Gaza as Our Teacher: Lessons for Muslim Communities

By Muneeb Nasir

As the world watches Gaza endure genocide and unimaginable suffering, many of us are left asking: What does this mean for us, living in relative safety in places like Canada? 

Gaza is not only a tragedy unfolding before our eyes; it is also a teacher. 

In its steadfastness, its witness, and its faith under fire, Gaza calls us to live differently, even here.

The Power of Naming

In Gaza, names are spoken with compassion, love and urgency. 

Every martyr, every child, every journalist is remembered by name so that they are not reduced to numbers. 

This simple act resists erasure. 

For us, this is a reminder: in our mosques, our du‘a should not be abstract. 

We should name the sick among us, the elders nearing the end of life, community members who have passed away. 

To name is to dignify; to name is to remember that every soul is precious to Allah.

Testimony as Worship

When journalists in Gaza record their final words, they bear witness to truth until the end. 

For our communities, this can mean leaving behind testimony of our own—writing reflections, recording oral histories, or encouraging our elders to share their journeys. 

It is a form of sadaqah jariyah, an ongoing charity of memory, preserving and gifting the lessons of one generation for the next.

Lament in Prayer

Our du‘a can sometimes be impersonal, brief, and abstract. 

But in Gaza, we hear prayers that are raw, collective cries to Allah. 

This too is a Sunnah: the Prophet ﷺ wept, raised his hands, and called upon Allah with deep grief. 

Even amidst destruction, people gather to call upon God.  

Perhaps we must learn again how to weep together, how to cry for justice, how to carry our sorrows into prayer. 

Vulnerability in worship binds us to one another and draws us nearer to Allah.

Learning Sumūd (Steadfastness)

Gaza teaches us sumūd: the unyielding resolve to remain rooted in dignity and faith no matter the trial. 

For us in Canada, sumūd may mean living our Islam unapologetically, standing firm against Islamophobia. 

These may seem small acts compared to Gaza’s sacrifices, but they are seeds of resilience, cultivated daily.

Mercy in Community

In Gaza, when formal systems collapse, families and neighbours step in. 

They feed one another, shelter one another, raise one another’s children. 

This is a model of mercy we desperately need to revive. 

Imagine if every masjid became not only a place of prayer and religious education but also a hub of care: organizing meals for the sick, helping the vulnerable, visits to the isolated. 

In a city, mercy begins with checking in on the person next door.

Youth as Carriers of Memory

Young people in Gaza are recording their reality with phones and cameras, ensuring the world cannot look away. 

Our youth too can be empowered to carry memory. 

They can tell our stories—of migration, of resilience, of struggle—so that our community’s voice is not lost to history. 

This is part of amānah (trust), a sacred duty of passing memory across generations.

Justice Without Borders

Finally, Gaza reminds us that justice is indivisible. 

To stand with Palestinians is also to stand with Indigenous peoples on Turtle Island, with racialized neighbours confronting discrimination, with those struggling against poverty and hunger in our own city. 

The Qur’an commands us to “stand firm for justice, even against yourselves” (4:135). 

Solidarity is not a slogan; it is an obligation.

Gaza’s people do not choose their suffering, but they choose how to live through it—with faith, dignity, and sumūd. 

For Canadian Muslims, the question is whether we can honour that witness by building communities that remember names, carry testimonies, pray with sincerity, and show mercy to one another.

Gaza’s cries reach us not only as calls for aid, but as lessons for how to live as believers. 

The challenge is whether we are willing to learn.