Mohamed Miah – The Narratives
There’s a smell that never leaves you once you’ve seen what power does to the innocent.
It’s not blood or fire — it’s the stench of corruption, arrogance, and lies wrapped in diplomacy.
The kind of rot that comes from men in suits signing death warrants with polished pens while sipping their afternoon coffee.
They call it policy.
We call it murder.
And I can’t stomach it anymore.
The World as a Trading Floor of Death
They invade nations and call it liberation.
They bomb cities and call it precision.
They kill children and call it collateral.
Every word they use is an insult to humanity — a linguistic disguise for bloodlust.
They don’t see faces, only fields to test their weapons and economies to “rebuild” once they’ve reduced them to dust.
For them, war is a balance sheet.
For us, it’s graves and broken memories.
The Survivor’s Curse
What happens when a whole family is wiped out and one child survives?
That child carries ghosts instead of dreams.
Every prayer, every meal, every moment of quiet is haunted by the faces that never came home.
And the world dares to call them radical when they lose faith in humanity?
You destroy their world, erase their past, and then blame them for their rage.
You leave them with trauma that no therapy can fix — because you can’t cure loss that was never accidental.
Even soldiers come back broken — shaking, drinking, screaming into the night — while the architects of war sleep soundly in their mansions.
The Ivory Towers of Indifference
Politicians don’t bleed; they calculate.
They talk about “national interests” while their souls rot in hypocrisy.
They smile for cameras, roll out speeches about democracy, and return to boardrooms where the next war is already drafted.
They have no smell of the dead in their nostrils.
No sound of mothers clawing at rubble in their ears.
That’s why I say — the world doesn’t hate politics; it hates politicians.
Because they’ve become salesmen of suffering, not leaders of people.
Faith in the Age of Rot
When one Muslim hurts, we all hurt.
That’s not poetry — that’s creed.
It’s what keeps the Ummah human when the rest of the world has gone numb.
Because for us, every drop of blood is sacred. Every tear matters.
The Prophet ﷺ said:
“The believers are like one body; if one limb suffers, the whole body responds with sleeplessness and fever.”
(Sahih Muslim, 2586)
And when oppression floods the earth, we remember what Allah warned:
“Do not think that Allah is unaware of what the wrongdoers do.
He only delays them for a Day when eyes will stare in horror.”
(Surah Ibrahim, 14:42)
So we bow, we pray, and we speak truth — even when our voices tremble.
Du‘ā for the oppressed:
اللهم انصر المستضعفين في كل مكان، وكن لهم عونًا ونصيرًا، وارحم شهداءهم، واشفِ جرحاهم، وبدّل خوفهم أمنًا وإيمانًا.
“O Allah, help the oppressed wherever they are. Be their aid and protector. Have mercy on their martyrs, heal their wounded, and replace their fear with safety and faith.”
I Write So I Don’t Rot
Sometimes I think my disgust could drown me — it sits in the gut like poison.
But I write, because silence would make me complicit.
I write for the broken, the forgotten, the nameless graves that never made the news.
Because truth is a form of worship too.
Let the powerful build their empires on bones;
let the believers build their legacy on conscience.
The world may forget the victims —
but Allah never does.
Faith & Reflection
The Narratives is my space for truth, pain, and hope.
A place where words are not decoration — they are resistance.
May every post be a form of dhikr, a reminder that truth still lives among the ruins.
The Narratives - Mohamed Miah 
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