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Guilt in the Land of Plenty: A Muslim Canadian’s Reflection on Gaza
8-22-2025
Each morning I wake up to the quiet hum of suburban life—the kettle whistles, the sun filters through the blinds, and the scent of breakfast wafts through my home. It’s a life of peace, of routine, of comfort. But lately, that comfort feels like a betrayal.
As a Muslim Canadian, I cannot look away from the devastation unfolding in Gaza. I scroll through images of bombed-out buildings, of children clinging to life, of families mourning their dead. And then I glance at my own children, safe and smiling, and I feel a pang of guilt so sharp it borders on shame.
This is not survivor’s guilt in the traditional sense. I have not escaped a war zone—I was born into privilege, into safety. But the guilt is real. It’s the guilt of abundance in the face of starvation. The guilt of silence while others scream. The guilt of helplessness when death marches on.
In Islam, we are taught that the ummah—the global Muslim community—is one body. When one part suffers, the whole feels pain. That pain is not metaphorical. It is visceral. It is spiritual. And it is deeply personal.
But what does one do with this pain? How do we reconcile our blessings with their suffering? How do we live ethically in a world that feels so profoundly unjust?
Some turn away. Some numb themselves. Some retreat into cynicism. But I believe there is another path—one that begins with acknowledging the guilt, not as a weakness, but as a sign of moral clarity.
Guilt, when rooted in empathy, is not a burden—it is a compass. It points us toward action, toward solidarity, toward a deeper understanding of our place in the world. It reminds us that comfort should never breed complacency.
But guilt alone is not enough. It must be transformed into something constructive. That transformation begins with asking:
What can I do?
We may not be able to stop bombs or broker peace deals. But we are not powerless.
• We can donate to trusted humanitarian organizations that provide food, medicine, and shelter to those in Gaza.
• We can amplify Palestinian voices, share their stories, and challenge the narratives that dehumanize them.
• We can write to our elected officials, demanding that Canada uphold its commitment to human rights and international law.
• We can educate ourselves and others, ensuring that the suffering in Gaza is not reduced to a headline, but understood in its full historical and political context.
• And we can pray—not as a passive act, but as a spiritual declaration of solidarity and hope.
Islam does not romanticize suffering, nor does it glorify wealth. Both are tests. Both are temporary. And both reveal the true nature of the soul.
The Qur’an reminds us:
“Then, you will surely be asked that Day about pleasure.” (Surah At-Takathur 102:8)
This verse echoes in my mind as I sit down to eat, as I tuck my children into bed, as I enjoy the quiet luxuries of life in Canada. I will be asked, not just about what I had—but about what I did with it.
Abundance is not a shield from responsibility. It is the very source of it. And the more we have, the more we are accountable for.
This is not meant to induce shame. It is meant to awaken us. To remind us that our blessings are not just comforts—they are tools. They are opportunities. They are divine invitations to serve, to give, to stand up.
There is a quiet danger in comfort—it dulls the senses. It makes injustice feel distant. It makes suffering feel abstract. But Islam calls us to remain awake. To reflect. To question.
The Prophet Muhammad PBUH said:
“The believer is not he who eats his fill while his neighbor goes hungry.” (Hadith, authenticated by Al-Albani)
This hadith is not just about proximity. It’s about awareness. It’s about refusing to let borders—political or psychological—separate us from the pain of others.
So I ask myself: Am I truly awake? Am I using my blessings to uplift others, or merely to insulate myself? Am I living in gratitude, or in distraction?
These are not easy questions. But they are necessary ones.
Reconciling guilt does not mean erasing it. It means living with it—honestly, humbly, and actively. It means recognizing that our blessings are not just gifts, but responsibilities. It means refusing to let comfort lull us into indifference.
In the Qur’an, Allah reminds us:
“Whoever saves one life—it is as if he had saved mankind entirely.” (Surah Al-Ma’idah 5:32)
We may not save all lives. But we can save one. We can speak one truth. We can make one choice that bends the arc of justice, even slightly, toward mercy.
This editorial is not a call to despair. It is a call to conscience. To every Canadian who feels the weight of Gaza in their heart, know this: your empathy is not futile. Your guilt is not misplaced. It is the beginning of something sacred.
Let it guide you. Let it move you. Let it remind you that even in the land of plenty, we are bound—by faith, by humanity, by love—to those who suffer.
And let us never forget: silence is not neutrality, it is complicity. And action, no matter how small, is a form of resistance.
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