THIS MORNING’S CLINIC was really tough.
Halfway through my morning surgery, a Muslim mother was booked in to see me.
As I glanced over her notes before she entered, one line stopped me: she had lost her 12-year-old son just a week ago. A sudden, unexplained death.
She was already crying before she even sat down. Her husband sat close beside her, trying to comfort her, holding her together as best he could.
It was emotionally harrowing.
She relived every agonising moment in the emergency department. Two hours of helplessness—watching her son deteriorate before her eyes. Doctors struggling to cannulate him, poking again and again, trying to find a vein. She watched him go into cardiac arrest. She watched them fight for his life. And then… she watched him die.
She relived the day before, too. He had been perfectly fine. Woke up suddenly unwell—vomiting, looking off. She knew something wasn’t right. She trusted her instincts and rushed him to hospital.
She hadn’t slept since. Hadn’t eaten. Could barely function.
And because the cause of death wasn’t clear, the coroner hadn’t yet released the body. They couldn’t bury their son. The wait was agonising. The pain, prolonged.
A 10-minute appointment became 20. I listened. I held space. I fought hard to hold back my own tears. Her grief was raw. Immediate. Crippling. It hung in the room like a heavy fog, suffocating.
I offered what I could—gentle words, medication to help her sleep, and reminders from Allah and His Messenger ﷺ.
When she left, I just sat there—numb. The waiting room was still full, but I couldn’t go on. I briefly explained to reception and stepped out for air.
Thoughts of Gaza flooded my mind. Of every war zone. Every mother. Every child.
I wondered why this hit so hard. I’m trained for this. I’m good at what I do. I’ve always kept it together—for my patients, and for their families. That’s the job.
But this time, something cracked.
Maybe because it’s been building. For 22 months, I’ve witnessed grief upon grief. Mother after mother mourning their children—sometimes cradling lifeless bodies, sometimes only fragments collected in bin bags, sometimes nothing at all because they’ve been vaporised or still lost under rubble. These are images no parent, no human being, should ever have to see or live with. But I’ve seen them. Too many.
And it’s been gnawing at me. Quietly. Relentlessly. Day after day. Month after month. This woman’s pain just brought out all that suppressed pain because it was there right in front of you.
But I know this is exactly what those who commit such atrocities want: to grind us down, to strip away our hope.
But I refuse to let them win.
As painful as it is, I know my Lord has a plan. None of this is in vain.
That certainty—that yaqeen—is what keeps me going.
Allah is sufficient for us. In Him, we place our trust. Nothing happens except by His permission and of His plan. He will heal the hearts of the believers.
This Deen will prevail. Victory will belong to us.
That day is coming. Slowly, painfully, inevitably.
Living For Islam 