by Esther Ahmad
†
By the time Fatima stood up to speak, not only was the entire room packed but the courtyard was also filled with people. They crowded around the windows, straining to hear the proceedings.
“Zakhira.” Fatima’s voice was warm and gentle, full of kindness. It was as if she were admonishing me for missing a couple of questions on a test or failing to attend a daras. “What happened to you? You were a very strong and faithful Muslim.”
“Nothing bad happened to me,” I said. I barely recognized my own voice—it sounded weak and scared, with an unfamiliar tremor to it. “I am still a strong and faithful person,” I said. My words were so quiet that someone outside shouted for me to speak up.
“Don’t worry,” Fatima said to me quietly before addressing the whole room. She looked like a lawyer addressing a jury. “But Zakhira, if you are still strong and faithful, then why am I hearing something strange being said about you?”
Clever, I thought. If she forced me to reveal with my own lips that I was no longer a Muslim, the crowd would turn against me. I tried to push back, telling her I didn’t know what she’d heard about me. But again my voice was almost inaudible.
Fatima took a step closer and held her arms out wide, palms up. Her voice had a tone of sorrow in it, as if she were a survivor trying to reason with a former attacker. “You were an active volunteer in a well-known Islamic organization. You were born into a strong, faithful Muslim family. You served the orphans and lived well. I can’t imagine why you’d become a Christian.”
The answer came out of my mouth too quickly for me to think it through. “I read the Qur’an and became a Christian.”
“What?” Fatima shot back, her calm, reasonable act vanishing in an instant. “I’ve read the Qur’an many times, just like all the people in this room. But none of us have become a kafir like you.” The room swelled with approval, a few of the men shouting out “Kafir!” in agreement. Fatima paused and picked up a copy of the Qur’an from a table and held it triumphantly above her head. “The Qur’an is a book of Allah. It’s a complete book, covering every aspect of life. It alone has the power to change lives, and whoever reads it can’t be led astray. Instead they will find themselves set upon the right path. I am wondering: Have you really read the Qur’an? Surely everyone here knows that if a kafir reads this book, they will come back to Islam.”
The applause lasted almost a full minute. The longer it went on, the angrier I became. How could she say that the Qur’an was the only book that could bring change? Everything I had read told me that the Qur’an is not the Word of God. Instead, it is a confused, misleading work that mullahs deliberately try to stop Muslims from studying too closely.
I checked my anger and took a breath. “If the Qur’an really does show the right way, as you say, I have some questions for you.” Fatima nodded, and I felt my confidence rise as I went on. “If you will give satisfactory answers to all of my questions, then I promise I will come back to Islam without any hesitation at all. But if you’re unable to answer even a single one of my questions fully, then I want you to promise in front of all these people that you will accept a gift from me.”
“Of course,” she said. “What questions do you have?”
“Well, you say that the Qur’an is a complete book and that it has all the details in it we could ever need. That’s what you said, right?”
“It is.”
“I would like to look at it then. Obviously, being an unclean kafir, I can’t touch the Qur’an, so I’ll need you to read it for me.”
She agreed, opened the book to the verse I indicated, and read loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear: “And this Qur’an is not such as could ever be invented in despite of Allah; but it is a confirmation of that which was before it and an exposition of that which is decreed for mankind—Therein is no doubt—from the Lord of the Worlds.”[15]
I gave her another reference to turn to, and again she read aloud: “We reveal the Scripture unto thee as an exposition of all things, and a guidance and a mercy and good things for those who have surrendered (to Allah).”[16]
“Thank you,” I said. “I just want to ask: Are you sure this book is the exposition of all things?”
“Of course I am. Didn’t you understand what I just read?”
“I understood, but I want to know that you are 100 percent sure of what you read.”
“Yes, 100 percent sure.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then can you please tell me how many prophets or messengers have been sent by Allah?”
She couldn’t hide the derision from her voice. “You became Christian because of this easy question? According to Islam, there are 124,000 prophets and messengers who came from Allah.”
I ignored the murmurs and laughter rippling through the room and pressed on. “Can you please show me in the Qur’an all the names of the prophets and messengers? You don’t need to tell me everything about each of the 124,000—just their names will do.”
She froze. Like all Muslims, she believed in the 124,000 prophets sent by Allah. But unlike most of them, she knew that neither the Qur’an nor the hadith made that declaration. The 124,000 was just something Muslims believed, even though it wasn’t in any of their holy books.
She was trapped. Either she admitted that the Qur’an was not the definitive source of all information, or she denounced a core belief that every Muslim assumed was right.
I smiled at her, remembering how stunned I had felt when John had opened my eyes to all this. “If you want, you can use the Qur’an and read the names. I don’t mind if you read from the hadith as well. We all know that without the hadith, the story of Islam isn’t complete.”
Fatima kept quiet. A heavy silence fell on the room.
“Please, I think you should answer soon, Fatima. Everyone is waiting for you.”
Eventually she spoke. “I will come back another day and give you the answer. Now ask me your next question.”
“No,” I said. “You need to answer my first question, and then we’ll move on to the next one.”
“It’s a big figure. I can’t remember all those names by heart.”
“Really?” I said. “Then what kind of cleric are you if can’t find the names of all the prophets in the Qur’an or the hadith? Don’t you know your way around those books?”
“Give me some time.” Her voice was as hard as steel. “Then I’ll bring the names to you.”
The room shifted uncomfortably. “Okay,” I said. “I’d like you to read a verse from the Qur’an, please. Make sure it’s nice and loud so everybody can hear you.” I gave her the reference, and once she found it, she started reading.
“Please,” I interrupted, “not in Arabic. I’m not sure everybody here will understand it. Please read the Urdu translation.”
Fatima cleared her throat and started again. “And We bestowed on him Isaac and Jacob, and We established the prophethood and the Scripture among his seed, and We gave him his reward in the world, and lo! in the Hereafter he verily is among the righteous.”[17]
“Thank you. Tell me, according to this verse, from which ancestor does Hazrat Muhammad come?”
“From Hazrat Abraham.”
“But the verse doesn’t mention Hazrat Abraham.”
“I know, but Hazrat Abraham had two sons, Hazrat Isaac and Hazrat Ishmael.”
“Okay, and which son was an ancestor of the Prophet?”
“Hazrat Ishmael.”
“So can you read that verse again, please? Really loudly this time so we can really understand what it says.”
“We bestowed on him Isaac and Jacob, and We established the prophethood and the Scripture among his seed, and We gave him his reward in the world.”
I paused awhile. “I’m confused, Fatima. As you just read, the Qur’an confirms that all the prophets and all the books come from the seed of Isaac and Jacob only. There is no mention of Hazrat Ishmael. Did Allah not have a plan for him and his descendants? And if the Qur’an is correc
t, and Hazrat Muhammad really does come from Hazrat Isaac or from Hazrat Jacob, doesn’t that mean that Hazrat Muhammad came from the Jews?”
Now it was Fatima’s voice that faltered. “No, he’s not from Hazrat Isaac or Hazrat Jacob. He’s from Hazrat Ishmael.”
“But that’s not what the Qur’an says here. Why aren’t you accepting what it says? It seems to me as though you’re denying it. I’m the kafir, but even I agree with the Qur’an on this: all the prophets and all the scriptures really do come from the seeds of Isaac and Jacob, as both the Qur’an and the Holy Bible say.”
She thought for a moment before trying to strike back. “Are you saying it’s too difficult for Allah to raise a prophet from a nation other than the Jews? Are you saying Allah isn’t strong enough? That would be blasphemous, Zakhira.”
A thunder of claps filled the room, forcing me to wait before I could speak again. “Fatima, it is written seven times in the Qur’an that Allah never changes his words or decisions.” I listed all the references and, just like before, had her read them in Urdu, loud enough for everyone to hear.
When she finished, I stood up for the first time in the meeting. “It is you who are guilty of blasphemy, not me. You are the one denying the Qur’an, not me. Why can’t you say that the Qur’an is right in this matter?”
As I said this, people in the room started shouting at Fatima.
“Shut up!”
“Don’t deny the Qur’an!”
“The girl is right. She’s accepting what it says, but you’re denying it.”
Fatima sat down and waved me away. “I don’t want to continue this talk. My thoughts are a little hazy today. I would rather come back again when I feel better and have been able to prepare. Then we will talk further.”
I smiled at her. “That’s fine. But you have to take the gift I promised you.” I hurried out of the room, pulled my Holy Bible from the corner in the kitchen where I’d hidden it, and returned to my spot.
I held the book high above my head, just as she had done with the Qur’an when the meeting started. “This is the living Word of God. It has removed all my hazy thinking, and I believe it will clear your mind too.”
I held it out to her. “Take it.”
She stared at it, her hands locked in her lap. She had no idea how powerful the book was or how much it had changed my life. It felt strange that I was about to give away the book I’d fought so hard to gain. It was my only copy of the Holy Bible, but if I could save one life by giving it away, that would be a wonderful result. Besides, I was going to die soon anyway, and if I hadn’t given it away by then, it would certainly be destroyed once I was killed.
“You made a promise,” I said. “And you really shouldn’t be afraid of a book that’s mentioned in the oath all Muslims say daily. What you should be afraid of is denying what God has written. If you do that, you are no longer a Muslim.”
The whole room was looking at Fatima.
She waited, then slowly reached out her hand. Her trembling fingers closed around the black leather cover.
†
Chaos erupted in the room as soon as Fatima left. People pressed around me, and I felt the heat of their breath as they shouted and pushed and pulled, arguing among themselves about what had just happened.
I could sense the commotion around me, but I wasn’t part of it. I was thanking my God for the way my eyes had been drawn to the Qur’an earlier that morning, leading me to wonder about Abraham, Isaac, and Ishmael.
I was thanking my God for removing all the dust from my brain.
And I was thanking him that when the moment came for me to die—perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a week or two—I could trust that the power of the Holy Spirit would be just as present as it had been that morning.
When I agreed to die in jihad, my aim was to kill as many people as possible through my own death. Now, as a Christian martyr, my death would mark the point that many people started to search for new life in God. I had never been more sure of anything in my life.
[15] Qur’an 10:37.
[16] Qur’an 16:89.
[17] Qur’an 29:27.
20
I fell to my knees at the side of my bed and thanked God for the way the debate had unfolded. Most clerics would have dismissed my question about the 124,000 prophets out of hand, but to my surprise, it had left Fatima with nothing to say. Only God could have caused her to get so easily confused, just as only God could have given me the words to say.
Though it hadn’t been my intention, I realized I had used the same techniques with Fatima that I’d been taught at the madrassa. I had been polite and friendly, offering to get her a glass of water, and then I placed a doubt in her mind—as well as the minds of those watching—over the names of all those prophets. The deeper our conversation went, the clearer it became that her assumptions were based on weak foundations.
I hadn’t planned any of it, and part of me had been surprised to hear myself speak the way I had to Fatima. But I was grateful to God all the same, even for the way he was able to redeem my time in the madrassa and use it to shine a light of truth.
I can’t count all the times I’d been told how to bring a Christian into Islam. I had been taught to ask how it was possible for God to have a son, since that would require God to have a wife. The Trinity was another area I was told to target. How could three Gods ever live in harmony with each other? Finally, I was instructed to argue that the Christian Bible has been corrupted from its original form, with all traces of the life of Muhammad removed.
These arguments were never backed up with sound logic or proof, but that did not seem to matter. The strategy for converting a Christian rested on one key aim: to sow as many seeds of doubt as possible in a believer’s mind.
After the first debate, I decided to use the same strategy in arguing against Islam, regardless of how many days I had left to live.
After watching Fatima grow tongue-tied and seeing the people get angry at her, it now seemed even less likely that I would be allowed to live a whole month. But I knew that no matter how many debates I faced, I could approach them with confidence and courage. Islam was full of holes, and God had my back. I had never been more certain of anything in my life.
I trust you completely, God, I vowed in my bedroom later that night. I will shout the truth about you and about Islam as loudly as I possibly can.
†
When I walked into the meeting room the next day, I held tightly to the Scripture I’d been reciting in my head: “When you are brought before synagogues, rulers and authorities, do not worry about how you will defend yourselves or what you will say, for the Holy Spirit will teach you at that time what you should say.”[18]
Even though the passage was one of my favorites, it hit me with all the force of a hurricane when it came to my mind in the early-morning light. It banished any traces of anxiety and filled me with the knowledge that I was right where God wanted me to be.
A few hours later I watched the cleric arrive. He was a heavyset gentleman, probably younger than my father, but with an air that suggested he thought he was the wisest man who had ever walked the earth. People scuttled out of his way as he swept in. With his brow furrowed in mock concentration, he nodded at the men in the room with the longest beards.
Even before he reached the front, he threw his arms out wide and started speaking. “My dear, my beloved daughter.” He looked at me briefly before turning to face the rest of the room. “You were blessed to be born into Islam. Did you know that Hazrat Jesus wished to be born a Muslim like you? The Christians who live among us are so unworthy and poor that some of them are working to clean our roads. Christians are the sweepers, the ones who carry out the lower-level jobs that no true Muslim would ever want. Why would you want to join them?”
He held up his hand and nodded at the murmurs of approval.
“Sir,” I said, “I’m glad you’re here, and I hope you can answer a question that has been troubling me for some time. Why are there s
o many Muslims standing on street corners throughout the city, begging for money or food? And why do they always say, ‘Give to me in the name of Allah’ or ‘Give to me in the name of Muhammad’?”
“My daughter, on the day of judgment, there will be no flesh on the skin of those beggars. It is written in the hadith that Allah will not give a single look to those people. He will hate them and will turn his face from them.”[19]
“You are absolutely right. I, too, have read that hadith. But it is also written that no one earns his food better than the one who works with his hands, like David the prophet of Allah. Do you know that hadith? It’s reported by al-Bukhari and others. I can find it for you if you like.”
He stood in silence, his face frozen.
“Let me show you the reference,” I said, reaching for the hadith I had brought with me.
“Yes, yes!” He was unable to keep the frustration from his voice. “There’s no need to read it out loud. It is written as you say.”
“Then surely that means that the Christians who work with their own hands are blessed, correct? They choose not to beg, but to clean and sweep. According to these texts, they are the ones who will be so close to Allah that there is no gap between them. According to what you have shown us, these Christians, though they are poor, will be the ones Allah will want to look at, not the Muslim beggars you say he will despise. So tell me, isn’t it the Christian poor who are blessed rather than the Muslims?”
Again, the cleric was mute. All his bravado and arrogance had evaporated. But I was not finished. “There’s one more thing I want to ask,” I said. “You claimed that Jesus wished to be born into a Muslim nation. Did you know that the Qur’an says Jesus ascended to heaven alive?[20] It explains that he will come back again at the end of days. So without his return to the earth, there will be no end—no day of judgment. Isn’t that right?”
