than the sun itself. Without it, we aren't just sitting in a dark room; we are in total, absolute exile. A darkness so thick it swallows the soul.

It is the light of insight and the healing of the heart.

That verse is the final, decisive word that summarizes everything: my memories, my prayers, and my identity. It takes that lost, wondering ching still living inside my chest and pulls him into a warm embrace. It validates the past and sanctifies the present.

He called it Light, and so it became a glow that guides us through the fog of life.

He called it Healing, and so it became the balm for the wounds we didn’t know we had.

To imagine a world without these words is to imagine a world without a pulse.

Alhamdulillah for the gift of the Qur’an.

Alhamdulillah for the grace of the Most Merciful.

what remains when it is gone was originally published in The Muslims Inn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

For the past few days, the world was paralyzed.

From the eastern horizon to the furthest west, eyes were fixed; humanity sat in a trance, watching the clock hands creep toward Tuesday, 8:00 PM Washington time.

It was a scene full of irony: billions of people, nations of every race, language, and culture, hunched over their screens and refreshing news feeds, calculating time differences, and adjusting their clocks and their emotional states to the pulse of a distant capital.

For a brief moment, the world held its breath; a hush of fear, apprehension, and anticipation gripped the globe.

It felt as if the earth itself stood at the edge of an abyss, peering into its darkest depths, waiting for a word, a headline, a statement, or a decision they believed would upend the very foundations of their lives.

Yet the deadline hour passed… and with it, another modern illusion simply collapsed.

The grand anthem of our material civilization — the illusion of “self-sufficiency and control” — was revealed as hollow.

Humanity, with all its technological prowess, revealed itself for what it is: a fragile collection of beings tossed about by rumors and headlines. swayed by possibilities it could neither confirm nor prevent.

Amidst this earthly panic, the concept of “Ghayb” (The Unseen) comes to mind.

This concept terrifies the secular mind. Why? Because it exposes the raw truth of human weakness. It highlights our absolute inability to perceive what the next second holds.

We stand small and trembling before an event of human making, our hearts racing over potential outcomes. In our anxiety, we overlook the definitive Qur’anic truth that settles the matter.

“With Him are the keys of the unseen; none knows them but He...” (Qur’an 6:59)

How profound is our ignorance, and how deep is our frailty!

We imagine we have conquered the earth with our digital networks and satellites, yet we shudder at the shadow of tomorrow.

We believe the reins of history are held within the closed doors of high-stakes meeting rooms, forgetting that human will, no matter how unified or grand, dissipates before Divine decree.

“You do not will except that Allah wills…” (Qur’an 76:30)

Anxious humans as we are, we forget that every event that shakes the heart is weighed by a precise divine measure:

“Indeed, all things We created with predestination.” (Qur’an 54:49)

And what is written in the Preserved Tablet will unfold with certainty:

“….And the command of Allah is a destiny decreed.” (Qur’an 33:38)

This scene. This worldly anticipation should remind us to flee to the only safe refuge: the certainty that all affairs rest solely in the hands of the Creator, far beyond the reach of capitals and material power.

How can we tremble when the course of history belongs to Him?

Anyone who reflects with a seeing heart knows that every earthly decision is wholly subject to Allah, for He “arranges each matter from the heaven to the earth…” (Qur’an 32:5)

No matter how humanity schemes, no matter how politics entangles, the ultimate reality is:

“..Unquestionably, His is the creation and the command...” (Qur’an 7:54)

There is one verse that cools the heart and strips away fear:

“Is not Allah sufficient for His servant? Yet they frighten you with those besides Him. And whoever Allah leaves astray — for him there is no guide.” (Qur’an 39:36)

So it’s only befitting, amid this global anxiety, to lean against the strongest support, certain that the world — even if it seems on the brink — moves only within His will and wisdom.

What destiny conceals, even if terrifying in appearance, may carry hidden mercies and blessed ends:

“…Perhaps you dislike a thing and it is good for you...” (Qur’an 2:216)

And remember:

“Your Lord creates what He wills and chooses; not for them was the choice. Exalted is Allah above what they associate with Him.” (Qur’an 28:68)

the world waits….and Allah decrees was originally published in The Muslims Inn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

You could spend years of your life searching through books of history and moving between seerah and tafsir, tracing the stories of Banu Qaynuqa, Banu al-Nadir, and Banu Qurayza, turning pages in search of the wisdom behind their endings, the expulsions, the judgements, the Qur’anic descriptions that speak of them in the harshest of terms.

You could search for a voice to explain why the Revelation details their story with such recurring gravity.

And still, the answer might remain elusive.

Until today.

We are living through scenes so stark that even the language of injustice feels insufficient to contain them. scenes of tyranny, even the world's most brazen dictatorships haven't dared to replicate.

Laws are passed with chilling calm, permitting the execution of prisoners as though human life were a procedural inconvenience.

Hospitals are reduced to rubble.
Schools and Universities collapse under missiles.
Homes are erased by bulldozers.
Lands are stripped and reshaped to make way for settlements that rise where lives once stood.

These are not fragments of unrelated injustices. They are not accidents of politics nor momentary lapses of restraint.

They are patterns.

And patterns, when they persist across time, begin to reveal character.

What we are witnessing is not merely a series of events, but the unfolding of a disposition, a persona that carries within it layers of betrayal, denial, ingratitude, envy, cowardice, and a hardness that does not tremble before injustice, nor soften before suffering.

It is a disposition that history has recorded before, when prophets and messengers were not only rejected but betrayed and killed one after another.

The Qur’an is not recounting stories for the sake of memory alone, but exposing a recurring human tendency, one that, when left unchecked, matures into something deeply destructive.

This is why the Qur’an returns to their narative again and again, detailing it with a weight not given to any other people, not out of excess, but out of necessity.

Because what is described is not a moment in history but a model of corruption that repeats itself. And perhaps this is also why their enmity is given such emphasis.

What we are seeing today does not introduce something new. It clarifies something old.

We are not losing Al-Aqsa all at once.
We are losing it in fragments.

We lose it in every moment, we grow accustomed to the sight of blood at its gates without our hearts trembling.

We lose it in every anger we swallow, excusing ourselves with “helplessness”.

We lose it in every du’a we silence beneath the weight of despair and the dull rhythm of daily life.

This quiet neutrality does not hold up sacred places.
Trembling hands do not preserve what is sacred.
Hesitant hearts do not defend what is entrusted to them.

Ya Allah. Rescue the oppressed from the grip of these tyrants. Protect the believing men and women held in their prisons.

The world may be silent, but our hearts must remain awake.

Because once the hearts fall into the “sleep of habit”, the first Qibla is truly lost.

HasbunAllahu wa ni’mal wakil.

anatomy of a pattern was originally published in Islamic Reunion of Thoughts (IROT) on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Recently, I was talking to a friend about this ongoing war in the Middle East, and somehow the conversation shifted toward the Names and Attributes of Allah.

It felt like a strange jump, but then we both realized that war is actually where Allah’s names become most visible.

We see military powers clashing, one weapon surpassing another, one strategy defeating another. These are the “earthly” facts.

But behind them are the “heavenly” facts.

Who is it that alternates the days among nations?
Who grants power to whom He wills and strips it from whom He wills?
Who is that honors and humbles, raises and lowers, establishes and removes?

War, as a worldly phenomenon, is not merely a military equation. It is a theater where the Names and Attributes of Allah manifest.

Through it, you see that Allah is Al-Qahhar (The Subduer), who overcomes tyrants; Al-Aziz (The Almighty), who honors and humbles; and Al-Hakim (The Wise), who directs affairs so they reach his decree, not man’s plan.

Even His name Al-Latif (The Most Gentle) appears as He orchestrates salvation from where no one expects.

If you only look at war through politics, you miss the most important part.

You see only what “they” want to do, but you miss what “Allah” is actually doing.

Generals and commanders believe they are in control; they plan, draw maps, and move armies, but Allah is the best of planners.

How many armies marched out, certain of an easy victory, only to return humiliated? And how many small groups, thought to be helpless, were granted victory by Allah over those superior in number and gear?

History is full of examples.

Our eyes see what is on the ground, but our hearts should see the power in the heavens. Allah is the One who raises and lowers, the Turner of hearts and the Disposer of affairs; infinite in Wisdom, Subtlety, and Planning.

When you see an army with the most advanced weapons defeated against all odds, you remember that victory is from Allah, not from numbers.

When you see tyrants peak in arrogance only to fall in an instant, you remember that Allah is Al-Qahhar, whom nothing can frustrate.

You realize that “days are alternated” and that it is Allah who alternates them among people.

Don’t be intimidated by how strong the “strong” look, and don’t give up because the “weak” look helpless.

Trust that the ultimate outcome is for the righteous.

Do your part, use the tools you have at your disposal, and trust the One who controls the results. He is in charge of the outcome, even if we can’t see it.

“…And Allah is predominant over His affair, but most of the people do not know.” (Qur’an 12:21)

the forgotten perspective was originally published in The Muslims Inn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sometimes, in moments of great noise, the most perilous events can pass by unnoticed.

While the world is distracted by the ongoing war in the Middle East. A far more dangerous event is taking place.

It isn’t the missiles or the exchange of fire that fills the headlines and the screens.

It's the complete closure of the Al-Aqsa Mosque.

The Zionists have closed Al-Aqsa Mosque. Perhaps that doesn’t sound “shocking” anymore.

To say it plainly feels heavy, yet the world reacts as if it were a minor detail.

For the first time, the “First Qibla” and the third of the Two Holy Mosques, is silenced during Ramadan.

The site of the Prophet ﷺ’s Night Journey, the blessed Mosque where the Prophets ﷺ prayed, has seen prayers since the start of this Holy Month.

Close your eyes and imagine waking up to news that the Grand Mosque in Mecca has closed, and worshippers are prevented from entering as a prelude to its demolition.

Or forget Mecca for a moment — imagine your local neighborhood mosque, the one where you’ve spent your life, was closed because the “sound” of the Adhan “disturbed” the neighbors.

That surge of anger you feel now? For some, that feeling never went away.

People ask why the “Al-Aqsa Flood” happened.

If you listen to the recording released on that October morning, the very first words were not about borders or politics.

They were about Al-Aqsa.

The storming of its courtyards, the assault on the women standing guard (Murabitat), and the quiet, systematic preparation for its erasure.

Today, however, is different. This is no longer just “harassment” or a temporary raid. The mosque is completely closed.

Previously, we heard condemnations and denunciations. Now? Silence.

Some justify this by saying, “Incursions have happened for years.” But there is a difference between harassment and the total erasure of presence.

The Zionist entity is operating with a different mindset. It sees this moment amidst regional shocks and international distraction as a “historic opportunity” to settle every file at once. Files they have pursued since the dawn of the Zionist project.

You think I’m exaggerating? Look at the scene:

Gaza is destroyed, and its people are being pushed into a narrow corner between the sea and the fence, making life so impossible that they may accept anything just to breathe.

The West Bank is being dismantled, lands annexed, cities severed, and water resources controlled and stolen until the very idea of a “Palestinian state” becomes a ghost.

Jerusalem is the heart, and they know that controlling the land is never enough; they must control the memory of the land. They must break people's consciousness.

Breaking consciousness reduces their “cost” and saves them time.

They want to re-engineer the “New Palestinian” and the “New Muslim”.

This was the dream of General Keith Dayton years ago. to train a generation to see their resisting brothers as criminals to be hunted, and to see the thief of their land as a “partner” or a master.

That is the ultimate triumph of the colonizer: to turn the opponent into a servant.

They want a “New Palestinian” and a “New Muslim” who looks at the occupation and sees a “partner” and looks at a closed Al-Aqsa and feels… nothing.

When days pass, and we grow accustomed to the sight of our Prophet’s path (Masra) being closed, that is the “cauterizing” of the Ummah’s consciousness. It reshapes perception until a catastrophe feels like a mundane event.

But their vision doesn't stop at the gates of Jerusalem.

Look at the region.

They do not want a strong Levant, a united Yemen, a cohesive Iraq, and a connected Gulf.

They want a weakened Egypt, a fragmented Saudi Arabia, and a suffocated Turkey.

They want every nation to be either broken, submissive, or drowning in internal strife, leaving only one dominant power in the region.

This isn’t a conspiracy theory; it is a boast. Their leaders speak of this openly of reforming the region and redrawing the maps.

So that the only standing power that remains is the occupier.

When I hear these declarations, I am reminded of the people of Aad:

“Do you build a sign on every high place to amuse yourselves? And take for yourselves palaces as if you might abide eternily? And when you strike, you strike as tyrants?” (Quran 26:128–130)

Aad is a Quranic archetype that repeats across time.

You see it today: the same obsession with architecture, the display of might, and the arrogance of perceived immortality.

“They were arrogant in the land without right and said, ‘Who is greater than us in strength?…’” (Qur’an 41:15)

Today’s rhetoric is built on absolute trust in military tech and the power to redraw maps. Even the phrase “strike as tyrants” — Gaza’s tents could be crushed by mere stones, yet they drop the world’s most sophisticated bombs on them.

Allah in the Quran teaches us that the arrogant never see their fall coming.

They see the signs of their ruin but interpret them as signs of a greater era.

When Aad saw the clouds approaching, they said, “This is a cloud bringing us rain!” They thought it was a blessing; in reality, it was the beginning of the end — a wind carrying a painful torment. Arrogance blinded them from reading reality.

These events aren’t just for those on the front lines; they are for all of us.

We cannot afford to waste our energy on internal petty bickering sparked by the ignorant or the enemy.

“And hold firmly to the rope of Allah all together and do not become divided…” (Qur’an 03:103)

This is the remedy. We must shed the “weakness” (Wahn) our Prophet ﷺ warned us about (the love of this world and the fear of death).

Our responsibility today begins with guarding Al-Aqsa in our own minds.

We must guard it in our speech, in our prayers, and in the way we raise our children.

We must refuse to let the closure of the Prophetﷺ’s path become “just another news story.”

Many powers thought they had reached the pinnacle of height, only for Allah to bring them down.

And many nations were thought to be finished, only for Allah to breathe life back into them.

“…..And Allah is predominant over His affair, but most of the people do not know.” (Qur’an 12:21)

Keep your oppressed brothers and sisters and Al-Aqsa in your duas in these blessed nights.

Why Al-Aqsa Matters Now More Than Ever was originally published in The Muslims Inn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

One of the most overlooked miracles of Islam is the concept of “Ramadan”.

Looking at modern scandals of excess, like the Epstein case, makes you realize that fasting isn't just about hunger; it's about existential boundaries.

It teaches you that you are a finite being with a ceiling you must not breach.

Fasting proves that “deprivation” for the sake of Allah holds a wisdom that goes deeper than the physical act, as it speaks to the very soul.

One of the primary goals of fasting is to instill a constant awareness of boundaries.

A person who never knows deprivation is a person primed to be swallowed by their own desires.

When we lose the ability to say “no” to ourselves, we eventually lose the ability to distinguish between what we want and what we have a right to possess.

Without limits, the power to do anything becomes a license to do everything, leading to a total moral decay.

Modern civilization — through education, economics, and psychology — indoctrinates us with the idea that “deprivation” is an evil to be eradicated.

This constant pursuit of “more” ensures we are never satisfied.

It is here that you feel the miracle of fasting as a pillar of faith and not just a ritual; Islam has woven a system that reorders and fixes a person’s relationship with themselves and the world.

By utilizing fasting as “Kaffara” (a way to make amends for sins and mistakes), turning deprivation itself into a tool for purification and repentance.

We have reached a point where science is incredibly complex, yet we are returning to a simple, primal truth Islam had always taught: humanity is preserved through self-control.

By choosing to stay hungry or thirsty despite having the means to eat or drink, you acknowledge a vital truth: you are not a god, and your whims are not sacred.

As the saying goes: “If the soul is used to getting everything it is allowed to have, it will eventually lack the strength to avoid what is forbidden.”

Ramadan is not just a month of hunger; it is the discipline that keeps us human.

Alhamdulillah for the miracle of Ramadan

Ramadan Beyond The Hunger was originally published in Islamic Reunion of Thoughts (IROT) on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.