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In the last ten nights of Ramadan, the enforced silence of Al-Aqsa’s courtyards becomes a powerful reminder of faith, resistance, and the Ummah’s spiritual responsibility.
When devotion becomes resistance, and the sacred stones weep for the Ummah.
By SAADIA GANI
The green door would open quietly, and before us stood the Dome of the Rock, glowing beneath the Ramadan night. For the past three Ramadans, for a few nights I walked the courtyards of Al-Aqsa, feeling the sacredness of a place that has echoed with prayers for centuries. We would share iftar with hundreds of Palestinian families, pray Taraweeh, and remain inside the Al-Aqsa sanctuary through the night — the gates closed by the guards at 4am, when the soldiers would reopen them and we would return to the hotel for suhoor.
Then, after Fajr, something beautiful would happen. Elderly Palestinian women from the surrounding neighbourhoods would form Qur’an circles, reading and reciting the Qur’an and engaging in Quranic discussion. These circles became a form of resistance — their presence and prayers silently guarding Al-Aqsa, a testament that devotion could protect what force could not.
Even in these moments, a quiet sorrow lingered. Deep down, I knew that every visit could be my last. Every year, the shadow of encroachment grew heavier; every year, the sanctity of Al-Aqsa felt more fragile. The presence of those who do not belong in Al-Aqsa became more apparent.
I witnessed Jews entering the courtyards, permitted to remain and pray for hours at a time. Last year, this presence stretched for hours — a stark reminder of the shifting realities within our sacred space. And now, with the escalation of war in Iran and the ensuing closures, Al-Aqsa has been silenced during the holiest month of Ramadan — a time meant for worship, reflection, and closeness to Allah.
Al-Aqsa now cries, and her voice echoes through her empty courtyards. It is not a loud cry, but a subtle, heart-wrenching whisper felt in the hearts of those who have loved her for generations. Her tears fall in the last ten nights of Ramadan, when our hearts are meant to be closest to Allah, when devotion is meant to illuminate every corner of our souls. Her cry is a lament — for sanctity violated, for the silence of the Muslim Ummah, and for the interruption of a resistance long woven into her walls. She mourns the loss of leaders like Ismail Haniyeh and Yahya Sinwar, and the countless martyrs who dedicated their lives to protecting her. She grieves for the suffering of the people of Gaza and for those who endure life under occupation around her sacred walls.
But beyond grief, her cries are also a mirror. They reflect our own spiritual condition and the state of the Islamic Ummah — fragmented, divided, and disempowered. For centuries, Muslims stood as guardians of this sacred space, striving for justice, sanctity, and freedom. Today, as the courtyards and surroundings of Al-Aqsa echo with absence rather than worship, we are called to reflect: have we lost touch with the essence of our responsibility?
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The liberation of Al-Aqsa is not merely a political endeavour; it is a spiritual imperative. It is a call to uphold justice, protect sanctity, and act with courage. Yet this responsibility begins within. Each tear that falls from her sacred stones reminds us that our faith, our devotion, and our awareness are our first instruments of resistance.
As we enter the last ten nights of Ramadan, let us not only seek forgiveness and mercy for ourselves but also for Al-Aqsa — for her sanctity, her preservation, and for the countless faithful who have long awaited her liberation. Let her cries awaken us — not to despair, but to devotion; not to resignation, but to resolve. May these nights inspire reflection on our purpose, our faith, and our duty. May we honour Al-Aqsa not only with words, but with hearts committed to justice, sanctity, and courage.
As the last ten nights descend, Al-Aqsa’s cry is not merely a lament — it is a call. A call to awaken our faith, to renew our devotion, and to remember the trust that rests upon this Ummah. Her courtyards may stand empty, but her light has not dimmed. It lives in the prayers of those who remember her, in the hearts that refuse to forget her sanctity, and in the souls that rise in the night seeking Allah’s mercy. Al-Aqsa cries in these sacred nights — and her tears ask only that we remember our duty, renew our faith, and answer her call with courage, devotion, and unwavering hope.
Saadia Gani is an attorney with Honours in English and a Masters in human rights law. Her writings and research focus on social justice, spirituality and contemporary Muslim discourse.
