Why a Nurse at Rafah Touched Me More Than Any Gaza Khutbah

I’ve sat through many khutbahs since the Gaza onslaught—some historical, some dry, some fiery, and some so vague that I walked away wondering what the point was. But none of them ever gripped my soul the way a short, trembling plea from a Welsh nurse at the Rafah border did.

He wasn’t a scholar. He wasn’t someone who’d memorised Bukhari or delivered polished khutbahs. He was a nurse, unarmed, overwhelmed, standing under the unforgiving sun at the crossing between Egypt and Gaza. He wasn’t offering abstract advice. He wasn’t speaking in safe, rehearsed language. He wasn’t telling stories from the companions with no relevance to life; he was pleading with the soldiers on the Egyptian side to break ranks and let the aid through.

Why did this hit me so hard?

Because it was a plea to disobey injustice, not obey authority. It stirred something raw and powerful in me—a longing to do what is right, not what is permissible. It reminded me of the essence of prophetic courage: standing up, not bowing down.

Because most of what we hear about Gaza is filtered through the language of charity—donate, fund‑raise, send aid. But this nurse wasn’t asking for money. He wasn’t linking the suffering to a donation link. He was linking it to a political decision—the sealing of a border. He spoke not of charities, but of checkpoints. Of a breastfeeding mother who had no milk, not because her baby couldn’t latch, but because she hadn’t eaten. And that hunger wasn’t due to a lack of donations—it was due to a blockade. A choice. A policy. And suddenly, all the glossy fund‑raising appeals I’d seen felt like distractions. This wasn’t a humanitarian crisis in need of charity—it was a human‑made catastrophe demanding military intervention, the removal of false borders, and the rescue of the people of Gaza.

Because he didn’t just say “May Allah help them.” He called on the soldiers to act—to align their iman with action. He connected iman to the intervention. It wasn’t spiritual escapism. It was an Islamic demand. And that made me realise how many khutbahs I’ve attended where Gaza was either reduced to a tick‑box mention or not even spoken about, as if mentioning it might invite a visit from Prevent.

Because this nurse, untrained in fiqh or seerah, understood something I wish more of our imams would: that obedience to Allah sometimes means disobedience to tyrants. That Islam isn’t just about duʿāʾ and donations—it’s about daring to act, even when it’s costly.

He asked the military to take a stance. He asked the soldiers to defy orders—to disobey a blockade that starves the believers. And I couldn’t help but ask: have I ever heard a single khutbah that even mentions the possibility of military intervention for Gaza? Have I ever heard the pulpit echo the urgency of real‑world change, not just spiritual slogans?

We all know why. Most khutbahs are filtered through the lens of fear—fear of authorities, fear of consequences, fear of saying too much. Fear dressed up as “wisdom” or “hikmah.” But this nurse—he didn’t speak from fear. He spoke from the heart. Do you think he cared what would happen to him for calling on the Egyptian soldiers to defy their orders? Do you think he feared a prison sentence, or worse? Do you think he feared being struck off the General Medical Council on his return? No. He spoke with deep connection to the suffering, and nothing mattered to him while he was pouring his heart out.

And that’s why it brought tears to me. Because his words weren’t crafted—they were courageous. They weren’t poetic—they were powerful. They weren’t meant to protect his own safety—they were meant to protect lives. Real lives. Hungry children. Mothers without milk. Men with shattered limbs waiting for borders to open that never do.

That plea, from that nurse, pierced me in a way no polished khutbah ever has. Because it wasn’t theology—it was truth. It was raw, God‑connected, human‑to‑human urgency.

And maybe that’s what we’re missing in our mosques. Maybe that’s what we’ve censored out of our sermons. Not the knowledge—but the fire. The bravery. The belief that Allah’s justice demands our disobedience when injustice reigns.

So when I say I crave “fiery” khutbahs, I’m not championing chest‑thumping for its own sake, nor am I trading wisdom for mere rage. What I’m pleading for is a sermon that ignites both heart and mind—one that names the injustice in front of us and demands the reality we’re working to transform. Too often the khutbah is reduced to a perfunctory ritual, a half-heard address that leaves us clock-watching: the congregation times its arrival for the final moments of the first rakʿah and bolts out before the duʿāʾ, untouched and unchanged. A khutbah worth its minbar should pierce indifference, shake our complacency, and translate iman into action—so that the moment we file out, we walk not with lighter consciences but with heavier responsibilities and a clear plan to move the world closer to justice.