By: Tawheed Parvaiz Bhat
It was the day of Eid—a time meant for celebration, for joy and togetherness. I had just completed my Eid prayers at the Eid Gah in my native village when a sudden call from home shook me. One of our close relatives’ newborn baby was critically ill. He was being referred to Srinagar Children’s Hospital, and things didn’t look good.
A few days later, I decided to go there myself, to be with the family, to support them through this difficult time. I had no idea what I was about to witness. When I reached the hospital, my relative came to receive me. Together, we walked through the corridors until we reached NICU B—the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit where the baby had been admitted. As we stepped into the waiting area, I was struck by the silence. Not a peaceful silence—but one filled with grief, anxiety, and helplessness.
Parents sat huddled in corners, some on benches, others on cold floors. Some lay on thin sheets in the corridors, others leaned against walls, heads bowed in prayer or exhaustion. Every few minutes, a voice echoed through a speaker: “Baby of so and so…” Each time, parents would snap to attention, hope and fear flashing in their eyes. Would it be good news? Would they be allowed to see their child? Or worse—was it that call?
It was then that I realized how wrong I had been. I always believed that the birth of a child brought happiness. But inside these walls, joy was replaced with fear. Celebration turned into sorrow. The only sounds were whispers of prayers and the soft cries of mothers and fathers holding onto hope.
I spoke to many doctors—some in person, some over the phone. I tried to understand the condition of our newborn, just seven days old. He was suffering from a severe lung infection and needed oxygen support. His condition was fragile. I was told I could go inside the NICU to see him.
Wearing the required gown, mask, and gloves, I stepped into the NICU. Rows of tiny babies lay in incubators and cribs, their tiny bodies covered with tubes, bandages, and wires. Some were on ventilators, some on CPAPs, others just struggling to breathe. I reached bed number 2—and there he was.
A beautiful, soft-skinned baby boy. Pink cheeks. Eyes closed. But instead of being wrapped in soft baby clothes, he was surrounded by machines—tubes in his nose, wires across his chest, a bandage on his tiny hand. I whispered “Allahu Akbar”, and my heart cracked inside my chest. I wanted to cry, but I held back. I had to be strong—for him, for his parents.
The doctor reassured me gently: “He’s fighting hard. It will take time. But we’re doing everything we can.” We were instructed to prepare small amounts of milk—10 ml of fortified formula—every two hours. We sterilized the bottles, handled everything with care, and handed it over at the NICU gate like it was medicine from heaven.
That night, none of us slept. His father sat silently; his eyes full of sorrow. The baby’s maternal uncle paced back and forth the whole night. My close friend, a psychiatrist at the hospital, came to visit with a team of doctors. They tried to lift our spirits, to offer emotional strength. Their presence helped—for a while.
At around 5 AM, when his father took the next feed, the doctors didn’t accept it. “He’s in severe distress,” they said. He came back with trembling hands, unable to speak. I rushed inside again. The baby was gasping. A doctor told me he might need to be shifted to a ventilator. My world began spinning. My legs felt weak, but I stayed strong outside, trying to console the father: “Insha’Allah, he’ll get through this. We must not lose hope.”
Later, I returned to the waiting room. I looked around, and what I saw will stay with me forever. Dozens of parents—young, helpless, tired beyond measure—curled up wherever they could find space. A few were quietly weeping. Some still held onto hope. Others stared blankly into space, consumed by pain. The room looked less like a hospital and more like a temporary shelter after a disaster. It was heartbreaking.
Throughout the night, parents shared stories—stories of rare conditions, surgeries, and miracles. There were parents whose babies had been in the NICU for weeks. Some were veterans of pain, some were newcomers like us. Yet all of them were united by one thing—faith. They shared food, offered water bottles to strangers, encouraged each other with small acts of kindness. In those dark hours, we were like one family.
As dawn approached, doctors began calling in parents. Some ran toward them, hoping for good news—but for some, the words came like thunder: “Your baby is no more.” The shock. The cries. The collapse. I had no words.
The NICU staff—doctors, nurses, assistants—were angels in disguise. They worked tirelessly, giving everything they had. But even they couldn’t hold back tears at times. They had no magic, just skill and compassion. They gave their 100%, but the outcomes were not in their hands. They were as helpless as the rest of us when fate decided otherwise. We continued to pray. We continued to wait. And every parent whispered the same words into the silence: “Ya Allah, please protect our children.”
That night—that horror night—was unlike any other. It was a night where time stopped, where life and death danced too close, and where faith was the only light in an overwhelming darkness. We are still waiting for hope.
May Allah have mercy on all the innocent children struggling for life. May He give strength to every parent facing such a test. And may He reward the tireless heroes in white coats who stand by these fragile lives, fighting to give them another chance.
The author is teacher.
