Israel targeted and destroyed a high-rise tower adjacent to our building but we refuse to leave.

Rania suffers an emotional breakdown, and Deek’s relationship with his daughters goes downhill.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22

* * *

A man came to the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) and said, “O Messenger of Allah, direct me to an act which, if I do it, [will cause] Allah to love me and the people to love me.” So he (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) said, “Renounce the world and Allah will love you, and renounce what the people possess and the people will love you.” – Ibn Majah

Remember the Good Stuff

By the time Rania had finished her impassioned recitation of the poem, tears coursed freely down her cheeks. Deek pressed his palms into his eyes to stifle his own imminent tears.

“Do you remember,” Rania went on, “our first little apartment on Millbrook?”

“It was hot and miserable, and we used to fight.”

“That’s not what I remember. I think about the sprinkler.”

Deek smiled involuntarily. They’d bought a rotary sprinkler for the little high-fenced backyard, and when the apartment grew too hot, they would play in the sprinkler. Rania would hike her dress to her knees and dance a flowing, graceful khaleeji dance, making billowing motions with the skirt.

“I forgot about that.”

“That’s your problem,” Rania said. “All you remember is crypto passwords. You forget the good times.”

Deek smiled slyly. “Oh, I remember plenty of the good stuff.”

“Okay, so?”

Deek inhaled deeply through his nose, then let it out. “Here’s where I get stuck. What if I had not struck it rich in crypto? What if I were still working like a dog in that sweltering closet, trying and failing? Would you be reciting love poetry and talking about the good old days? Or would you still be ridiculing me, shouting at me, and hanging out with Dr. Townsend?”

Now it was Rania’s turn to look away. Deek saw her jaw muscles clench and relax as she wiped tears away with her sleeve.

What Do You See?

To Deek’s shock, Rania suddenly leaned across and grabbed his jacket with both hands. Her face came close to his, and he thought she might kiss him. This thrilled him, but at the same time, he didn’t want it. He pulled away, but she held him tight.

“Look into my eyes, habibi. What do you see?” His wife stared into his eyes from only a few inches away. He could feel the heat coming off her skin and smell the tuna on her breath. Her eyes were as wide and dark as the night sky. Looking into those beautiful orbs, he saw love, fear, worry, and anger. He tried to speak, but his tongue was tied. Desire and resentment warred inside him, two old enemies battling alone on a scarred and barren plain. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Well?” Rania demanded.

Deek closed his eyes tightly and dropped his chin.

“Fine!” Rania thrust him away and moved back to her seat. Her mouth was a hard line. “Undo it all, then.” She tossed the Milestone debit card onto the dashboard. “Keep that. I’ll send back the money you transferred. Don’t give me anything at all. Keep it all for yourself, I don’t care. But come back to me.”

“Yeah.” He blurted out the first thing that came into his head. “But you know I have the money. So you can say that.”

Anger flashed across her face. “Ya electric eel! What will convince you? Whatever I say, you respond with suspicion. This money has poisoned you. Keep it all and don’t give me a penny. Wallahi, I mean it. Keep it all. Cancel the trust payments. I have to get back to work.” She exited the car and walked away.

Mummifying Himself

Watching her depart, Deek chewed on his lip. She’d said many beautiful things. She was right, what did he expect her to do? The answer was that he didn’t know. He had no idea what he wanted. He was a bull in a china shop, smashing everything around him because, well, that’s what happens when you put a bull in a tight space.

Zaid had once said, “Go the distance,” but what did that mean now? Deek was already wealthier than he could have ever imagined. Love of money might be the root of all evil, but Deek had been poor as well, and that wasn’t fun at all. So why did he feel like this crypto windfall was a slow poison working its way through his system, not killing him but turning him into a shade of his former self?

If love and forgiveness brought people’s hearts closer, then money seemed to do the opposite. It spurred misunderstandings, resentments, and even violence.

Deek felt like he was outfitting his own tomb. He was a pharaoh of old, but instead of having slaves to bury him when he died, he was doing it with his own hands: digging the tunnel, excavating the silent subterranean room, and filling it with the treasures that would surround him when he was nothing but a rotting corpse. Soon he’d be wrapping himself in cloth, mummifying himself for the long, still, and solitary centuries to come. The tomb might be called the Marco Polo, and the mummy’s rags were an Italian suit.

Adrift On The Tigris

Rania consoled herself with the thought that she’d done the best she could. She’d laid her heart open like a spatchcocked chicken. Limping painfully back to pediatrics, she made a little gesture with her hand, as if to say, it is what it is.

She had been tempted – when Deek was blathering on about the old Rania vs the new Rania, as if she were a soft drink whose formula had changed – to tell him about the home office she was building for him. But no, the office was a gift and an expression of love. She would not cheapen it by turning it into ammunition to fire at him during an argument. He would learn about it when he came home, inshaAllah. If he did not, he would not.

Unlike Deek, she knew what money was for. It existed to serve the needs of the family and the deen. Not to separate people.

She imagined herself now as a woman standing on a raft, adrift in the great Tigris River with no oar. The current would take her where it would. Hasbun Allahu wa ne’m Al-Wakeel.

Desiccated Fruit

It was very late when she arrived home, and the girls were asleep. The small knife stabbing her in the back had turned into a sword. Every step was an effort. She turned on the kitchen light, grabbed a yogurt out of the fridge, and saw the backpack on the table. This must be what Deek had sent with the girls.

She unzipped it and saw that it was stuffed with cash. There were wrapped stacks of 50 and 100-dollar bills. There was no letter, no card. Nothing personal at all. Just money.

She counted it. Two hundred thousand dollars. She felt her face turning hot. Was this a family or a mafia operation? Nostrils flaring with fury, she seized the backpack and shook it. The money stacks spilled out like desiccated fruit falling from a drought-struck tree. Rage suffused her body down to the very cells. She grabbed the edge of the dining table and lifted. The table tipped over with a crash, spilling the money and yogurt to the floor, along with last Sunday’s newspaper, a notebook, a pile of bills, and a glass bowl filled with fruit.

The bowl shattered, sending glass in every direction. Apples rolled across the floor and thudded against the wall. The money packs hit with a soft thud. At the same time, Rania’s back gave way, and she fell to the floor with a cry. She heard shouts from the girls’ rooms and a moment later they ran out, barefoot and hair disheveled. Their faces showed fear and shock. Sanaya looked all around, imagining an intruder, then stepped on broken glass and shouted, hopping on one foot. Amira was frozen in place.

Yet still Rania’s rage had not abated. As the girls – stepping carefully – pulled her off the floor, she rolled up to her knees and elbows and slapped the ground with one hand, sobbing.

The girls began to weep as well. Amira’s arms circled her and held on tightly. “It’s okay, Mom, ” her daughter said between sobs. “Everything’s okay.”

She had to stop. She was scaring her daughters. With an effort, she brought herself under control. “I’m sorry,” she told them. “You’re right, everything’s fine.”

With the girls’ help, she made it to the sofa, where she took a hydrocodone pill with a glass of water, then lay on her back with two cushions beneath her legs.

Sanaya sat beside her, cleaning and bandaging her own foot while Amira swept up the broken glass.

“I’m sorry about your foot,” Rania said.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

“You’re legit freaking us out,” Amira added.

“I’m sorry. I had an awful day, plus my back hurts. I lost a patient. Then I came home and saw all that money from your father, like he thinks it makes everything okay. I lost it. I went crazy.”

“Do you want to go to the hospital?” Sanaya asked.

Rania gave a bitter laugh. “I just came from there.”

Sanaya made a helpless motion. “What do you want us to do?”

Rania reached out and pulled her daughter into an embrace. “I’m fine now. I’ll sleep here. You two go back to bed.” She waved a hand toward the kitchen. “Tomorrow I want you to take that money back to your father.”

Electric Eel

The girls righted the table and picked up the fruit and other items. They each kissed her cheek, then returned to bed. Rania lay in the dark, regulating her breathing, trying to wrestle the hot pain into submission, and when that failed, trying to push it to the edge of her awareness. She breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth. Silently, she cursed cryptocurrency and wished it had never been invented.

The money in that backpack presented a dilemma. If she kept it, she could take a sabbatical from her job and pursue other opportunities. She could take the girls on a vacation. But the price was too high.

Deek was slipping away. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d spoken of their marriage in the past tense. She was trying to hold on to an electric eel, but it was too filled with voltage. Yet she would not let go, for though he thought he was leaving her behind, in reality, he was leaving the water that sustained him.

The refrigerator hummed, and ice from the ice maker rattled into the tray. A nightbird called with a mournful sound. She recited Surat Al-Ikhlaas, Al-Falaq, and An-Naas, then made her usual dua’ before sleeping. Finally, the pain faded, and sleep came like a ferryman, taking her – for a few hours at least – across an expanse of Stygian water, to a place where the only reality was Allah’s watchful dominion, and the only interruption would be her daily resurrection, by Allah’s will.

Neither Friends Nor Enemies

A knock sounded on the door of Deek’s suite early the next morning. Still sleepy-eyed, he opened the door expecting the maid, but there stood Sanaya. She was always a serious girl, but this morning she looked especially solemn.

“Sanaya!” He reached to give her a hug, but she pulled back. She did not greet him with salam. Instead, she thrust the backpack at him and said, “Mom had a breakdown last night. She doesn’t want the money.” She hesitated, then added, “Amira and I each kept a stack of cash.” Then she walked away.

Deek stood blinking. “Hey!” he called after Sanaya’s disappearing form, but she did not respond, and was soon gone, like a cheetah passing a lion in the tall grass and shying away, neither friends nor enemies.

It was one of the briefest and least amicable interactions he’d ever had with his eldest daughter.

The Man In The Mirror

Sinking into the desk chair with a worried frown, he texted Rania. “What happened? Sanaya says you had a breakdown. Why did you send back the money?”

He had been looking at Fresno real estate, particularly riverside homes, and as he browsed the offerings, he repeatedly glanced at his phone, awaiting Rania’s response. When it came, it was terse: “I had a bad day. I’m fine. Don’t want any money from you.”

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. So Rania wanted nothing to do with him. Lashing out, he kicked the bottom of the desk sullenly, then said, “Ow!” as his toes throbbed with pain.

It was time to move out of this hotel. He needed a real home. There was a high-end real estate office at Palm and Nees, near the river. They had an electronic board in the window that displayed some of their offerings, and Deek had looked at it from time to time in the past, fantasizing about which of the homes he would buy if he had the money. He looked up the number and made an appointment for 10:30 am.

He showered and put on the third suit he’d purchased, sliding into the charcoal herringbone jacket like it was armor. The fabric hugged his frame, clean and tailored, the steel-blue shirt beneath catching the light just enough to reflect his mood — sharp, cool, detached. He strapped on the knife as well, but it was mostly covered by the suit jacket, with only the tip showing along his hip.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he took a breath. The suit looked good. Yet he felt like he was looking at a stranger. How was he supposed to feel, wearing something like this? Showy and smiling like a politician? Cool and detached, like James Bond? Or sharp, like a Wall Street finance shark? He’d always known exactly who he was. Deek Saghir, son of an honorable Iraqi family, a Muslim, a loving husband, and a doting father. A man who worked hard to provide. A man with dreams that seemed beyond his reach, but toward which he was not afraid to stretch his arm. But the man in the mirror was someone he did not know.

Nomos Glashütte Tangente

The meeting with the real estate agent was still a few hours away, but he was already rehearsing how he’d ask for something bold — something no one else could find. A fortress by the river. A place to disappear.

His eyes drifted to the prayer rug rolled up on a chair. Today was Jum’ah. He hesitated. Was this suit too much for the masjid? Too expensive? Too loud?

He shook his head. I earned it. I’m walking my path. I have nothing to be ashamed of. He smoothed the lapels and reached for his wallet. It occurred to him that he wanted a watch. It seemed beneath him to have to dig his phone out whenever he wanted a time check. A man who was dressed as he was should have a watch.

Tangente Nomos Glashütte wristwatch

The clothing shop in the hotel lobby offered a selection of fine watches. Deek went downstairs, browsed for a bit, and bought a German watch called a Nomos Glashütte. The Tangente model cost over two thousand dollars, yet had a minimalist design with a thin profile. The saleswoman assured him that the watch could last generations, and would make an excellent heirloom.

He devoured a spinach and mushroom omelette in the hotel restaurant, being careful not to stain the suit.

Leaving the hotel, he made a quick stop at a print shop and ordered business cards. They printed 100 for him on the spot and told him he could pick up the rest of the order tomorrow. The cards furnished his name, phone number, and email, and nothing else.

The meeting with the real estate company was a farce. He was assigned an older man with lacquered white hair and an unnaturally bright smile. The man pulled out an actual, honest-to-goodness plastic binder and showed him home flyers in plastic sleeves. None were remotely what Deek was looking for. Unfazed, the man ushered Deek out to a silver Lexus and spent an hour and a half driving him from one McMansion to another, all of them miles from the river. “You’ll love the HOA pool, Mr. Saghir,” he said brightly.

Deek instructed the man to return him to the office, thanked him, and walked out without taking the man’s proffered card.

Masjid Madinah

It was time for Jum’ah. Masjid Madinah was small, with an actual grassy front yard shaded by walnut trees, and a ping pong table in back. Very different from Masjid Umar, where he’d gone last week. Where Umar served a community of wealthy immigrant males, Madinah was mostly working-class converts: African-Americans, Latinos, and the occasional Caucasian, with a scattering of immigrants. Women actually outnumbered men. Rather than a private ethnic club, Masjid Madinah felt like a family.

Deek was early, and the masjid was mostly empty. Sitting with his back to the wall, he noticed that the paint on the walls, which formerly had been peeling and worn, was now fresh and bright, and the once threadbare carpets had been replaced with lush new rugs. He knew this was probably due to his donation, and this made him smile.

It was hard to believe that it had been only a week since he’d struck it rich in crypto. It was only last Friday that he’d bought the doomed Porsche. Crazy how much had happened.

He texted Rania again, asking her how she was. Then he picked up a mushaf and read for a while, refreshing his memory of the Juz ‘Ammah surahs. The much-needed sense of peace that had eluded him by the riverside finally descended. He felt like he was sitting beside a high-country lake in Yosemite, like the gorgeous Dog Lake at 9,0o0 feet. He and Marco had driven up there one summer and picnicked beside the mirror-bright water and crowded pines. The memory was like a dream: the stillness and silence, but for the rat-a-tatting of a woodpecker, and the occasional call of a frog.

His first indication of impending trouble came when he heard loud whispering and looked up to see a couple of young Latino brothers studying him intently. In fact, a lot of eyes were on him. Looking around, he shrank into himself when his eyes met those of Dr. Rana, a slight acquaintance whom he’d talked to a few times. The Pakistani cardiologist was staring at Deek as if he meant to devour him. His thinning hair was disheveled, and his dress shirt was wrinkled. His eyes were hollow, as if he hadn’t slept in many days.

Deek breathed a sigh of relief when Imam Saleh walked in. The masjid was full from wall to wall by then. The Imam must have noticed the air of agitation, because after beginning his khutbah, he stopped to call for silence, then continued.

***

Come back next week for Part 24 inshaAllah

 

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Day Of The Dogs, Part 1 – Tiny Ripples Of Hope

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 23] – The Man In The Mirror appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A man arrived at the masjid carrying nothing but need and an ancient faith: that houses of worship exist for those whom life has abandoned, that communities claiming connection to the divine actually honor divine commands about mercy.

His request was simple. Direct. Money for survival. The transaction that should flow as naturally as water from those who have abundance to those facing drought.

The imam’s refusal was equally direct. “There’s a process,” he explained. Forms to complete. Committees to consult. Procedures that transform divine obligation into bureaucratic theater.

What happened next was the systematic destruction of a human soul desperate for grace.

First, a kiss to the imam’s forehead, a cultural gesture seeking to unlock mercy through respect. When respect failed, the hands came next, the universal language of supplication escalating the plea. Finally, the feet. A grown man kissing the ground where compassion should have stood, surrendering the last fragments of his dignity for scraps of help.

Each kiss was hope translated into humiliation. Each gesture revealed how completely we have corrupted divine instruction, replacing God’s immediate commands with our endless complications.

“I felt very uncomfortable,” the imam later confessed during his lecture on emotional intelligence, sharing this soul’s destruction as an example of challenging situations where community leaders might need support in processing difficult encounters.

Here’s what should make you uncomfortable: your system created this scene.

As he spoke, different discomfort carved itself into my chest. The sound of spiritual bankruptcy is so complete that it forces human beings to kiss feet for acknowledgment of their basic worthiness to exist.

That drowning man wasn’t manipulating anyone. He was performing increasingly desperate acts to penetrate bureaucratic armor with raw human need. And we made him do it.

You Are Not Allah’s Gatekeeper

Stop pretending you are.

When did you appoint yourself the quality control manager of Divine Mercy? When did you decide that Allah’s Provision requires your investigative approval before reaching His Creation?

What costs more, occasionally helping someone who might not have desperately needed it, or turning away someone who actually did?

Your price for being deceived: pocket change that won’t change your life. Their price for your refusal: death. Despair. The final decision that mercy doesn’t exist in this world.

You’ve deluded yourself into believing that protecting money from theoretical fraud justifies protecting yourself from actual human suffering.

They Shame You Daily

While you construct investigative committees and debate worthiness, Americans have revolutionized compassion through trust. GoFundMe has moved thirty billion dollars to people in crisis. No background checks. No worthiness tribunals. No humiliating applications.

Crisis gets posted. Money flows. Help arrives.

They respond with lightning efficiency while you deliberate with glacial bureaucracy, despite your possessing more explicit divine commands about immediate charity. They built highways to mercy while you constructed obstacle courses to protection.

Listen to your Quran’s clarity:

“And in their wealth is a recognized right for the needy and the deprived.” [Surah Adh-Dhariyat; 51:19]

A RIGHT. Not charity you graciously bestow after thorough investigation. Not assistance contingent on proving worthiness to your satisfaction. A right as fundamental and immediate as their need for oxygen.

You have perverted this divine right into a bureaucratic privilege, transforming what Allah made simple into what you made impossible.

Your Perverted Architecture

Ramadan fundraising operates like professional campaigns, raising millions through passionate appeals and competitive generosity. Building projects, conference funding, speaker fees, your money machinery runs with High precision when serving your institutional priorities.

Then Monday morning desperation knocks. That family facing eviction discovers your money requires different rules entirely. Poverty documentation. Weekly committee meetings. Urgent crisis transformed into patient waiting for your convenience.

The mathematics condemn you: Muslim Americans pour 4.3 billion dollars annually into charity, yet homeless families sleep in parking lots while you debate their documentation requirements.

The Prophet’s masjid featured dirt floors, yet permanently housed whoever needed shelter. Your marble palace develops procedural complications for temporarily helping anyone.

You’ve replaced sanctuary with bureaucracy, mercy with management, divine hospitality with human gatekeeping.

The Predators You Birthed

Your failures have consequences beyond slow help; they create hunting grounds for predators.

When official channels fail through endless committees and waiting, desperation seeks alternatives. Your inadequacy births exploitation targeting those you claim to serve.

“When you make legitimate help so difficult that people seek alternatives, you bear moral responsibility for every predator who fills the vacuum you created.” [PC:Nick Fewings (unsplash)]

Community members offer assistance while expecting inappropriate access or gratitude. But worse: individuals weaponize charity itself, positioning themselves as brokers between wealthy donors and desperate families, then wielding this borrowed power like medieval lords extracting tribute.

They demand public gratitude for others’ money. They create humiliation theater where recipients perform appreciation for strangers’ entertainment. They document their “generosity” on social media using funds they never earned to purchase social status they never deserved.

When resistance emerges, they deploy psychological warfare. Sighing about “ungrateful attitudes” during community gatherings. Manufacturing consensus against dissenters. Mobilizing desperate families (terrified of losing their lifeline) to attack anyone challenging the broker’s illegitimate authority.

They transform charity from liberation into social control, discovering that controlling assistance means controlling people. They command armies of the desperate, each family a weapon against the next who might resist.

This is your creation. When you make legitimate help so difficult that people seek alternatives, you bear moral responsibility for every predator who fills the vacuum you created.

Gaza Reveals Your Hypocrisy

Right now, millions flow toward Gaza through channels you know are imperfect. Military checkpoints extract tribute. International facilitators charge devastating commissions. Bureaucratic mazes delay aid while people starve. Twenty percent of donations might reach intended recipients if fortune smiles.

Yet you give urgently, accepting imperfection, understanding that crisis demands immediate response despite systemic complications.

Meanwhile, here in America, you spend weeks investigating whether the homeless man outside your masjid deserves twenty dollars for food.

You accept flawed efficiency for distant suffering while demanding perfect systems for local mercy. You understand that war complicates Gaza distribution, yet refuse to understand that poverty, addiction, and desperation create complications requiring immediate response rather than extended investigation.

Gaza mirrors your moral failure. You give to faraway crises with trust while bureaucratizing nearby mercy with suspicion.

The Divine Trap You Cannot Escape

When someone asks for help, Allah arranged that intersection. The Lord of all circumstances orchestrated this meeting of their need and your resources. He delivered them to your door specifically.

The Creator positions a person in need before you, and you respond with suspicion, investigation, or delay? You demand they prove to you what Allah has already authenticated by bringing them to your attention?

Every broken soul stumbling through your doors carries divine examination wrapped in human flesh: “Will you be My mercy on earth, or another reason to surrender hope?”

That struggling man isn’t failing his test by arriving imperfect. You are failing yours by demanding perfection before offering mercy.

Your Orders Are Simple

Emergency funds available same day. No exceptions. Dignified assistance, recognizing that asking for help has already cost them everything. Clear criteria published transparently.

But fundamentally: Give when someone asks. Give what you can afford to lose. Stop investigating backgrounds. Stop interrogating motives. Stop creating barriers between recognizing need and responding to it.

If someone deceives you, that becomes their account with Allah , not yours. Your spiritual record stays clean because you responded to apparent need with mercy.

Your Judgment Approaches

That man kissing the imam’s feet revealed your system’s moral bankruptcy. You have created structures so divorced from mercy that desperate people must perform degrading acts to access what should flow like rain.

The Prophet said:

“Whoever relieves a believer’s distress of the distressful aspects of this world, Allah will rescue him from a difficulty of the difficulties of the Hereafter.”

Every barrier you construct will be examined. Every delay you impose while people suffer will require accounting. Every humiliation you demand will be weighed against your own desperate need for mercy on the Day when no committee will deliberate your worthiness, and no process will delay divine judgment of how you responded when mercy was needed most.

Every day you delay, another soul learns that your masjid is where hope goes to die.

 

Related:

– Faith In Action: Zakat, Sadaqah, And Islam’s Role In Embracing Humanitarianism In A Globalized World

– [Podcast] A Riba-Free Future With A Continuous Charity | Faizan Syed

The post The Architecture of Withholding: When Charity Becomes Control appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Palestinians mourn over the bodies of loved ones as Israel continues to massacre hundreds.

In October 1973, Arab oil producers led by Saudi Arabia imposed an oil embargo on the United States and other nations backing Israel during the Yom Kippur War. That bold move triggered a global energy crisis and helped bring about a ceasefire. It was a rare moment of Arab assertiveness on the world stage.

Fast forward to today: Israel’s relentless bombardment of Gaza has killed more than 65,000* people—mostly women and children—according to humanitarian sources. A recent UN commission has even accused Israel of committing genocide. Yet, the Arab response has been largely symbolic. Statements of condemnation, calls for restraint, and summits filled with rhetoric have replaced meaningful action. The contrast with 1973 could not be starker.

Since that pivotal year, the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) countries—Saudi Arabia, UAE, Qatar, Kuwait, Bahrain, and Oman—have spent close to half a trillion dollars on Western weapons. According to estimates from the SIPRI Arms Transfers Database:

• Saudi Arabia: $150–200+ billion
• UAE: $50–80+ billion
• Qatar: $30–50+ billion
• Kuwait: $20–30+ billion
• Bahrain & Oman: $10–20+ billion (combined)

Yet, despite this massive investment, not a single GCC country has fired a weapon at Israel since 1973. The only direct military involvement by a Gulf state was a small Saudi contingent in the 1948 Arab-Israeli War—before the GCC even existed.

Meanwhile, Israel has not hesitated to strike targets in GCC countries. In September 2025, Israeli warplanes bombed a location in Doha, Qatar, targeting Hamas leaders and killing several Qatari citizens. This brazen act exposed the vulnerability of even the most well-armed Arab states and the hollowness of their strategic alliances.

So why do GCC countries continue to spend billions on weapons they never use against the region’s most aggressive actor? The answer lies in the geopolitical narrative shaped by Western powers. The USA and its allies have long portrayed Iran, Iraq, and other Shi’a-majority nations as the primary threats to Gulf stability. Western arms sales are marketed not just as tools of defense but as symbols of prestige and political alignment. 

Citizens are rarely told that these contracts often include restrictions on how and where the weapons can be used—especially against Israel. Using Western-supplied arms against Israel would likely trigger sanctions, loss of military support, and diplomatic fallout. GCC leaders are reminded of Iran’s fate since the fall of the Shah in 1979—a cautionary tale of defiance punished by isolation.

Even more troubling is the lack of protection these alliances offer. The United States, which maintains military bases across the Gulf, did not warn Qatari leaders about the impending Israeli strike in Doha. The so-called safety net proved worthless. The U.S. response was muted, and no action was taken against Israel. The message was clear: when Israel attacks, even America’s closest Arab allies are left exposed.

President Joe Biden has openly called Israel a “God-send” for the United States. He once remarked that if Israel didn’t exist, America would have to invent it. President Donald Trump is even more unabashed in his support for Israel. His daughter Ivanka converted to Judaism, and his son-in-law Jared Kushner—a deeply connected Orthodox Jewish real estate mogul—played a central role in shaping Trump’s Middle East policy. Trump’s designation of Qatar as a Major Non-NATO Ally in 2022 did little to shield it from Israeli aggression. Qatari officials were informed of the airstrike only ten minutes after it occurred.

So what good are trillions of dollars in weapons if GCC countries won’t defend their own sovereignty, let alone protect Palestinians from Israeli aggression? Qatar didn’t retaliate. Instead, it convened a summit in Doha to discuss the attack.

The result? A familiar spectacle of unity and impotence.

Leaders from the Arab League and the Organization of Islamic Cooperation (OIC), joined by representatives from Indonesia to Senegal, gathered in Doha to express solidarity. The summit concluded with a strongly worded communique condemning Israel and reaffirming support for Qatar. But beyond the rhetoric, there were no sanctions, no diplomatic breaks, no economic pressure—just words.

It was a stark reminder that 0 + 0 + 0 + … + 0 still equals 0.

At the summit, Gulf leaders called on the United States to rein in Israel. Jasem Mohamed al-Budaiwi, Secretary General of the GCC, urged Washington to use its “leverage and influence” to stop Israeli aggression. But such appeals are increasingly disconnected from reality. Trump’s recent comment—“it’s up to Israel what it does in Gaza”—underscored the futility of expecting restraint from Washington.

Hours after the summit ended, Israeli forces launched a new ground offensive in Gaza City, undeterred by regional condemnation.

When will Arab leaders learn that they cannot rely on a fox to guard a henhouse? Appeasing and paying protection money to those who enable mass murder is not diplomacy—it’s complicity.

The Doha summit laid bare the limits of Arab diplomacy. Despite their oil wealth, modern infrastructure, and global investments, Gulf states have failed to convert economic power into political leverage. This impotence is not just a failure of strategy—it reflects a deeper structural weakness. Without the will or ability to challenge U.S. policy or impose costs on Israel, Arab states are left issuing statements that carry little weight.

As the humanitarian crisis in Gaza deepens and international outrage grows, the Arab world faces a moment of reckoning. Will it continue to rely on symbolic gestures and appeals to Western powers? Or will it rediscover the assertiveness it once wielded in 1973?

For now, the answer seems clear. The communique from Doha may have expressed solidarity, but it did nothing to stop the bombs from falling.

[* This number is a masked figure and reflects an estimated one-tenth of the actual scale, from research noting that “the actual death toll was likely much higher given the exclusion of non-trauma deaths resulting from the destruction of health care facilities, food insecurity, and lack of water and sanitation.”]

 

Related:

– 150 Muslim Leaders And Institutions Now Say Arab Muslim Nations Should Cancel Abraham Accords, Suspend Oil Sales, Close Airspace To Israel, And Send Diplomatic Aid Mission To Gaza

– What A Rubio: United States Throws Weight Behind Israel After Aggression On Qatar

The post 0+0+0 = 0 : The Empty Promise Of Arab Solidarity In Doha appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.