Defying Jihad

by Esther Ahmad

  I did allow myself one small change to my outward behavior after becoming Christian. All my life, whenever I’d spoken or written the name Muhammad, I’d always followed it with the words “peace be upon him,” just as I had been taught. Somehow that felt wrong now. So I started adding the word hazrat—an honorific reserved for leaders and high officials—when I said Muhammad’s name. Everybody who heard it assumed I was using the word as a sign of respect, but I preferred the word’s other meaning: scheming.

  †

  John knew that the consequence of trying to convert a Muslim to Christianity was death, so he continued to deny my requests for a Bible. That’s why I was surprised when one day he gave me an audiocassette of some Christians singing worship songs to God in Punjabi. I brought it home, went up to my bedroom, and played Psalm 103. “Bless the Lord, O my soul,” proclaimed the song. I closed my eyes and let the music soothe me.

  “Zakhira, what is this music?” My mother was standing in the doorway, looking puzzled.

  “It is a song that praises Allah,” I spluttered, my heart racing.

  “I haven’t heard it before. Is it naat?” she asked. The only songs my mother ever sang or played in the house were traditional songs that praised Muhammad.

  “No, it’s not naat. These songs are only about Allah.”

  She stood and listened for a while. I was desperate for her to leave, and I prayed that God would give me the words to say if she didn’t.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “A friend at college gave it to me. She said that one of the mullahs gave it to her and that everyone should hear it and sing along. They want people to learn how to praise Allah, who is our creator, not just Hazrat Muhammad. They say your house will prosper if you do.” I felt bad lying to her, but I could not risk telling her the truth.

  She stood in silence for a while, the song continuing to declare the goodness of God. “I like it,” she said, before turning to leave.

  She liked it so much that later she asked me to bring the cassette downstairs. Every morning she played the songs and sang along. She even gave the cassette to her friends to listen to, telling them they needed to get their own copies as well.

  I loved hearing the house fill with the sounds of my mother singing along: “The steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him.” It made me smile to listen, and I knew the words were true. God’s love really was enough; it really was unbreakable, eternal, everlasting.

  I was so happy I almost gave up on pestering John to give me a Bible.

  Almost, but not quite.

  [7] John 14:6.

  14

  “Esther, you know I wish I could give you a copy of the Holy Bible, but I can’t,” John said when I asked for the last time. “If someone found out . . . But remember this—God knows all our needs. In his perfect timing and in his perfect way, he always responds.”

  Several months had passed since I had my dream. Not having a Bible at home meant I continued to read the Qur’an. What I read did nothing to change my mind about Islam—in fact, it only presented me with more evidence against the faith. It also gave my mother the impression that I was still a devout Muslim. Perhaps that is why she never brought up the subject of my going to jihad training. And since nobody from the training camp called to check on me, the subject seemed to fade into the background.

  One afternoon, as my brother drove into the courtyard after picking me up from college, I noticed that something unusual was happening a little farther down the street. A group of women was standing outside the home of one of our neighbors, and people were shouting at them from across the street. Of the six women, three were clearly Westerners, and three looked like they were from Southeast Asia.

  My brother noticed me looking at them. “Christians,” he said. “They’ve been in the neighborhood all day. I’m amazed they’re still here.”

  We hurried into the house. I’d told God so many times that I didn’t think it would be difficult for him to give me a Bible. I knew without a doubt that these women were his way of showing me that he had heard my pleas for help.

  My mother and sister were watching from inside, looking at the women with a combination of intrigue and mild disgust.

  “Have they been here yet?” I asked.

  “No. But if they come, I’ll send them away without even opening the door.”

  “But why?” I asked. “If they’re Christians, wouldn’t it be better for us to let them in? Isn’t that what Hazrat Muhammad would do? Think of the story of the old woman who threw trash on him every day. Instead of pushing them out, let’s do something nice. Maybe then they’ll come to Islam.”

  Soon after, when they knocked on our door, my mother could not have been more polite. She smiled warmly, showed them into the drawing room, made sure they were comfortable, and offered them food and drink. Their Urdu was limited, and my mother’s English was nonexistent, but I kept quiet, wanting to observe them for a while. They mimed that they were not hungry, but my mother had my sister bring in a bowl of oranges that were so fresh that soon the whole room was filled with their scent.

  “Now,” my mother said once we were all settled, “would you like to become Muslims? It doesn’t take long—just a quick trip to the mosque, where you can say a kalma to confess faith in Allah, and you’ll be done. What do you think?”

  The six women shifted uncomfortably but said nothing in reply. As my mother, sister, and brother talked among themselves about whether the women had understood or not, I leaned over and spoke quietly with one of the Western women.

  “Nobody in my family can understand English, but I do. And nobody knows I’m a Christian.”

  Her eyes widened in amazement. She looked at me deeply for a moment, a trace of concern flickering across her face before smiling broadly. “Wow, I’m so glad.”

  “Nobody knows—please don’t tell,” I said. “But I was so moved when I saw you out on the street, getting treated badly like that. That really encouraged me. It reminded me of what happened to the first apostles.”

  I looked at my mother, who was trying to engage the other five women in a discussion about Muhammad. Nobody on either side seemed to understand what was being said.

  “I need a Bible,” I said quietly. “I’ve been trying to get one for months, but I haven’t been able to. Can you help me?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t, but I know someone you can write to who might be able to help.” Checking to make sure no one was watching, she reached into her bag, pulled out a business card, and passed it to me.

  My mother, frustrated at her failure to convert our guests, ushered them out of the house. I hung back in the room and inspected the card. Pakistan Bible Society. If they couldn’t help, I figured nobody could.

  †

  The next day, the lectures on campus had all been canceled. I’d deliberately not told anyone about it. After my brother dropped me off at the courtyard, I called John from a phone booth. There was no reply at the lab, so I tried his home.

  I had obviously woken him up, and he did not sound as pleased to hear from me as I’d hoped.

  “I have a whole day free. Can I spend it reading at the lab?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my one day off, and I’m planning to spend it resting.”

  “Fine!” I spat, grinding down the receiver. I didn’t need him anyway. I could find my own Bible.

  I pulled out the card and looked at the address I had already memorized. It was in the city, but the PO box gave me no clue as to where. I thought about going to the post office and seeing if I could find a street address, but the idea was unlikely to succeed—and very risky.

  Instead, I opted for plan C. I headed to the post office, bought a sheet of paper, and sat along a quiet side street writing a letter.

  I believe in Jesus Christ, but I need a Bible to read. Please send one to me.

  I decided to include my home address but not my name. Then I considered my next
problem. To send a letter in Pakistan, you have to pay for postage at the post office, where they fill out the address details on the envelope. Telling a clerk that I wanted to write to the Pakistan Bible Society would raise suspicions. So I folded the letter into a shape that looked like an envelope, addressed it myself, adding my return address on the back, and posted it in the box out front. I hoped it would reach them even though it didn’t have a stamp—and that I would be able to intercept the Bible before anyone else at home opened it.

  What I didn’t factor in was that my homemade envelope, the lack of a stamp, and the addressee made my letter highly visible. It never made it to the Bible Society. Instead, it was opened up by a curious postal worker, who passed it on to my neighborhood postman. He paid my uncle a visit, asking him what connection he had with Christians.

  “I don’t know any of them,” my uncle said.

  “But someone in your sister’s house does.”

  My uncle opened the letter and read it.

  By the time he made it to my house, he was sure he knew who had written it.

  “I recognize your handwriting,” he said to me as he stood in the doorway.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s mine.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He’s out. Nobody else is at home—just me.”

  He left without saying a word. I didn’t know what to do—I spent the next hour alternating between doing chores around the house and looking out the window, wondering how long it would be before my uncle returned. I could not settle down. My muscles and my brain were too wired to stick to any task for more than a few minutes.

  When my parents returned, I waited anxiously for them to ask about the letter. I stayed in the kitchen for a while, but no such conversation took place. My mother and father acted as if everything was normal.

  I went upstairs and did what I wished I had done as soon as my uncle left. I knelt down and prayed. “Lord, you are my Good Shepherd . . .” As soon as I said those words, I knew I was not alone.

  †

  My sense of peace was shattered later that evening. It was dark outside when I heard a crowd of people gathering in the street. I recognized a few of them—mainly members of my family and regulars from the daras—but many of the one-hundred-strong crowd were strangers to me. And nearly all of them were holding a single piece of paper.

  My mother burst into my room, her hand clenched around the same photocopy the people on the street were holding. I did not need to look at it to know what it was.

  “What’s this letter about?”

  In that moment, the breath leaked out of me. I felt utterly isolated. Cold. Alone. My secret was out.

  I tried to find the words to pray. Hallelujah, I said inside. Only you can save me. But it was not a prayer of victory or a statement of confidence. It was a plea of fearful desperation. My fear was not just for myself but for my parents. I worried that they would get in trouble, that they would be scolded by our community.

  “Why did you write this letter?”

  My mother was angry, and as I looked at her, the slightest change happened within me. I found a kernel of courage inside—so small it was barely noticeable. But as I listened to myself reply, I was surprised by what I said and how calmly I said it. “I just want to see what’s in the Christians’ book. Don’t we say all the time, ‘I believe in Allah. I believe that the angels exist. I believe in the four books from Allah, his prophets, and the judgment day’? We say this every day, so why not read the book that contains the Torah, the Zabur, and the Injil?”

  My mother stared at me, silent.

  “Come outside,” she finally said.

  They made me sit on the ground in the middle of the crowd, opposite a mullah who was also seated on the ground. Throngs of men and women towered above me, their hatred palpable. The mullah asked the same question my mother had asked, and I gave the same answer: “If we say we believe in the four books from Allah, what makes the Bible so bad?”

  “We don’t need the Bible!” someone shouted.

  “I just wanted to read it,” I said to the mullah.

  “Yes,” he said, “but you claimed to believe in Jesus. Are you a Christian now?”

  Before I could answer, the crowd surged forward.

  “She’s under blasphemy! She must die!”

  “Burn her!”

  “Shoot her!”

  The mullah waved them away. “There must be some reason why you did it.”

  “I just wrote because I want to see . . .”

  “No!” my uncle said to the crowd. “It was the women who came to visit their house. There were some white women among them. They made her do it! It’s their fault.”

  “Kafir! Infidel!”

  The mullah stared at me. The shouting continued, growing louder with each question I answered. Even if I’d had something to say in that moment, I doubt I would have been heard.

  I let my thoughts drift. Would they string me up by a rope and hang me from a streetlamp? Everyone has to die sometime. What could I do?

  It seemed like ages passed before the mullah spoke again. “Let’s think carefully about this,” he said. “We all know that this girl is a strong believer in Islam, and we’ve all seen the good work she does among the poor. We should take her to the mufti and see what he says.”

  †

  We walked to the mosque in a giant crowd. I wasn’t sure how many people followed the mullah, my father, his friends, and me, but it felt like we filled the whole street as we walked. I was in the front, with my father’s strong hands clasped around my arms.

  As we passed in front of shops with brightly lit signs and curious men watching from plastic tables and chairs, I prayed silently. O Lord Jesus, you are my refuge and strength. You are my ever-present help in times of trouble. I commit the judge they’re taking me to into your mighty and miraculous hands. Lord Jesus, please take his mind under your control. I pour your precious and holy blood over him from head to toe. You shed your blood for sinners like me. Whatever the judge decides, may it come from you. I just want you to be exalted and glorified. If you’re willing that I should come to you today, Lord Jesus, I’m ready. Whatever your will is for me, let it be done tonight.

  By the time we arrived at the mosque, I was reciting psalms in my head. Even so, however, there was a struggle within me. I trusted God, and the thought of death itself did not scare me, but I worried that my death would cause pain and trouble for my parents.

  Then, for the first time in my life, I heard a gentle, divine whisper in my ear. I have called you by name. I will go before you and level the mountains. All who rage against you will surely be ashamed and disgraced. And you will know that I am the Lord your God.

  “Amen,” I said out loud. Confidence surged within me as we walked into the mosque. “Amen.”

  †

  The room I was taken to was deep inside the mosque. There were no windows—just three doors and a bunch of thin mattresses along the wall to sit on. I was directed to sit by myself on one of the mattresses, while the others—my parents, my uncle, and a handful of other people from the crowd—sat on the other mattresses. I kept my eyes on the dark red carpet at my feet, aware that if I looked up, I’d see them all staring at me.

  I had no fear swelling in me, no panic. The words of my Lord were all I needed. I trusted my faithful God—the one who is true to all his promises.

  As soon as I sat down, the mullah and several other older men from the crowd disappeared. When I looked up, I saw that they had returned with two new men. The first, I assumed, was the mufti, the judge. He was a large man, older than my father. His white hair and full beard circled his head like a cloud.

  The second was Anwar.

  I had not seen him for more than a year. When I started college, I stopped meeting with him for tutorials, and even though he was still the head of the militants in the city, he and I had never spoken about my decision to say yes to jihad.

  In many ways, I’d missed him. H
e was the one who persuaded my father to let me remain in school. He was the one who nurtured my love of science. And he was the one who suggested that the Bible could answer some of my questions about Islam.

  But I feared him too.

  As I sat on the mattress and looked at him, he gave me the same stare as when I had asked him about time travel or the fate of the dinosaurs. His eyes locked on mine, examining me.

  The mufti was holding a copy of my letter in his hand, as well as a few books of hadith.

  He cleared his throat. “I haven’t found anything that declares that she is an apostate or that she is a Christian or that she is blasphemous. In this letter, she didn’t write anything against the Qur’an; anything against our prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him; or anything against Islam. She wrote in her letter that she believes in the prophet Jesus, and she asked for a Bible. This is one of the five core beliefs: faith in one Allah, faith in the angels of Allah, faith in the four books (Torah, Zabur, Injil, and Qur’an), faith in the prophets of Allah, and faith in the day of judgment.

  “As Muslims, we can’t deny the prophet Jesus, because he’s a great prophet among all the prophets from Allah. We must believe in him. If we deny any one of these conditions of faith, we are not Muslim.”

  He turned to me as he went on. “You asked for a Holy Bible. Why? Do you know that these books have been changed?”

  “Anwar told me to,” I said, summoning up as much volume and confidence as I could manage. The room fell silent. I could feel Anwar’s eyes on me. I kept my gaze on the judge. “I once told him that I wanted to know about all the prophets and their teachings in great detail and asked which book I should read to find out more. He told me there is only one book with that kind of information—the Bible. I asked where I could get the book, and he told me I could only get it from Christians. He said it was better that I didn’t approach Christians but that he would find a copy and give it to me. After waiting for some time, when he didn’t give me the Holy Bible, I wrote this letter.”