by Esther Ahmad
The judge paused and then turned to look at Anwar.
“Yes,” Anwar said. “She did ask me this once, and I replied as she has said.”
Silence filled the room again. I looked around me. Nobody caught my eye except Anwar. His stare was the same as before.
“Anwar is correct,” the judge eventually said. “It’s good that you want to know more about the prophets and that you want to increase your knowledge. But first you need to be mature and strong in Qur’an and Islam. Only then can you read that book.”
“Very well,” I said, feeling as bold as I had ever felt in my life. “I’ll wait until I’m ready.”
Turning to the others in the room, the judge continued. “There’s no reason to kill her, for she isn’t under blasphemy. If she’d said she was a Christian, that would bring death upon her. But she didn’t, and I believe she has a good heart. She is eager to learn. Her mullah and Anwar have told me that she is very punctual in offering all her prayers. I’d like to say that she is better than all of you.”
To my father, he said, “Be careful, though. She is a little bit interested in these things. Keep an eye on her, and don’t let it go any further. Give her more Islamic books to read. Treat her kindly.”
If the walk to the mosque had felt like a funeral march, the walk home was a wedding party. People were cheering and laughing, apologizing to me and praising me for the ways I had impressed the mufti. They bought me sweets and sodas and stood outside my house threatening to wake the whole city with their celebrations. Everyone appeared to be as relieved as I was.
Everyone, that is, except my father. From the moment the mufti had delivered his final warning, my father’s jaw had clenched and his eyes turned away. He kept his distance from me as we walked home, and I could not be sure why. Was he relieved and repentant, or did he still doubt my story?
It was all too much. As soon as I could, I left the cheering crowd in the street outside, ran straight to my room, and collapsed into bed.
15
Even though I was convinced of the power of God’s mighty hand, I decided I needed to be more careful. No more trying to get a Bible from strangers, no more taking risks that could put Christians in danger. And no more contact with John.
Not seeing John was the hardest decision of all. Those afternoons spent in his lab reading and talking about the Bible were always the highlight of my day, and I dreaded the hole that would be left behind when I didn’t see him anymore. For months he had been my guide, my teacher, and my friend. He had challenged me, surprised me, and on more than one occasion, driven me mad. He was patient, kind, and brave. Most of all, he had shown me what it means to truly love God and others.
I arranged one final meeting at the lab. As soon as I arrived, I told John what had happened and shown him the fatwa the mufti had given to my parents after my hearing. The decree made it clear that I was innocent of the charge of blasphemy, but there was a line toward the end that John’s eyes kept returning to: She did not write that she was a Christian. If she had, it would be right to kill her.
John looked at me. I offered him a weak smile, but his face remained fixed. He reached for his Bible and asked me to read from Matthew 10:22: “You will be hated by everyone because of me, but the one who stands firm to the end will be saved.”
When I finished reading, he took the Bible back from me. “It will happen just as Jesus said. Your future may be more difficult than anything you’ve faced yet. Are you still willing to follow him?”
I didn’t need any time to consider my reply. “Jesus is like oxygen for me,” I said. “You know that no one can live without oxygen, don’t you? So how can I live without him?”
At last John smiled. “Praise God,” he said. “Hallelujah.”
“I can’t come here again, though. It’s too dangerous for you, and for your church, too. I don’t want to cause trouble for any of you.”
“I know,” he said. “You’re right. We shouldn’t see each other again.” I was surprised how sad he sounded.
Then he prayed for me, asking God to grant me protection and wisdom, and for the power of the Holy Spirit to lead me and guide me.
“Amen,” I said. When I opened my eyes, I saw that he was holding his Bible in front of him.
“Take it,” he said. “It’s yours.”
†
Every step of my journey home, I was aware of the precious treasure I was carrying in my bag. When I was in my room, I took it out and held it tight. The familiar shape and smell of the book I had handled almost every day for months suddenly felt mysterious and dangerous in this new environment. I hid it in my closet and brought it out again only when I was sure everyone in my family was asleep.
As difficult as it was to quit the habit of visiting John after classes, I quickly adopted a new routine of going to bed early, then waking up when the house was dark and silent to read the Bible. Sometimes I would spend minutes kissing and hugging the book before I started reading. It was the light of my eyes and the peace of my heart.
I never felt bored when I read the Bible, and I followed the program John had given me: first a chapter from the Old Testament, followed by one from the Psalms or Proverbs, then a chapter from the New Testament. I repeated the cycle countless times each day, and within three months, I had finished reading the whole book. So I started again.
Everything I read fascinated me, and with each chapter, I could feel my faith growing. I loved the way the book of Proverbs showed me exactly how life was supposed to be lived, while the Gospel of John, the book of Acts, and Revelation filled my head with such vivid images and scenes that I felt as though I were right there watching the events unfold. Reading about the persecution of Christians encouraged me greatly, especially the account of Stephen. For days I thought about what a privilege it would be to die as a martyr.
The book of Job inspired me too. Even though he’d done nothing wrong, God tested him. I liked the idea that we can’t just take the good from God. We have to accept hard times too. Will we turn away when trials come, or will we bow before God, trusting him in the midst of our troubles?
One night, after reading about Peter climbing out of the boat and panicking, I had a dream that was just as real as the one I’d had in the prayer room. I was in a boat, surrounded by an ocean so vast that I couldn’t see the shore in any direction. As I looked, a storm struck up in the distance. It was raging with all the ferocity of hell, and I knew the water was going to drown me and claim me for its own. The waves were approaching fast, and it would not be long before they reached me. In my dream, I did the only thing I knew to do: I closed my eyes and declared my trust in God. “Okay,” I said, putting my foot out of the boat. I felt the water whipping and slashing at my ankle. “I trust you.”
The minute my foot touched the surface of the water, I felt something unexpected beneath me. A rock. I swung my other leg from the boat and placed that one down too. Again, I brought my foot down on solid ground. I took another step forward, then another, and another. Though the storm continued to rage around me, my path was secure. I knew that if I trusted God, things were going to work out just the way he wanted them to.
†
One of my engineering requirements for college included taking an extended placement with a local business. I was happy enough for the opportunity, though not because I cared about the task I’d been assigned—conducting market research for a food company—but because I hoped it might offer me a little more time to read my Bible.
I was right.
On the first day, during my lunch break, I found a quiet corner, pulled out my lunch, and started reading.
“What are you reading?”
I looked up and saw the supervisor standing over me. He had introduced himself to me and the other students earlier in the day, and he’d made us laugh with his jokes about chicken cubes and how terrible he was at cooking.
I looked at him and decided this was worth the risk. “The Holy Bible.”
He looke
d confused. “What’s it about?”
“I’m a Christian, and this is all about the prophets.”
“But you have a Muslim name.”
“My parents just liked Zakhira, that’s all.”
He thought for a while. “You should become a Muslim. Have you read the Qur’an?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Because I wanted to understand it. I studied it and found that there are so many inconsistencies in it. I even highlighted a bunch of them.”
“You highlighted the Qur’an? Really?”
“Yes.”
For the first time in our conversation, he smiled. “Can you bring it in? I would be fascinated to see it.”
“Yes!” I said, encouraged. “I will bring it for you tomorrow.”
As promised, I took the Qur’an in the next day. I tried to read my supervisor’s face as he flicked through the pages striped with yellow, orange, blue, and pink lines, but he gave nothing away.
“I’m a science student,” I added, wondering if he needed a little encouragement to admit that he was skeptical too. “I can’t believe that Allah would write this.”
“Oh,” he said. “This is very interesting. Can I borrow it?”
“Of course!”
I prayed hard for the man that night. This was my first attempt at evangelizing someone, and so far, it had been a lot easier than I’d thought it would be. I’d sown the seeds of doubt, and surely it would not be long before he saw Islam for what it was.
†
The next day I noticed that the rest of my fellow students weren’t going inside as usual. “There’s a problem,” one girl said to me. “We’ve been told to wait.”
Soon after, my supervisor came out. “Everybody should leave and come back tomorrow,” he said. “Except for you, Zakhira. You need to follow me inside. The boss wants to see you.”
He took me upstairs and showed me into an office dominated by a large desk, my copy of the Qur’an the sole object upon it. I had never seen the boss before, but even from behind the desk, he was an intimidating presence. He dismissed my supervisor as soon as I was inside. Without taking his eyes off me, he picked up my copy of the Qur’an.
“Zakhira, is this yours?”
I could feel my insides twisting. “Yes.”
“Did you highlight it? Are these your marks inside?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have all your belongings with you?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“I studied in a school run by Christian missionaries. You need to run out the back door. I won’t open the main door until you’re far away. Do you have enough money for a rickshaw home?”
I shook my head, and he handed me some cash along with my Qur’an.
A smile settled on his face. “I know that Christians are good people. And I know that God will protect you. Now go.”
†
Back at college, nobody was interested in why I had been sent away from the placement. My instructor did not ask any questions; instead, he gave me a new address to visit the next day for an alternative placement.
It was dull work, driving as a team to a residential district and giving out soap samples to ninety different people each day. I worked hard and liked the fact that as soon as we hit the magic number of ninety, we could return to the van and wait out whatever was left of the day.
At first I struggled to make it back on time, but by the end of the first week, after praying hard and refining my sales pitch, I managed to finish two hours ahead of schedule. I made myself comfortable in the back of the van, confirmed that the driver was still dozing in the front, and started to read.
“What’s that?” a girl asked when she arrived a half hour after I did.
“The Holy Bible.”
“What’s it about?”
I looked at her carefully. I didn’t recognize her from college, but I chose to take a risk anyway.
“It’s about Jesus—how he gave his life and how all of us are sinners because Adam was disobedient. If your sins are heavy and cause you pain, he can forgive you. Jesus came to save.”
“Oh!” she said.
“Hey!” The driver sat up, bleary eyed, and turned to the back of the van. “What do you think you’re doing? I don’t want people talking about things like that in this van.”
“But I finished my work!” I protested. “I was just reading and talking.”
†
The next week, before the driver parked and let us out, he announced that instead of waiting for us to finish, he would leave right away. “As soon as you’re finished, you can all go home.”
When the others had stepped out of the van, I spoke with the driver. “Is this because of what happened last week? I was only answering that girl’s questions.”
“No, you were preaching in the van!” he said. “I heard you. Why would you do that?”
“It’s my duty.”
“Your duty? With whose permission?”
“With God’s permission.”
“God gave you permission?”
“Yes, and he gave that permission to all Christians. We’re told to go and tell the whole world about him.”
“Shut up!”
“What? You asked me a question, and I’m just answering it.”
I was not surprised when the boss asked to see me a couple of days later. “You’re good at the work,” he said, “but if you want to continue, you can’t say a single word about your faith. Even if someone asks you about it, you can’t say anything.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t promise that. I will tell the truth if anyone asks me.”
“Then go. We’re not going to pay you for the first two weeks. But we will forgive you, for Allah’s sake.”
“I will happily go. And I would gladly offer thousands of dollars at the feet of my Lord. These wages you’re withholding from me are a small offering compared to the offering I want to make to my Lord. But thank you for the chance to give to him anyway.”
†
If my first experience of publicly declaring my faith taught me that God would protect me and my second reminded me that I should never compromise my beliefs, my third and final placement made it clear just how right John was when he talked about the passage in Matthew. I was about to discover what it felt like to be truly hated.
For the final week of our placement, I was sent to a business on the edge of the city. The office was run by two men, and one of them, who wore the traditional green turban and long beard of an extremist, took an instant dislike to me.
I walked into the ramshackle office on my first morning and stood in front of a tiny desk while Muhammad Hamza looked me up and down.
“Muslim?” he said.
“No, I’m a Christian.”
He flinched a little at this, as if the revelation made him physically sick.
“Why do you have a Muslim name?”
I went into the same explanation I had used before, about my parents liking it, but he cut me off. “You should become a Muslim,” he said, a false smile spreading across his face. “It would be better for you.”
Caught in his stare, I could not think of what to say.
He put me to work soon after, but at the end of the next day, he called me into his office. His smile was a little less broad this time.
“Jesus is not the Son of God,” Hamza said as soon as he shut the door behind me. “You Christians are all following the wrong path. What do you say to that, eh?”
Unlike the previous day, when I had felt tongue-tied, my voice was full of confidence. “Christians are all children of God because of Jesus Christ.”
Hamza’s smile vanished instantly. “This is kafir! You Christians are all infidels! Give me a better answer than that.”
Help me, Lord, I prayed. Please guide me.
I remembered how Daniel responded when he was asked to interpret the king’s dream. He asked for time, went home, and prayed with his friends. I did not h
ave friends I could pray with, but I could at least take some time.
“Please, Mr. Hamza,” I said. “We are running out of time. The day is almost over, and if I take a long time to reply, I’ll be home late. Can we talk about this matter another day?”
At home that night, I joined my family as I did every evening, kneeling on my prayer mat but silently calling out to Jesus Christ. After prayers, I joined my parents and siblings in the TV lounge, where everyone was watching a program about Muslim pilgrims.
“Today,” the narrator announced, “millions will perform pilgrimage in Mecca, Saudi Arabia.”
That was all I needed to hear. A plan began to form. I closed my eyes and thanked God.
†
I was waiting outside the office the next morning, a newspaper in my hand. “Are you ready to answer my question?” Hamza asked.
“Yes, I am. Why is it wrong for Christians to say they are children of God when Muslims say it themselves?”
“You’re wrong.” He scowled. “We would never say such a thing. No true Muslim would think it either.”
“But Mr. Hamza, when Muslims perform hajj, how do people describe it?”
He looked confused, and I handed him the newspaper. It was folded to a piece about pilgrims. “Read that.”
Just like the news report the night before, the paper used an Urdu phrase to describe the pilgrims: Farzandan-e-Toheed. I knew the phrase well.
“Mr. Hamza, what does Farzandan mean?”
“Followers.”
“Are you sure? Remember that it is also kafir to change the meaning as it has been written in the Qur’an. Or maybe you were never taught Arabic properly. Farzandan comes from a Persian word that means ‘son’ or ‘offspring,’ while Toheed means ‘invisible oneness of God.’ That’s right, isn’t it? I can always bring in my dictionary tomorrow if you think I might be mistaken.”
He said nothing.
“Mr. Hamza, many people have invited me to join Islam, just as you did. As a result, I have studied the Qur’an and Islam to know their teachings. After deep research, I know I’m on the right path.”
