by Esther Ahmad
“Yes.”
“So that means Hazrat Muhammad can’t come out of his grave until Jesus Christ returns. Only Jesus Christ has the authority to call the dead from the grave and make them alive, for only Jesus Christ has done these miracles on this earth. Even the Qur’an confirms this. Is there any place in the Qur’an that shows that Hazrat Muhammad performed any miracles at all?”
The cleric had been looking at the ground for some time. Without raising his eyes, he got up and walked toward the door. The whole room watched in silence as he left, shoulders slumped and head hung low. “Someone led her astray very badly,” he announced as he paused at the door. “Now it’s going to be very difficult to bring her back to Islam.”
†
When my mother came to see me in my room that night, she was so happy. She giggled like a schoolgirl as we talked about the mullah and the contrast between his elaborate entrance and his humble departure.
I was still smiling as I closed my eyes and let myself drift into sleep.
In my dreams that night, I saw a ditch that was as real as any I’d ever seen in person. I stood in the middle of it, my feet half covered in stagnant water. To my right was beauty like I had never witnessed. The land was full of lush grass and gently rolling hills. To my left, the view could not have been more different. The land was dry, the earth was cracked, and the sun had long since scorched all life from the place.
I became aware that all my family members who were still living at home were on the left of the ditch. One by one, I reached out for them, grabbing my mother’s hand first and guiding her over to the right. Next my brother crossed over, then my little sister. At last I held out my hand for my father, but he would not reach toward me. There was no way I could stretch far enough to reach him.
When I woke the next morning, the dream was still alive within me. I knew what it meant, and I knew what I had to do. I needed to act fast—to pray and then share my faith with my brother and younger sister.
Later that day, when my father was out of the house, I asked them to come to the kitchen with me and my mother.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen to me,” I said. “I don’t know whether I’ll live to see the end of this week or the end of the month, but I have to tell you that everything I’m saying in these debates is the truth. You must remember—Jesus is the only one who can save you.”
They both sat and stared. Neither of them had ever been as devout a Muslim as I had once been, but this was still a risk. My mouth felt dry as I broke the silence.
“You can see that these scholars don’t have any answers. They don’t know what they’re talking about. And you can tell they’re scared of having Christians reveal the truth to others. Why would they want to kill me if I weren’t a threat? Why are they worried about me talking about my faith in Christ? It’s because they know that Islam is not right and that Christianity is.”
“She’s right,” my mother said. “I’m a Christian too.”
They looked at each other, eyes wide and full of tears.
†
On the fourth day of my house arrest, Fatima returned. The room was just as full for the third debate as it had been for the first. But this time she was prepared.
“I was unwell last time,” she said. “Today I’m feeling much better, and I have a question I’d like you to answer.” She held the Holy Bible I had given her over her head. “Is this the book that changed the way you saw Islam?”
“Yes.”
“And do you still claim that this book is the truth as revealed by God?”
“Yes.”
Turning to everyone in the room, she said, “We all know that the prophets and angels are so good, wise, and pure that they never made mistakes. But this book claims that men like Lot and David were sinners.”
The chorus of approval that followed Fatima’s words was so loud I had to shout. “I learned from my family while I was still a Muslim that everyone makes mistakes, even the mullahs. The wisest people are the ones who make mistakes and learn from them.”
“You’re wrong. This is just something people say to children. It has no truth in Islam. The prophets never commit sin. If they ever do make a mistake, it’s only a tiny one, and it’s not a sin.”
“Really?” I said. “You think they never commit any sin? Since we’re here, I have some questions about Islam. Maybe you can help me. Tell me this first: Who is Adam?”
“He’s the first prophet in Islam, the first prophet on the earth from Allah.”
“Okay. Can you tell me why he came from heaven to earth?”
“The Qur’an tells us that it’s because he ate the fruit Allah said was forbidden. Some texts say it was an apple; some say it was wheat.”
“He ate what Allah had forbidden. Does that mean he disobeyed?”
“Yes.”
“When we disobey, it’s called sin. God said, ‘Do not commit adultery,’ and when we do, it’s a sin. Whenever we go against God’s Word and do the things he tells us not to do, we’re guilty of sin. So if the first prophet disobeyed God and sinned, how can you say the others didn’t sin?”
“What Adam did wasn’t sin,” Fatima retorted. “It was just disobedience.”
“So what if a prophet had stolen something? Would that be okay? Shouldn’t he have his hands cut off in punishment?”
Fatima shrugged and sat down. I kept going, turning to the whole room. “This is the truth of the Holy Bible: it never hides the sin of a person or a prophet. It tells us that we all are weak and that God still chooses to use us. Nothing is hidden from him.”
Just as he had during the previous two debates, my father sat along the wall near the door, as far away from me as he could possibly get. Fatima looked at him and said, “I tell you, she is not coming back. Not ever.”
Gathering up her possessions, including the Holy Bible, she turned to leave. When she reached my father, she stopped. “I don’t want to talk to her anymore.”
[18] Luke 12:11-12.
[19] Sahih Muslim, “The Book of Zakat (Kitab Al-Zakat),” volume 3, book 005, number 2263.
[20] Qur’an 4:158.
21
After Fatima and the overconfident cleric walked out of their debates, a string of others followed. They all arrived with their arguments mapped out and their lines scripted. Having given away my copy of the Holy Bible, I spent hours each day studying the Qur’an and various hadiths, as well as browsing the books my father owned.
The fourth debate was with a local cleric who was the exact opposite of the previous two. From the start, he was nervous and quiet, and he never once looked in my direction. Instead, he stood at the front of the room and read from his notes as if this were a lecture.
“This book, which she refers to as the Holy Bible, is not worthy to be read among females. I would ask all of you here—sisters, brothers, mothers, and fathers—to listen to these words written therein.”
I recognized the passage immediately. It was the part in Genesis that describes Lot’s two daughters getting him drunk and sleeping with him. My mind scrambled to think of a response, but the cleric didn’t pause.
“Would any of you want to read such writings among your family? Or what of Hazrat David? Listen to what happened when he was walking on his palace roof one day.”
Hearing Scripture read aloud was like feeling the sun on a cold winter day. It filled me with life, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Even though the cleric was trying to trick me, I wanted to thank him for bringing the Holy Bible with him and for reading it in front of all these people. Was it too much to hope that some of them might be feeling what I felt?
When the cleric had finished the story of David and Bathsheba, I stood up to speak. “We can read this Holy Bible among everyone, because it always tells the truth. It never lies. The Holy Bible makes it clear that Lot didn’t know what his daughters were doing and that God was angry with them for their shameful act. And David’s sin isn’t hidden from us an
y more than it was hidden from God. What David did in secrecy, God revealed in the Holy Bible to let us know that he is watching over us all the time, whether we are kings, prophets, or ordinary people. God knows everything we do in secret, so we should fear God and remember that we human beings are sinners. None of us is perfect. Only God Almighty is the one who is both righteous and perfect.”
I asked the cleric to wait a moment while I took one of my father’s books down from the shelf. I opened it to a page I’d seen the previous day. “Would you read this out loud, please?” I handed him a book called Beautiful Scenes in Heaven by an Islamic scholar.
He looked at the book, then back at me.
“You’ll need to translate it so everybody here can understand,” I said.
“I don’t want to read it.” He closed the book and handed it back to me.
“You’re feeling ashamed to read it in front of everyone here, aren’t you? The writing is so explicit that I think even a married couple would feel embarrassed to read it together.”
He shuffled his feet awhile and then folded his paper. “Perhaps we should continue this debate over e-mail.”
I gave him my address, knowing that he would never make contact. And even if he did, I knew that God would provide the words I needed, just as he had done in every debate. Though I was surrounded by people who wanted me dead, I sensed God’s love and presence in ways I had never before experienced. He was closer than the air I breathed. Any fear I felt about how things might turn out, any nervousness about what arguments I would face, failed to have much of a hold on me. God’s love was by far the brightest star in my universe.
†
The next debate took yet another direction. While the first four had been filled with spectators, this one was held late at night and only a handful of people were in the room. It did not take long for me to realize that this was not by accident.
“My daughter,” the old cleric began. “You were blessed because you were born into a Muslim family. It’s a great privilege to be in a Muslim family.” He stopped, smiled widely, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “My daughter, if Christians have offered you money, please let us know. How much have they agreed to pay you? Whatever it is, we will give you more than they will, as long as you turn your back on their religion.”
I was shocked. “You think that by offering me money I will come back into darkness? What you’re suggesting is as ridiculous as asking someone traveling in an airplane how much they would want to continue their journey by donkey. I’m an educated, sound-minded, healthy girl. If I needed money, I could go out and work for it. Why would I take a bribe and end up in all this trouble if I could be bought so easily?
“And there’s one other thing for you to know. Whatever money you have belongs to my God. He is my Father; he alone is the Creator of the universe. Everything is under his control. According to the Holy Bible, he has numbered all the hairs on my head,[21] and he has sketched me on the palm of his hand.[22] He knows what I need, and he provides for me perfectly. Whenever I’m in need, I will call on him for help. I can give you his number if you like—it’s 33:3. Whenever you need help, look up Jeremiah 33:3 and call out to God. He will answer you.”
The cleric stared at me, his face set in stone. He turned back and whispered to some of the other men gathered around him.
“You are a young girl,” he said, a half smile resting on his lips. “We can understand how these things happen. Maybe you fell in love with someone who is a Christian. Don’t worry if you have. Just tell us who he is, and we’ll bring him into Islam. Then the two of you can be married.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I am in love. But not with any Christian boy I’ve met. I’m in love with Jesus Christ. Let him be in my life forever and ever. I’m not interested in anyone else.”
He left soon after that. Just like the others, he delivered his verdict to my parents, telling them that I was crazy and that bringing me back into Islam would be nearly impossible.
†
The room was full again, and I was excited about the prospect of comparing the Word of God with the Qur’an in front of so many people.
“Today I’m going to talk from this book she loves so much,” shouted a new cleric I had not seen before.
“Why?” I asked. “You don’t believe that this is the Book of God. You clerics all say that it has been changed. We should talk from the Qur’an instead.”
“No.” He was facing the crowd, his back to me. He must have been making faces, for a ripple of laughter skimmed the room. “I’ve heard about the way you treat the Qur’an. Today I’m talking from the Bible. Have you read it?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you scared?”
“I’m not,” I shot back, a little too quickly. More laughter. “I’m ready.”
“Good.” The cleric opened to Luke 3:16 with a flourish. “It is written here that Jesus said, ‘One who is more powerful than I will come, the straps of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie.’ Who else could Jesus be talking about but the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.”
I could not believe it. Was this really his best attempt at creating doubt in my mind?
“Okay,” I said. “I’ve read this Holy Bible, and I think I know it better than you do, so let me explain.” I reached over and took the book from his hand, my heart racing as I touched it. “You didn’t read the whole passage, so you got confused about who was speaking. It wasn’t Jesus who said that but John the Baptist, speaking about Jesus. Was Jesus even there at the time? Was Muhammad?”
Silence.
“Neither was. John was talking to the religious leaders. And look here.” I pointed to the end of the verse he had read. “John says that the one who is coming next will baptize with fire, not water. Does the Qur’an have anything to say about people being baptized by fire?”
He said nothing.
“There are lots of verses about God sending someone great, but none of them refer to Muhammad. Like this one here,” I said, flipping back to Deuteronomy 18:15: “Moses said to the Israelites, ‘The LORD your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among you, from your fellow Israelites. You must listen to him.’ If you want to claim that this refers to Muhammad, then you would have to believe that Muhammad is from the brethren of Israel. You would have to believe that Muhammad was a Jew. I don’t think these people would like it if you said that.”
The laughter that had filled the room minutes earlier was a vague memory. In its place was only angry shouting. I had said all that I needed to, and I could feel the atmosphere sour. I slipped out as quickly as I could.
†
The next day a new mullah came, holding copies of the Holy Bible, the Qur’an, and a set of scales. He placed the Qur’an on one side of the scales and the Holy Bible on the other. Then he went into the stance of a prizefighter—arms aloft, a satisfied smile beaming across his face. “See?” he said when the cheering in the room died down. “The Qur’an is heavier than the Bible. The Qur’an is from Allah. It’s full of more truth than your so-called holy book.”
He spun around to more cheering and cries of “Allahu Akbar!”
When the crowd quieted down a little, I shouted, “Sir, your scale is telling the truth! What belongs to God—the Holy Bible—is pointing up, and what belongs to the earth—the Qur’an—is pointing down.”
My argument was as foolish as his, and my voice was lost among the shouting. In time the crowd fell silent, their eyes fixed on the grinning cleric, who apparently had no more points to make.
After the debate was over, one of the women from the neighborhood came up to me. Through the slit in her veil, I could see her eyes popping with rage. “You should be ashamed for bringing disgrace on your father!”
My mother stood at my side, silent while the woman unleashed a steady flow of insults.
When she finally finished, I was able to talk. “Auntie,” I said, hoping the term of respect would calm her a little. “These people a
re coming to debate me. I’m open to talking with every one of them, but none of them are giving me any answers. If they could, I’d return to Islam right now. But none of them have anything noteworthy to say. They are spiritually blind. Even those who have read the Holy Bible only skimmed it for lines they could use against me. But when you study both the Holy Bible and the Qur’an, as I have, you’ll see that Islam doesn’t make sense anymore.”
She turned to my mother, waving her hand in my face. “This is all because she studied and went too deep. That’s why she is rebelling against Islam.”
“Yes,” I said as she left. “You are exactly right.”
†
That night my mother was full of hope as we met to talk and pray in my room. “Perhaps they’ll change their minds,” she said.
I looked at my mother and tried to summon a smile.
“You’re saying things that are making people think,” she said. “You’re asking questions they’ve never had to ask before and forcing them to think deeply about Islam. Maybe if the debates carry on like this, they’ll understand too. And maybe they won’t kill you after all.”
I agreed with everything she said about the debates, just not her final conclusion. The longer this went on and the greater fools the clerics made of themselves, the more likely it seemed that my death was not just inevitable. It was imminent.
[21] Matthew 10:30.
[22] Isaiah 49:16.
22
“Open this Bible and read from Genesis.”
It had been some time since I had last seen my college lecturer. Now she was here, holding out the Holy Bible to me. I had always been a diligent student, never handing in an assignment late or showing up to class without being fully prepared. I had never disobeyed any of my teachers, particularly this one.
Miss Shah was the best teacher I’d ever had. She was a scientist with a keen mind and a fierce belief in the value of education. She was twenty years older than I was but still single. I had spent hours wondering what battles she must have fought to get to where she was.