The Man Who Could Not Walk—But Moved a Nation

They called him fragile.

They mocked his wheelchair.
They said, "What can a cripple do against tanks and missiles?"

But from that chair of rust and faith,
Ahmad Yasin
moved a generation.

He had no army, only belief.
No missiles, only the Qur’an.
No voice that roared, only whispers shaped by paralysis—
yet each word struck harder than bombs.

He was blind.
He was half-paralyzed.
He was hunted.
And yet,
he stood taller than tyrants.

He was the founder of Hamas,
not to spread terror,
but to reclaim dignity.
Not to seek war,
but to end occupation.

While the world watched in silence,
he taught boys with stones to be lions,
he taught mothers to raise sons without fear,
he taught the oppressed that resistance
was not a crime—
but a right carved by justice.

Zion feared his prayers
more than they feared rockets.
Because his prayer was clear:
“Victory or martyrdom.”

And one morning,
after Fajr,
as he left the mosque—
unarmed, old, and broken—
they sent a missile.

Not one. Three.

To silence a man
who could not run,
could not shoot,
could only speak.

But martyrdom is not death.
It is a rebirth.
And his voice now echoes in alleys, in chants, in hearts.

They killed the man.
But they could never kill what he stood for.

He remains,
The man who could not walk,
but made his people rise.