Some well-meaning and even sensible minds have begun to ask: if, after all, the end was destined to be negotiations and a ceasefire, then why did the resistance of Gaza endure such colossal sacrifice? Over sixty-six thousand martyrs, more than a hundred thousand injured, a city reduced to rubble, and lives shattered — what was gained from this sea of blood and ruin?
At first glance, these questions may sound reasonable, but in truth, they expose a deep amnesia of the ummah’s collective memory and a lack of understanding of the very philosophy of sacrifice. This struggle did not begin today. The story of devotion and blood for the First Qibla spans a thousand years.
History bears witness that in 1099, when the Crusaders stormed Jerusalem, more than seventy thousand Muslims were massacred inside Al-Aqsa Mosque alone. The Islamic historians Ibn al-Athir and Ibn al-Qalanisi, as well as William of Tyre, the Latin chronicler, have described this carnage in detail. Ibn al-Athir writes in Al-Kamil (vol. 9, pp. 5–7):
“When the Crusaders entered the city, they spared neither women nor children, neither the old nor the young. The blood of the slain flowed on the floor of Al-Aqsa until it reached the knees of their horses. For three days the fire of slaughter and looting consumed the city. Even after the massacre ended, the Crusaders roamed the streets for forty more days, hunting down those who had survived — burning, torturing, and executing them.”
In Tarikh Dimashq (p. 398), Ibn al-Qalanisi recounts that “the Crusaders looted Jerusalem and killed more than seventy thousand Muslims. They set fire to the mosques and the homes, and inside Al-Aqsa the blood ran like rainwater down the streets.” This tragedy unfolded on 15 July 1099, and for three days the mosque’s sacred courtyards were turned into streams of blood.
Among those martyrs were over a thousand women scholars and jurists. These pious, learned women had devoted their lives to worship and teaching within Al-Aqsa. During the Crusader onslaught, they gathered in the eastern section of the mosque, near the Qubbat as-Silsila, where they continued to pray and supplicate till their final breaths. They could have fled, but they chose instead to embrace martyrdom within the House of God.
Later historians remembered them as the Murābiṭāt of Al-Aqsa — the women who stood guard over the mosque with faith as their only shield. Imam Ibn al-‘Arabi al-Maliki, in Sirāj al-Murīdīn, called them “the pride of the Ummah.” Their story stands as an immortal chapter in Islamic history — that Muslim women too have never stood behind men when it came to sacrifice. They not only filled the courtyards of Al-Aqsa with knowledge and devotion but also sanctified its soil with their blood.
Even today, their legacy lives on. In remembrance of those Murābiṭāt, there now exists a formal corps — the Murābiṭīn and Murābiṭāt of Al-Aqsa — more than 1,500 volunteers who take turns guarding the sanctuaries of Jerusalem against occupation and desecration. Historians agree that no other sacred place on earth has received as much blood and sacrifice from the Muslim Ummah as the First Qibla.
And it is precisely this spiritual continuum that today’s people of Gaza represent. Their struggle is not a rebellion of desperation — it is a revival of that ancient vow. Their sacrifice reminds the world that Palestine is not just a piece of land, but a symbol of faith, dignity, and endurance.
To those who doubt, history offers its reply: the blood shed in 1099 did not dry in vain. Ninety years later, it became the sword of Salah al-Din al-Ayyubi, who reclaimed Jerusalem and restored the call to prayer in its blessed courtyards.
In the same way, the blood of Gaza’s martyrs today is a prelude to some future Salah al-Din. The effects of their sacrifice are not confined to the battlefield — they are reshaping global consciousness.
Look at Spain, once the graveyard of Andalusian Muslims where minarets were toppled and faith was outlawed for centuries. Today that very land has become one of the loudest voices for Palestine. The human chains across Spanish cities, the hundreds of thousands marching with banners proclaiming “Palestine is not alone” — these are not mere protests, but signs of a moral reawakening.
This awakening is not fleeting. Across Europe, South America, Africa, and the Far East, solidarity movements for Palestine are rewriting the moral climate. Several European governments have introduced resolutions condemning Israeli policies. Aid organizations have raised record-breaking funds for Gaza. Universities, churches, and civil societies have opened their doors to the Palestinian cause. Even in the realm of media, a seismic shift is underway.
The Israeli narrative that once dominated global airwaves is now crumbling under scrutiny. The images of Gaza’s dead children, shattered women, and mourning elders have pierced the conscience of the world. The Palestinian struggle is no longer seen as a local conflict — it has become a test of humanity itself, a question of justice, law, and morality.
Already, human rights groups and international bodies are challenging Israel’s war crimes and siege policies. The battle for Gaza has transformed into a battle for human values — for the very soul of global civilization.
The pure blood of Gaza’s martyrs has awakened an entire generation. Surveys across the Western world show that Gen Z overwhelmingly stands with Palestine. Even in America, many young people now regard the Palestinian resistance as justified. These very youth will one day be the policymakers, legislators, and leaders of tomorrow — and then, who can say these sacrifices were in vain?
This is what the blind critics fail to see. Those who ask, “What has been achieved?” measure faith with the scales of arithmetic. They cannot grasp that the people of Gaza are rekindling the spiritual consciousness of the Ummah. Non-Muslims are embracing Islam in record numbers. Muslim youth, once adrift, are returning to their faith with renewed conviction. As one Al Jazeera report put it — “The storm of Al-Aqsa has made Muslims, once again, Muslim.”
These sacrifices are the seeds from which freedom’s harvest will grow. Those who question Gaza’s blood must remember the history of Jerusalem, the martyrdom of the Murābiṭāt, the triumph of Salah al-Din, and the awakening of modern Andalus. The journey of sacrifice never ends — only its destinations change.
The blood that flows today will rise tomorrow as the dawn of liberation. This is not the agony of Gaza — it is the awakening of the Ummah. And faith holds firm to this truth:
“From the skies of Al-Quds, the sun of freedom shall surely rise.”
(The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or position of FoEJ Media.)
