by Esther Ahmad
“Who taught you how to read the Qur’an in Arabic so well?”
“If you want to understand physics or mathematics, you hire a tutor. Why can’t a Christian hire a teacher to learn the Qur’an?”
He blew out his cheeks and checked his watch. It was time for me to start work, and he indicated I should leave. “Surely you will go to heaven because you know Arabic.”
I stopped at the doorway. His nonsense made me even bolder. “Yes, I will go to heaven, but not because I know Arabic. I will go only because I believe in Jesus Christ, who has all authority over heaven and earth. He is my Savior, and he is the Son of Most High God. He gave his life on the cross for my sins and for the sins of all humanity. Because of his sacrifice on the cross, I am free from the bondage of sin. Everyone who believes in his sacrifice is free from their sins.”
I took a step toward his desk. “‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.’ That is written in the Holy Bible, John 3:16.”
He looked at me blankly.
“‘He was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.’ Isaiah 53:5.”
Undeterred, I kept going, my voice growing louder, my heart getting bolder. “‘What I received I passed on to you as of first importance: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures.’ That’s from 1 Corinthians 15:3.”
I explained that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and that whoever believes in him will surely have eternal life, but that his patience would only last so long.
“Go,” he said. “You’re late for work.”
†
Hamza never bothered me again after that. In fact, he hardly spoke to me at all. I smiled inside whenever he scuttled away from me in the corridor. I smiled even more when I found out he was a member of a radical Islamic faction. He liked people to think of him as a committed, hard-line believer, but I knew him to be a coward.
The more time I spent debating religion with Muslims, the clearer it became to me that although they wanted to get to heaven, they were blind to the path that would take them there. I’d been no different myself. I had been desperate to get to heaven, not knowing that I was heading straight toward hell. All of that had changed, though. By the grace of my Lord Jesus Christ, I had locked all doors that led to hell and thrown away the keys.
Over the remaining weeks of my placement, I didn’t have many opportunities to talk with others about Christianity, although I did manage to study my Bible on the street whenever I was on a break. The only person who disturbed me was the janitor, an old man who didn’t mind what I did. He just nodded silently whenever he passed me. When I saw him approaching, I’d hide my book behind an academic textbook, relishing the extra minutes to study and pray.
Two days before my placement was due to end, the old man spoke to me. “You need to be careful of Mr. Hamza,” he said. “He’s talking about a plan that he and two others have hatched. They’re going to rape you tomorrow evening before you leave.”
I thanked him and left for home that instant, knowing I would never return. I wasn’t panicking or gripped by fear. The whole journey home, I reflected on two of my favorite Scriptures: “If God is for us, who can be against us?”[8] and “Who is going to harm you if you are eager to do good?”[9]
The irony of my placement adventures was not lost on me. I was supposed to return to college having experienced a range of different work environments, acquired new skills, and become better equipped to work as an engineer. I had learned little that could help me in those regards, but as a Christian, I’d acquired some of the most valuable lessons of my life.
I learned that when someone is committed to praying, reading the Holy Bible daily, and spending time in God’s presence, then Satan is weak and fearful. He cannot harm us, because God Almighty will protect us. I learned that although Satan seems strong at times, he is no match for Jesus Christ. When we take refuge in him, we must remember that he has defeated Satan and trampled his head with his foot. Jesus Christ is the victor; he is our King. And we are his responsibility.
Most important, I learned that God is an ever-present help for those who call on him. Thanks to Mr. Hamza and the others, I had been presented with vital opportunities to do just that. As a result, the words of Jeremiah 33:3 had soaked deep into my soul: “Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.”
I had come through the season of testing with my faith strengthened and my courage increased. Even so, as one set of trials ended, I sensed that another was beginning. But there was no way for me to know that what was coming next would be more challenging than anything I’d experienced yet.
[8] Romans 8:31.
[9] 1 Peter 3:13.
16
My mother brought up the subject of my marriage as casually as if she were asking me to take a trip to the market.
“Your father and I want to go for pilgrimage this year, and you know we’re not allowed to make hajj when we have an unmarried, grown daughter at home,” she said as I helped her water her vegetables in the garden. “So we want you to get married as soon as possible. We have a good proposal for you already—a very religious man who is as devoted to Allah as you are. I know he will make you happy.”
I tried to cover up the terror that was stabbing at my heart. “But I’m twenty-one,” was all I could think to say.
She smiled, nodding in agreement. “And I was sixteen when I married. So were both your sisters. Twenty-one is perfect for marriage.”
“Please,” I said meekly, “let me finish my studies first.”
“That isn’t my decision to make—it’s your father’s. Perhaps he’ll say yes. I’ll discuss it with him.”
I had known that something like this was coming. For years I’d been aware of the comments relatives and neighbors made about me, the same way they talked about every unmarried girl my age. In Pakistan, as soon as a girl is old enough to bear a child, she is considered old enough to marry—or at least to have her potential suitability as a bride be discussed loudly in public.
While both my older sisters had married and had children before they were nineteen, I had held fast. My parents had not brought up the subject since I had volunteered for jihad. That suited me well, since even before I became a Christian, I knew that getting married would most likely mean an end to my education. Now that I was living as a secret believer, the stakes were even higher. I did not want to be married to a Muslim, especially not one who was as religious as my parents thought I was. Being a secret believer would be a lot harder with an attentive husband than with an absent father.
This was bigger than I could handle on my own. I needed God to intervene.
†
A few days passed before my mother brought up the subject again.
“Your father said he will discuss arrangements with the man’s family.”
“No,” I said. This time I wasn’t terrified; I was enraged. Having spent too many hours imagining the horrors of being forced to marry a fanatical Muslim, I was ready to fight against my parents’ plan. “I don’t want to get married. I want to continue my studies.”
My mother started to speak but stopped herself. Her eyes shot past my shoulder. I turned and saw my father standing in the kitchen doorway.
Even though we lived in the same house, he and I had become strangers. We hardly ever spoke, and I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been alone in the same room together. Whenever he was home, he stayed in the drawing room or the meeting room downstairs. He never came into the kitchen, and he never called me by name.
“Zakhira.” At the sound of his voice, my anger diffused, only to be replaced by fear. “It’s not your choice. If your husband allows, you can continue your studies. But if he says no, then you won’t. He’ll be the one to decide. You’re a woman. What else do you need to be able to do besides the cooki
ng and cleaning?”
I could not say anything in reply. His presence left me mute.
I did not bring up the matter again. One time my mother explained why I should be happy, reminding me that when both my sisters had married, my father had given them some of the biggest dowries people had ever heard of. They had enough money to buy everything they wanted for their homes, plus there was lots of gold for my sisters, jewelry for their husbands, and expensive gifts for the grooms’ mothers. “With an offer like that, we can choose from the very best families. Isn’t that good?”
I continued my silent protest, even after my mother told me they had heard from the man’s family on the subject of my continued education.
“You have nothing to worry about,” my mother said. “After getting married, you can continue your studies. Isn’t that good news?”
It was the very worst news. My attempts at stalling the process had failed. It would be impossible for me to practice my Christian faith while married to a militant Muslim man. And if he found out the truth, he would surely divorce me—or kill me.
When I realized just how powerless and weak I was, I did what I should have done all along. I bowed down in prayer, my heart contrite. I begged God for a solution.
He gave it to me right away.
It was time to tell my mother the truth.
†
I told her in the prayer room. We were alone in the house after finishing our second prayers for the day. As we rolled up our mats, I took a deep breath and told her I was no longer a Muslim. “I’m a faithful Christian now. If you really want me to get married, I will only marry a Christian man.”
I harbored a tiny hope that she might understand. Perhaps she would say that we could talk to my father together, that she would help me try to explain it all.
Instead she looked at me in horror. “This means the letter you wrote asking for the Bible was true?”
“Yes. I didn’t want a Holy Bible so I could become a better Muslim. I wanted one because I’m a follower of Jesus now.”
She froze. Her eyes were so fierce that I had to look away. When she spoke, her voice trembled with anger. “I knew something was wrong when that business with the letter happened. Who made you a Christian? Who taught you all these things? Was it those women who visited?”
“It started when Anwar told me that the stories of the prophets can be found in the Holy Bible. From that time on, I’ve been searching on my own. No one else has been involved.”
“Why are you doing this?” Her eyes searched me, pleading. “I’m your mother. Why are you trying to make a fool of me?”
“I’m not. I just can’t turn my back on the truth.”
“The truth? You mean Islam is not a true religion?”
“No, it’s not. Only Christianity is the true path that leads to God, heaven, and everlasting life.”
Her hand shot out and slapped my cheek. Another blow landed on the other side of my head. I tried to block her, but one of her hands clenched around my wrist while the other clamped onto my jaw. She was squeezing so tight I could feel pain in every cell.
She pulled me close, spitting out the words. “Your father won’t spare you at all. He will surely kill you.”
When she slacked her grip on my jaw, I looked directly at her. “I know. I’m ready.”
In my room alone, after the adrenaline had faded a little from my body, I opened my Holy Bible. I knew what passage I wanted to read, and my fingers found their way to the right page almost automatically. “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”[10]
Those words had drawn me like a magnet ever since I read them in John’s lab, long before I became a Christian. John had been careful to point out the verses to me, making sure I understood them. He told me that Christians are often persecuted, just as Jesus said they would be. He told me that people would hate me, despise me, possibly even try to kill me.
I looked at the bruise that was beginning to form on my right wrist. I felt the swelling in my mouth from where I had been hit. The physical marks were painful, but the pain only went so deep. Beneath the pain was something far stronger: peace. My mother’s reaction reminded me that the Holy Bible really is true. Yes, I was bruised, and there was good reason to fear what might happen tomorrow. But this was not the end of the story. I had been beaten for my faith in Jesus. That meant I was blessed.
†
My mother woke me the next morning to pray with her and my sister. I did as she told me, offering my silent Hallelujah! while she and my sister filled the room with “Allahu Akbar.” After we finished, she sent my sister out to begin her chores. She watched me as I rolled up my mat.
“If you’re a Christian, why are you even offering prayers like this?”
“The Holy Bible says, ‘Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long’[11] and ‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.’[12] So that’s what I’m doing.”
She threw up her hands. “Don’t touch this prayer mat! You’re making things unclean.”
“My heart is with the Lord. You can’t take the name of Jesus Christ out of my heart and mind.”
She pulled out her prayer beads, knelt down on her mat again, and started to chant quietly. She was quoting verses from the Qur’an, but I chose not to listen.
I prayed instead. Lord Jesus Christ, whatever my mother is reciting for me, I ask you to remove and destroy the effects in your holy name. You have purchased me with your holy blood, and now I am yours. I take refuge in you. In Jesus Christ’s most powerful name I say this. Amen.
The beatings continued after that day, growing steadily worse. My mother would wait until we were alone in a room, and then she’d grab me by the throat and squeeze so tightly I could not breathe.
“I’m going to kill you,” she would say, her eyes spiked with hate. “I’ll kill you in the name of Allah, and that will put things right again.”
I could not make a sound, but I prayed inside, committing everything to God. I’m ready to pay the price. You paid it for me already, and I am yours. You can do with me whatever you want.
It was hard to see my mother’s feelings toward me change so quickly from love to hatred, and it left me with immense sorrow. I felt no animosity toward her, only pity, knowing that Satan had covered her eyes.
Besides, I was fully aware of my own sin. I had been willing to kill God’s people, and yet he’d chosen to welcome me into his family. He had rescued me—a sinner. He picked me from the trash, washed me with his blood, and made me a new person. What right did I have to stand upright before God? He was so pure and so clean and so innocent. My body and my life were nothing. Even if every last drop of my blood got poured onto the ground, it would not come close to atoning for all I had done wrong. I owed God everything.
“Ami,” I said as the air returned to my body, “I’m telling you the truth. If you cut me into pieces, each piece of my body will say, ‘Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.’”
†
As the days passed, my mother turned into even more of a monster. Her face would twist in rage as she shouted at me. Her grip on my throat grew tighter and lasted longer each time, and her blows to my forearm came down heavier and more frequently. After a few days, she started using other weapons, first hitting me with shoes, then with a cane.
She always attacked me in places that were covered by my clothes and dupatta—mainly my arm and my throat. Within a week, I could not use my right hand or swallow without shooting pains. At night I dreamed that my hand was on fire. Yet I told myself that this was nothing compared to what Jesus experienced. I cried whenever I read about the crucifixion of Jesus. Knowing that he was innocent, that he came from a higher place to save our liv
es, that he took the lashes he did not deserve—this perspective changed how I felt about my own trials. What I faced wasn’t so bad. Compared to the thorns, the nails, the whippings, the spitting, and the taunts Jesus endured, this was nothing.
The more I thought about what Jesus went through on my behalf, the more determined I became to suffer well for my Lord.
†
Ever since John gave me the Holy Bible, I had been careful to move its hiding place regularly. I had more than a dozen spots where I was confident it would remain undetected—among my clothes, in the darkest corners of the kitchen, behind heavy furniture that was never moved.
I would get it out at night and read it alone in my bedroom. Almost every night I turned to these words Paul wrote: “I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.”[13]
One day I opened the book of Esther and read about her decision to offer a three-day fast. I was struck by how God radically changed the situation after that. I wanted the same outcome as my namesake—for God to turn someone’s murderous intent into a glorious example of his love and power. I was desperate for him to act.
Lord, I prayed, I learned how to love from you. Despite who I was—someone who was ready to kill your people—you looked at me in love and gave me joy and life. I learned love from you even though I was a sinful girl. You saved me. I didn’t deserve any of this goodness. Even though Mom is hurting me, I still love her with the love you gave me.
I decided to fast for three days. My mother grew worried when I refused all food and water, asking me if I was on a hunger strike in an attempt to punish her. I stayed firm, telling her I did not want anything at all from her.
On the morning of the third day, I was praying in the darkness of my room when I heard the Lord’s gentle whisper: When you’re talking with your mother, I am with you. My Spirit is speaking through you.
I started to cry. Lord, thank you, I prayed. When you appeared to Saul, you changed him radically. I believe my mother will also change. And God, please heal her from the physical pain she is in.
