A billboard falls from the 8th floor on your car, but you stay alive!


The powerful words of Bism Allah al-Rahman al-Raheem have long saved people from accidents, bad situations, and depression. Ana Ash-had, I testify to this.

One day I was driving my newspaper colleague to an appointment we both had. It was particularly windy that day; you could hear the street billboards dancing, with their screws slowly getting looser and looser by the minute. We were just past the traffic light when suddenly I experienced a weird thing: The fore window shield turned into a blue sea, and I drank some of that water.

Well, that was what I thought it was at first – since my eyes saw the window break into a hue of the color blue. That’s what seems to happen when a big windows is turned into miniscule glass bits.

My mind realized what was happening when a HUGE iron billboard rushed towards my face. The dimensions we are talking about here are something of the height of 2-3 meters and the width of 4-5 meters. Apparently the billboard, which carried the name of the building it decorated, fell from the 8th floor, directly into my car. It was huge two-piece signage showing off the long name of the commercial building we were right under.

What happened next was that I said with real passion (that only comes when you are under much strain, no other door is open, and only God is before you), Bism Allah, Bism Allah, Bism Allah al-Rahman al-Raheem. The iron dagger zooming enthusiastically into my face came as close as the tip of my nose, at a point when I surrendered completely to my fate, repeating Bism Allah.

Since I am writing this today, obviously I am alive. A celestial hand removed the billboard approaching my face. I swear I could feel something took it away, cause it was so heavy there was no way in heaven that it bounced back on its own. The huge body of the billboard then rolled with the squeaking sound of a monster into the street, hitting the rooftops of cars, making them crash into each other and creating havoc.

I sat there trying to grasp the fact I was saved. Al Hamdulillaah. My colleague was still holding his head under his arms, feeling like he might have died already. Nothing happened to the two of us. But something happened to the taxi driver who was right behind us and so the drama of a billboard hitting the car, with the passengers getting out of it in one piece. The man fell apart…

“Thank Allah… you should thank Allah… you are alive, thank Allah,” the man screamed hysterically. I am not exaggerating. I think he was having a nervous breakdown; he was breaking down when people rushed to see if we were injured. I told them I was OK, just a few scratches from the glass on my hand, “but look, he needs help, not I.” Two men rushed to the man and took him to a nearby pharmacy where he drank water and relaxed a bit. I think he imagined us to be minced meet after what he saw, miskeen!

Bism Allah al-Rahman al-Raheem is not just a few words. When you make friendship, an association, with them, the way I did, through calling them out in a time of need, you know they are words of great power. God placed a great secret in them.

My Sufi Sheikh a few days ago was urging his mureeds (disciples) to say the words at all times. You don’t need to say them only when you start eating, as some people do. You need to say them when you start doing everything. When you stand up, sit down, move, walk, enter a meeting, switch on the PC, take a cab, hop into the car, put on your jacket. Great blessings come with Bism Allah al-Rahman al-Raheem.

I know, in my heart, I know, when I say them, Allah opens new doors in the unseen, takes away harm and shelters me from billboards and the likes. Floods of mercy and love pour down from the secret wells of Bism Allah al-Rahman al-Raheem. Drink, drink, don’t be shy!


About 50% Syrian

What is identity? I was raised Arab (of varying origins), with a Syrian mother, and Moroccan, Lebanese and Tunisian great grandfathers and grandmothers. I always felt 50% Syrian, and this percentage mattered to me more than anything else. Love of my life, my late Sufi grandmother, is Syrian... all her bedtime stories were about her life in Damascus. Damascus is where the heart dwells.
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