Geopolitics Is Not a Lesson—It’s a Casualty, and One of Its Names Is Umm Mohammed

Last night, I joined a Twitter Space titled something like “Israel, Iran, and the US—What Next?” The conversation was intense, charged, filled with analysis. One speaker said the so-called 12-day war was mere theatrics—a carefully managed spectacle with no intention of altering the balance of power. Another added, chillingly but truthfully, that the first line of defence for Israel isn’t its Iron Dome—it’s the thrones of the Muslim rulers.

We nodded, commented, retweeted.

And then… she appeared.

Her name was Umm Mohammed.

She raised her hand, and the host gave her the mic. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what followed: a tired, unwavering voice. A woman currently in Gaza. Living in a tent. Her husband wounded by a bullet. Two children beside her. A third in her womb.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. She simply made a plea—soft but weighty. Her voice carried the dust of bombardment, the smoke of burnt-out homes, and the silence that comes when the world watches but does not move.

She said, with quiet certainty, that victory is only with Allah. That whatever comes, it is by His decree.

And in that moment, all our debates—all our diagrams of deterrence, spheres of influence, and strategic depth—were brought into sobering perspective. These conversations matter; they help us understand the machinery of oppression and the levers of change. But they are not what bleeds. They are not what starves. Umm Mohammed’s voice reminded us that while strategy may shape the battlefield, it is the people who carry its burden in their bodies, their tents, and their prayers.

I replied to her on the space with the following message: I want to share my message to her—not because it redeems anything, but because silence is no longer bearable.

Umm Mohammed, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what our rulers have done—and what they’ve failed to do. I’m sorry for the armies that parade but never march for you. I’m sorry that you must be brave while we merely talk. Words fail, but my heart is with you. I’m sorry for all that you’ve had to endure. I don’t have the right words, and maybe I never will—but I carry sorrow for what you’ve faced, and I carry hope with you. May Allah reward your patience and honour your resilience. I’m sorry that the world has failed you—but you have not been forgotten. I’m sorry—not just for your suffering, but for our silence, for our delays, for all the times we should’ve done more, sooner. You deserve better. I’m sorry that history repeats its cruelties on your soil. You live in the heart of our ummah’s wound—and in the core of our prayers. We will never stop calling for the liberation of Palestine, and insha’Allah your newborn will live in a better world—a free Gaza, a healed Ummah. We will continue to call upon the armies until one like Salahuddin rises and moves his entire army to liberate you all.

She replied with gratitude. She still thanked us. And I had to turn my face away from the screen. Because she had every right to be angry. But she chose Iman.

This, for me, is the greatest lesson I have ever received in geopolitics: that geopolitics is not a subject—it’s a casualty. That behind every map is a mother in a tent. That the price of delay is paid in the limbs of children. That the Ummah has not just been humiliated—we’ve been anesthetised.

Umm Mohammed wasn’t the loudest voice in that Twitter Space. But she was the truest. And if you heard her voice, you wouldn’t walk away unchanged.

She also sent a donation link. I promised her I would share it. And I hope, if you’ve read this far, you won’t scroll past it.

👉 Donate to Umm Mohammed and families here

May Allah give her strength, and may we be shaken out of our comfort long enough to act.