Nida Basit Tahir, Norway
I can never forget the exact moment I fell to my knees in prostration, eight months pregnant and an ocean away, begging Allah to let me see my father one last time. He lay in a medically induced coma in a London ICU, his lungs failing from COVID-19, while I remained trapped in Norway by pandemic restrictions and my own fragile pregnancy.
There are certain moments when all human efforts fail. It’s a fire that ensnares you, wrapping itself around your last defence until it squeezes the light of hope from your eyes. Many let it break them. But others are brave. This is the story of when I never gave up hope in God – when I dared to fight the flames of ‘impossible’ odds with the water of hope, and God made the impossible come to pass.
Let me rewind to December 2020.
I had only recently married and moved to Norway to begin my new life with my husband. My family remained in London, preparing for their move to Germany, where they had just purchased their first home. But as the Qur’an reminds us: ‘they planned and Allah also planned, and Allah is the best of planners.’
In December 2020, my entire family contracted COVID-19, including my beloved father. It was shocking, especially considering the precautions we had taken to protect him due to his vulnerable health. A few years earlier, he had already faced death and survived. We had been vigilant, careful beyond measure. But Allah’s decree was unfolding.
My father remained unshaken. A man of immense gratitude and patience, he never once complained. Alhamdulillah (All praise belongs to Allah) was always on his lips, even in pain. When I called, my mother’s eyes held worry, but my father’s voice carried only peace. He was content with Allah’s will.
By Allah’s grace, he had finally had nearly two years without hospitalisation – the longest period of wellness since his illness began in 2016. During that time, he witnessed the birth of his first grandson, married off his daughter, and prepared to begin life in his own home in Germany. But COVID-19 advanced quickly, and soon he required oxygen support. On New Year’s Eve, his condition worsened drastically. He could no longer remain at home.
As he was placed into the ambulance with an oxygen mask strapped to his face, my mother told me he remained calm and undeterred. He was a warrior of faith, unshaken in adversity through Allah’s mercy, who states: ‘As for those who say, “Our Lord is Allah,” and then remain steadfast, the angels descend on them, saying: Fear ye not, nor grieve; and receive glad tidings of the Garden which you were promised.’
Soon after, we received devastating news.
My father had been medically induced into a coma and placed on mechanical ventilation. My heart sank. A year earlier, his doctors had denied him a critical heart-valve operation, fearing he would not survive ventilation due to lung damage from a prior ICU admission.
Fear overwhelmed me. I wanted to rush back to the UK to be with him, but I couldn’t. I was expecting my first child, and my family urged me to stay for my own safety.
That night, unable to sleep and overcome with anguish, I fell into prostration before my Lord. I wept, not out of rebellion, but from love and longing. I begged Allah with every fibre of my being to allow me to see my father one last time, to embrace him, to feel his presence, just once more.
I had hope because of Allah’s promise: ‘Pray unto Me; I will answer your prayer.’
And He did answer my prayer, in a way more profound than I could have imagined.
That very night, Allah granted me a dream so vivid, so soul-stirring, that it felt more real than reality itself. But as it turned out, this was not just a dream. It would prove to become a divine sign of God’s existence and His mighty power.
In the dream, I found myself walking through the doorway of my bedroom in Norway. But something had changed. There, lying calmly on the floor, was my father, dressed in his white shalwar kameez. He looked serene, as if he had been waiting just for me.
As our eyes met, he lifted his hand and gestured for me to come closer. My heart raced. He looked nothing like the weak, fragile figure I had imagined. Instead, he appeared radiant, healthy, peaceful, and whole. It was in that moment that my heart whispered what my soul already knew: Allah had answered my prayer.
As I knelt beside him, I rested my head on his chest, just as I had my whole life. I could sense the slight rise beneath my cheek – the familiar feeling of his pacemaker. That small detail struck me deeply. It was as though Allah had preserved even the most intimate memory, making this dream not just a vision, but a meeting.
His hand gently reached up and patted my cheek, a gesture filled with more comfort than words could carry. He said nothing, but I felt his voice echo in my heart: ‘Rona nahi hai.’ Don’t cry. And yet, silent tears came, not of grief, but of gratitude. In that sacred embrace, my soul found the peace I had longed for.
As time seemed to slow, I felt myself drifting into sleep within the dream – a sleep within a sleep, as though Allah, in His perfect mercy, was wrapping my soul in layers of tranquillity.
When I awoke, I knew – with a certainty stronger than any doubt – that my Lord had responded.
Allah, in His infinite compassion, had heard the unspoken longing of a grieving child and had answered – not in words, but in a moment that transcended time and space.
In Islam, dreams can carry deep spiritual meaning, bringing one closer to their Creator. I believe this was such a dream; not merely comfort, but divine mercy, a reassurance that even when the world separates us, hearts that beat with love are never far apart in the sight of God.
Though my father lay in a coma miles away, I felt our souls had met in a realm only Allah could facilitate. This dream wasn’t just emotion – it was divine mercy, a personal miracle.
That dream became my anchor, giving me the strength to endure the coming days. A little over a week later, on January 9th, 2021, we received the heartbreaking news: my father would not make it through the night.
My brothers rushed to the hospital, defying pandemic dangers just to be with him. Upon reaching his bedside, my eldest brother softly said, ‘Assalamu Alaikum’ – peace be upon you. In that exact moment, the monitor flat-lined. Our beloved father had returned to His Creator, his soul departing in peace.
‘Surely, to Allah we belong and to Him shall we return.’
Though my heart feels his absence, I now carry the certainty that Allah hears even our quietest whispers. In my moment of deepest despair, He showed me His nearness in a way I will never forget.
This was not just a dream. It was a gift. A moment of divine intimacy. A sign that Allah is always listening, always near, and that even in sorrow, His mercy shines through. This dream brought me to the realisation that although my worldly guardian had left me, my True Guardian remains none other than Allah alone.
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About the Author: Nida Basit Tahir was born in Germany, brought up in the heart of London and resides in Norway with her husband and two children, ages 4 and 1. Currently, she’s also a student at Aisha Academy UK, the Institution for Theology and Modern Languages.
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