We Were Praying at 5:30. The Shooting Happened at 5:40
Dec 02, 2025
Last Friday—Thanksgiving weekend—something happened that I’m still processing.
I was visiting my parents and sister in the Bay Area for the holidays. It was colder than LA, and after Jumu’ah and lunch, I curled up under a blanket and fell asleep in front of the TV. My sister had invited me to go with her to Valley Fair Mall, but I was exhausted from my 10-mile morning bike ride and honestly didn’t feel like shopping. However, she didn’t leave me alone—she woke me up, insisted I come, and asked the kids to drop us off so they could hang out at a café.
Black Friday… the busiest day of the year in American malls.
I’m grateful we didn’t drive—traffic started four or five streets before the mall, so we walked the rest of the way.
We didn’t have anything specific to buy. My sister picked up a moisturizer for her, and by then it was already Maghrib time. We planned to pray in the women’s Macy’s dressing room. On the way, we got distracted trying on sunglasses, taking pictures, and messaging the family to vote on which one I should get. The mall’s signal was weak, so I connected to the free WiFi.
It was already late for Maghrib, and my sister pulled me away to go pray.
The time was 5:30 pm.
We went upstairs, picked up a random dress so we could enter the changing rooms, and each went into a separate stall right next to each other. We started our prayer.
After I finished my prayer, I remained seated and continued doing adhkar. My sister was finishing her sunnah.
It was 5:40 pm.
Suddenly we heard loud noises—screaming, rushing—and for a second I thought it was an earthquake. But nothing was shaking. The next moment, people were running straight toward the dressing rooms. I opened my door and a group of people rushed inside with me and shut the door behind them.
Chaos. No one knew what was happening.
Someone said they heard a gunshot. Another said the shooter was still out there.
The woman standing closest to me was shaking uncontrollably. Her phone had no signal. I asked her to pause and breathe and told her we were okay for now. I could see my sister’s feet in the stall beside mine and we were talking back and forth, but she wanted to be with me. She cracked open her door, checked the hallway, and darted into my room.
We had no idea who the shooter was, where he was, or why any of this was happening. All we knew was that people were running for their lives.
A few minutes later, store staff escorted us into the warehouse behind the fitting rooms. About 100 people were already crowded inside. As soon as we entered, they locked the door.
People tried calling 911—no signal.
I was still connected to WiFi, so my call actually went through. I handed the phone to my sister and she gave our location and told them there were over 100 people sheltering inside.
Not long after, an announcement came:
Everyone needed to evacuate the mall and hide in or between cars in the parking structure.
When we stepped out, the mall that had been buzzing with life minutes earlier looked like a ghost town. Parking lots filling with people ducking behind vehicles. Sirens everywhere. Police cars lined across every exit.
We didn’t have a car there, so we just started walking—passing police, SWAT-style gear, ambulances—wanting nothing more than to reach home and see our family.
But here’s what hit me hardest:
Salah protected us.
Had we not prayed Maghrib at 5:30…
Had we still been trying on sunglasses…
Had my sister not insisted I join her…
Had we walked a little slower…
We would’ve been right where the shooting happened.
Salah literally took us out of that space at the exact moment we needed to be removed.
And another thing I can’t shake:
The panic we felt—the confusion, the fear, the way people ran, the way we just wanted to go home—immediately reminded me of the people of Gaza.
Except…
We had hundreds of police officers around us.
We had a locked room.
We had a home waiting for us.
And we still didn’t feel safe.
The people of Gaza have none of that.
Not even their homes are safe.
Not their streets.
Not their shelters.
Not their prayers.
We experienced ten minutes of fear.
They have lived more than 400 days of it.
Walking back that night, my sister and I kept saying the same thing:
If this is how we reacted to a few moments of panic on one random day… what must the people of Gaza feel—every hour, every day, for over a year?
Alhamdulillah for safety.
Alhamdulillah for prayer.
Alhamdulillah for the chance to return home that night.
And may Allah protect the innocent everywhere—especially those whose fear has become a daily reality.
May Allah wrap the people of Gaza in His mercy, His protection, and His unimaginable gentleness.
May He replace their fear with safety, their hunger with relief, their grief with healing, and their separation with reunion.
May Allah elevate their martyrs, cure their wounded, strengthen their families, and place light upon light in the hearts of their children.
May Allah honor them for their patience, their resilience, and their unshakable faith.
And may Allah forgive us —
for our distractions,
for our comfort,
for our delayed gratitude,
for the days we worship with heedlessness,
and for the moments we do too little when our brothers and sisters endure so much.
Ya Allah, wake our hearts before You wake our bodies.
Make us people who feel for the Ummah, act for the Ummah, and stand for truth even when it’s uncomfortable.
Protect our homes, protect our families, and never let us take our safety for granted.
Ya Rabb, grant victory, relief, and freedom to the people of Gaza.
And make us worthy of being part of their duÊ¿Ä, not their disappointment.
Ameen, ameen, ameen ya Rabb al-‘alameen.
https://www.cbsnews.com/sanfrancisco/news/san-jose-valley-fair-mall-shooting-black-friday/
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