Do You Know What Happens Every 45 Minutes?
Read more to find out.
﷽
The morning sunlight filtered through the lace curtain of the small kitchen window, casting playful shadows on the tiled floor, now cracked from age and war. The memories of cardamom tea and frying za’atar bread that once filled the warm, humming air aren’t enough to quiet the pangs of hunger. In the rubble of the home built by their greatgrandfather, two little ones turned their mother’s makeshift kitchen into a world of joy.
Amina, just shy of four, with dark curls bouncing and eyes full of mischief, clutches a plastic spoon like a royal sceptre. Her brother, Sami, three and full of wild energy, wears one of his father’s socks on his hand like a puppet. Together they parade around the kitchen table, singing a song they made up, the lyrics a strange blend of Arabic words and baby babble. Their mother, Maryam, turns the dough on the hot pan, trying to ignore the fact this bread won’t be enough for everyone, laughing softly to herself at the rhythm of their game.
Sami points to where the cupboard once hung. “That’s the mountain!”
Amina gasps theatrically. “And I’m the queen!”
“No, I’m the sultan!” Sami insists.
“You’re a frog.”
“I’m a flying frog!”
Their mother grins and shakes her head. “Flying frogs don’t get any bread.”
Sami gasps, eyes wide. “But Mamaaa!”
Amina collapses in laughter, rolling on the floor, her curls tangled and her voice echoing with joy.
Maryam turns, waving the spatula. “Bread only for good children who don’t invade the kitchen while the Mama queen is cooking!” She bursts out in laughter.
They squeal and dash out, knocking over the bowl that once overflowed with lemons. Now, just two remain. They roll across the floor. Sami tries to catch them. Amina cheers him on. Outside, birds chirp from the olive tree that leans into the window, a silent witness to both life and death. It stood there when the occupation began, and Maryam’s mother-in-law often tells the story of how it refused to bear fruit for the first five years—a silent protest. Through the kitchen window, the olive tree watches the sweetness of life: sometimes loud, sometimes messy, but always alive with hope.
It’s Friday, Jummah, and Maryam begins to recite Surah al Kahf, the Quran, her constant companion these days:
And Allah reminds us:
ٱلْمَالُ وَٱلْبَنُونَ زِينَةُ ٱلْحَيَوٰةِ ٱلدُّنْيَا ۖ وَٱلْبَـٰقِيَـٰتُ ٱلصَّـٰلِحَـٰتُ خَيْرٌ عِندَ رَبِّكَ ثَوَابًۭا وَخَيْرٌ أَمَلًۭا ٤٦
Wealth and children are the adornment of this worldly life, but the everlasting good deeds are far better with your Lord in reward and in hope.
The words move her and Maryam, scans her kitchen, taking it all in. The tangled hair, the sticky fingers, the overturned lemons. She remembers how the Prophet ﷺ used to play with children. He would carry his grandsons, Hasan and Husayn, on his shoulders, laugh with them, even shorten his prayer when they climbed on his back.
It was Aisha رضي الله عنها who said:
“A Bedouin came to the Prophet ﷺ and said, ‘You people kiss your children! We never do that.’ The Prophet ﷺ said, ‘What can I do for you if Allah has removed mercy from your heart?’”
(Bukhari & Muslim)
These moments , giggles in the kitchen, crumbs on the floor , are not trivial. They are mercy. They are life. They are Sunnah.
The kettle whistles. The clock ticks.
And then…
That sound.
That low, growing hum from the sky, like a monster exhaling fire.
A sound that freezes the blood in the veins.
That splits time.
A flash.
A scream.
Silence.
And then….
The wailing.
Dust pours in like a tidal wave. Maryam screams her children’s names, her arms sliced open by debris, her face streaked with blood and ash. She stumbles through what was once her home. The home built by her husband’s greatgrandfather. Her hijab clinging to her is half-burned, now a mixture of flesh and cotton. Her husband, Mahmoud gave her that hijab when they first married. He was the first to be martyred.
Maryam’s hands tremble as she claws at the ruins.
“Sami!”
“Amina!”
No answer.
No lemons rolling.
No spoons waving.
No laughter.
Just dust.
Just a mother’s scream splitting the sky open.
وَإِذَا ٱلْمَوْءُۥدَةُ سُئِلَتْ ٨
and when baby girls, buried alive, are asked
بِأَىِّ ذَنۢبٍۢ قُتِلَتْ ٩
for what crime they were put to death,
This is not ancient ignorance.
This is Gaza.
This is now.
Do you know what happens every 45 minutes?
Since Israel began its war on Gaza, a Palestinian child has been killed every 45 minutes.
Children who sang.
Children who prayed.
Children who still had food on their faces and dreams in their hearts.
And now ,
They are gone.
My question to you is this:
How will you defend the children of Gaza?
Not with neutrality.
Not with soft condemnations.
Not by calling for “peace” that refuses to name it a genocide.
How will you live knowing your tax money, silence, or consumption may be linked to a child’s last breath under rubble?
Today, as you sit down for Sunday family time, your children perhaps annoying you with their whining, remember the mother who picked up the remains of her children , a leg here, an arm there, a torso with no head.
Or perhaps she held her son’s body in her arms with a single sniper bullet to the head , a precision shot, a reminder of the cruelty of the oppressor.
Or maybe she is the mother desperately trying to reach her two sons, bodies sprawled on the street as if they were trash. That is what they are to the Zionist occupying force, the oppressive Israeli government and their supporters. Those boys, their names now erased, are nothing but trash to be discarded. This is not a made up story this mother is real. Watch her story here:
We know better.
We must do better.
Be better Muslims.
Make more dua.
Stand up.
Fight this injustice.
Fight this genocide headed into its second year.
This oppression, which has endured for more than 77 years, must end. Now.
I support military action against Israel to stop this genocide. #ProtectPalestine
When I say I support military action, I mean the right of an oppressed people to defend themselves against ongoing occupation and genocide, and for the international community to defend them. This is not a call for violence for its own sake, but a cry for justice when every peaceful option has been ignored, dismissed, or crushed. As Muslims, we do not glorify war. We glorify justice. We ache for peace rooted in dignity, not silence. Our stand is not out of hate, but out of love: for the children of Palestine, for all children in Gaza, and for the Jewish, Christian, and Muslim children and people being murdered in this genocide. We also stand for those occupied and oppressed in the West Bank. We Muslims stand for the sanctity of life and for a world where no mother buries her child under rubble again.
Our bodies are dying.
Narrated An-Nu`man bin Bashir:
Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) said, "You see the believers as regards their being merciful among themselves and showing love among themselves and being kind, resembling one body, so that, if any part of the body is not well then the whole body shares the sleeplessness (insomnia) and fever with it."
Let’s act.
What You Can Do
Start with Dua. Call upon Al Hafīẓ (The Preserver) to protect the children and people of Gaza, and Palestine. Remember to make dua for all the oppressed, hungry, suffering in the ummah. Especially in the stillness before Fajr (tahajjud), when Allah descends to the lowest heaven.
Boycott.: Support the BDS movement. YOUR MONEY HAS POWER TO FORCE CHANGE.
Avoid products and companies that help fund the oppression and occupation.
Examples include:
Lidl
McDonald’s (in many countries)
HP
Puma
AXA
SodaStream
Sabra Hummus
Airbnb (operating in illegal settlements)
See updated boycott lists at bdsmovement.net.
Write and Protest.
Email and call your local MPs, senators, and leaders.
Demand a permanent ceasefire.
Demand an end to occupation.
Join peaceful protests and vigils.
Stand up visibly and repeatedly.
Give.
Donate to truth-worthy organizations.
Educate.
Teach your children the truth.
Read books. Watch documentaries. Say the names.
Honor the martyrs of Gaza with memory and action.
There are children missing tonight from kitchens in Gaza.
Their bread still lies on the pan.
Their toys are buried in the dust.
Their mother is still screaming their names into the rubble.
May Allah count them among the shuhadāʼ.
May they be the ones who intercede for us.
And may we never allow their memory to fade into the silence of cowardice. Ameen
Until they return.
Until Palestine is free.
We will not stop.
With grief, resistance, and dua and as always much love although from a heart that is breaking,
Nour Cauveren
P.S. What these video to learn more:
This is brilliant storytelling Nour, Mashallah. I was right there in the kitchen, with the smells of lemons and the sizzle of cooking bread. The violence is unimaginable but you took me into that scene, subhanallah. May the people of Palestine finally experience freedom and safety after so many years of injustice, ameen ya Rabb!
Nour, beautiful writing about the ugliness of war and the devastating tragedies occurring daily in Gaza. I pray for peace and for justice. Great list of action items too - we must do more than pray. Thank you for sharing 🙏