When I Said Allahu Akbar, Everything Changed

I used to be someone who lived only for the world. The sound of the azan never moved me. The name of Allah never slowed me down. I thought prayer was something for old men, for the weak-hearted, for people who had nothing better to do.

Life was about deadlines, office promotions, weekend plans, and social media. I was fast. Focused. Unbothered. Even proud of my disconnect from anything spiritual. I used to laugh quietly when my mother reminded me to pray. I would nod, say “InshaAllah,” and never do it.

Then, everything changed in a moment I never saw coming.

It was an ordinary evening in Karachi. I had just finished work and was heading home. The roads were packed as always. Horns, shouts, engine noise. Suddenly, a loud explosion echoed nearby. People screamed. The ground trembled slightly beneath my feet. Smoke rose in the distance. I froze.

There had been a small blast in a roadside shop. It wasn’t a massive bomb, but enough to cause chaos and fear. I didn’t know what to do. People ran past me. Some were shouting. Some recording. I was still trying to process it all when I saw her.

A little girl, no older than six, standing alone and crying. Her white dress was stained red. Her small hands trembled. Her voice cracked as she screamed, “Mama!” over and over again.

I don’t know what happened to me. I rushed toward her, picked her up in my arms, and started running. I had no car, no ambulance around, no plan. Just faith. My feet moved faster than ever before. My heart screamed the only words it knew in that moment:

“Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…”

With every step, every breath, I repeated those words. I didn’t even realize I was saying them out loud. They weren’t just coming from my mouth, they were coming from something deeper. From a place inside me I hadn’t visited in years.

The road was blocked. I carried her past the crowd, past the bikes, past the closed shops. I didn’t feel the weight of her. I didn’t feel my own bleeding foot. I just ran.

By the time I reached the hospital, she had stopped crying. The nurses rushed her inside. A doctor came out minutes later and said, “You brought her just in time. Five more minutes and she might not have survived.”

I sat down on the floor, breathless and silent.

That moment stayed with me. It cracked something inside me. Something cold and hard. The next day, when the azan played on my phone, I didn’t swipe it away. I sat and listened. It made me cry. For the first time, I prayed. Not because someone told me to, but because I needed to.

A week later, after Isha prayer, a man approached me outside the mosque. He looked at me closely, and then hugged me suddenly.

“You’re the man who saved my daughter, aren’t you?” he said, eyes filled with tears. “We’ve been looking for you. Thank you. May Allah reward you.”

I couldn’t speak. I had no words. I just smiled and said, “Allahu Akbar.”

Now, I say “Alhamdulillah” when I wake up. I say “Bismillah” before I eat. I whisper “SubhanAllah” when I see the sky. These phrases were once background noise. Now they are my anchor.

Whenever I feel afraid, or alone, I say, “HasbunAllahu wa ni’mal wakeel.”
Allah is enough for us. He is the best protector.

That moment, that girl, that prayer — they pulled me back from a life of nothingness. I once forgot Allah, but Allah never forgot me. He reminded me of Himself in the middle of a broken street, through the voice of a crying child, and through words I had heard all my life but never truly understood.