by Esther Ahmad
“They do this every year,” the officer told her. “It’s nothing personal.”
John and I chose to trust the advice and ignore the note. Months passed, and there were no more threats. But when we heard gunshots in the street outside one spring night, I felt the fear return to my throat. Even though we knew the gunshots belonged to another person’s quarrel, I did not sleep well that night.
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There was a time when jihad was one of the most important words I knew. It takes many forms, but all expressions of jihad share the common theme of struggle. For some people, jihad is about struggling against poverty; for others, like my former self, it’s a struggle against those we believed to be the enemies of Islam. My whole life was a struggle, even though I couldn’t always see that.
In many ways, my life as a Muslim was defined by the struggles I faced. I struggled to get love from my father. I tried so hard, working to the best of my ability at school just to get his attention. But the struggle was futile. He had no interest in his third-born daughter.
I struggled for the right to receive an education. My father put many restrictions on me, but I fought to get as much instruction as possible. Even though I felt like I was winning that battle, I had no peace inside. I desperately wanted acceptance and love, and those were things even the best teachers could not give me.
So I had done the only thing I knew how to do in my limited human understanding: I prepared to struggle against the infidels.
All my struggles didn’t go away the day I dreamed of Jesus. In many ways, that was the beginning of a new struggle. As a Christian, I had to struggle to prove to myself and my community that my decision to leave Islam was right. Then I struggled to keep myself, my husband, and my daughter safe.
We struggled in Malaysia, too. We had to make a fresh start, knowing no one and with nothing but a few dollars in our pockets. I struggled to put aside my fear and doubt and choose to trust my God and share my full story with others.
There has been so much struggle.
But the difference between the way I struggled as a Muslim and the way I struggle as a Christian is significant. Today I don’t struggle alone. God doesn’t stand apart from me, keeping a record of my sins so he can weigh them against my good deeds and then use my sins to keep me from him. Instead, my God reveals his true nature through his Son, Jesus. Christ stands with arms stretched open, broken and bloodied, scarred and suffering. He has struggled far more than I ever will. And no matter what struggle I face, I won’t face it alone. He will be right by my side.
Perhaps most freeing of all, it’s not up to us to earn our own salvation. God gives us his grace and love—the most powerful force in the world. That means I no longer have to struggle to be accepted. Jihad was all about what I could do; salvation is about what God has done for me—for all of us.
31
“You were a Muslim?”
I paused the sewing machine and looked around. The workshop was small—not much bigger than my mother’s workshop back in Pakistan. Even though I knew I was safe and that a conversation like this in the United States was no more controversial than a discussion about politics, I still felt nervous.
I’d been working at the sewing shop for three days, sitting at the bench alongside four other women as we made costumes for an upcoming city parade. The bright fabrics reminded me of home, as did the women’s laughter as they teased the delivery guy who hovered nervously in the doorway. Happy memories from a lifetime ago came flooding through my mind.
“What do you mean, you used to be a Muslim? I don’t understand.” Nasirah was looking at me intently. She was the only Muslim in the workshop—at least, she was the only woman wearing a veil—and from the moment I met her, I had been praying for an opportunity to talk to her about Jesus. Even so, it still felt like a risk to say, “Yes. I was born and raised a Muslim.” Would she see me as a kafir? What if she had ties to militants? I watched her search my face as she realized that I was not who she thought I was.
I knew I needed to tell her more. “Something happened to me,” I said, determined to make the most of this opportunity. “Something I never expected—but it opened my eyes to the truth.”
I noticed the twitch in her mouth, the narrowing of her eyes. I was no longer a target for friendly evangelism but an infidel worthy of scorn. I knew I didn’t have long before she dismissed me and shut down the conversation, so I kept talking, telling Nasirah my story in a handful of sentences. To my surprise, she didn’t interrupt me or turn away. She just listened, her eyes locked on the wisp of bright red thread in her hands. As we talked, I prayed silently, asking God to breathe life into my words and ignite a hunger within Nasirah to know more about him.
When I was done telling my story, I didn’t know what else to say, so I extended an invitation. “Would you like to come to my home to talk some more?”
“Yes,” she said, looking up at me. “I’d like that.”
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It took me a while to adjust to the freedom of life in the United States. Being able to work, drive, use public transportation without fear of strangers—all these experiences are so different from what we faced as Christians in Pakistan and Malaysia.
Other changes have been more difficult to come to terms with. Ever since I left home, I’ve been moving farther and farther away from my family. I know it is unlikely that I will ever see them or even have contact with them again. I don’t know if my mother is still alive. I may never know if my father and my two older sisters came to Christ. Amiyah will never know her grandparents or her aunts and uncles and cousins. It has been more than ten years since I left my family, but the risk is still too great—if my father is the man he used to be, nothing will stop him from killing my family and me for the sake of his religion and his honor.
But even in the face of those losses, God has provided. We have been blessed with so many friends here, and one family in particular has adopted our family into theirs. I might never reconnect with my family in Pakistan, but I know I’ll always have a mom and a sister here in the United States who will love me, care for me, and protect me.
I am so glad Amiyah will grow up in a country like this, where she is free to learn and live as God calls her to live. But the temptations of the world are great, and John and I know that, like all Christian families in the West, we can’t take for granted that our daughter will continue to grow in the Lord. Children need to be taught and shown how great our God is and how important he is in our lives. We have to pray together and read the Bible together as a family. Like every child, our daughter needs to be equipped. She may never debate a mullah or face a roomful of angry militants, but she still must be ready—ready to take risks for God, ready to trust him no matter what.
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Of all the changes in my life since I’ve come to the States, the most significant has been the freedom to share my story freely in public. Ever since I moved here, I’ve known that I can’t stay silent. What God has done in my life is something I cannot hide. The days of keeping my past to myself are behind me.
So wherever and whenever I can, I share my story. I speak up at work, and I speak up in the grocery store. I talk to Muslims from all around the world on Facebook, and I speak in churches in my area. Sometimes I talk with a crowd of a hundred; other times I sit and talk with one person. It doesn’t matter how many or how few are there—all that matters is that I share what God has done.
As I talk to people, I am aware that while my story is different from other people’s, in many ways it isn’t unique at all. God is powerfully at work in the lives of Muslims today, and over the last couple of decades millions have come to faith in him. Like me, many met him in dreams. Others met him through evangelism and outreach, whether in their own country or in the West.
As the local church, we have the joy and the responsibility of inviting these individuals with Muslim backgrounds into the family of God. Our world is growing increasingly small, and when people come from other countr
ies or from other religions, my hope is that the church will accept them with love and joy. After all, God loved these people enough to cross boundaries and borders to bring them home, and we have the privilege of doing the same.
They need our help—financially, emotionally, physically. There are so many ways in which we can share the burden of someone who has to leave everything behind so that they can follow God. He invites all of us to play our parts, whether that means sharing our faith with a skeptic at school or work like Azia and John did for me, opening our homes for displaced believers as many Christians did for us in Pakistan, or spending years walking alongside new Christians as Paul and C. Howe did for us in Malaysia. Whatever our resources, whatever our situations, whatever our gifts, God invites each of us to join the work he is doing.
So if you happen to meet a refugee or a family of refugees, don’t rush away out of fear or uncertainty over what to say and do. Ask God how he is inviting you to be involved. How can you help? What part can you play? What would God have you do to reveal a little more of his love to them? Ask them what they need too. Ask them about their stories, and share your story too.
As you listen, you might discover that their journey has been full of struggles and sorrow, pain and persecution. It might be different from yours in dramatic ways, but there will be similarities, too. For isn’t it just like God to bring different people together? Isn’t it just like God to weave strength out of brokenness in all of us? Isn’t it just like him to use the unqualified and the weak to be a part of his plan?
My life started with a wound. It festered, making me ever more desperate for the love and attention of a father who was determined to turn his face from me. But God was there. He saw my hurt, and he saw all the foolish ways I tried to mask the pain. And when I was about to make the gravest mistake of my life, he stepped in and rescued me.
I will never know how many lives God saved when he took me off the path of jihad. Perhaps I’ll never know whether God has rescued my father, my sisters, and people like Anwar. But I know for sure that none of us are too far from God’s hand. All of us are invited to know the love and acceptance that our perfect heavenly Father offers.
For this is the God who loves us. He takes us, wounded and weak and misguided as we are, and brings us home.
Q and A with Esther Ahmad
Are you in contact with anyone from back home in Pakistan?
I am not in touch with my family at all, and that breaks my heart. Amiyah often notices other children with their grandparents, and it makes both of us sad to realize she’ll never know her grandparents and the rest of her extended family.
Today we are in touch with John’s family, as well as his pastor, his church community, and many of the people who helped us when we were on the run. These believers continue to face persecution in Pakistan and live under the threat of violence. One of John’s brothers has been beaten, and other Christians who helped us have been attacked. A piece of our hearts will always be in Pakistan.
How do you handle not being able to communicate with your family, especially your mother and your siblings?
At times it has been really difficult to cope. Even today, it is still painful. When we first arrived in Malaysia, I would wake up every morning while Amiyah was asleep and cry. One day, when John came back early from work, he found me in tears. He asked me why I was crying, and I told him that I was missing my family.
“How long have you been crying?” he asked, putting his arm around me.
I told him that I had spent the last three hours in tears.
“And did your parents come back? Did crying change anything?”
“No.”
“Why spend so long crying every day if you get nothing out of it? Why not spend those hours in prayer for them? Pray for your mother’s faith to grow strong in Christ Jesus, and pray for the power to forgive your father. In this way, you will get peace in your heart and mind.”
Starting the next day, that is exactly what I did. I felt comforted right away. Even now I begin every day praying for my family. That is how I cope.
What do you miss about your homeland, particularly knowing you’ll likely never return?
I miss my family, my Christian friends, and the fellowship we shared. All the people who looked after us while we were on the run became like family to me. They walked the extra mile with us, just as Jesus tells us to do. We have been able to keep in touch with some of them and send them money when we can, as they are still facing persecution.
I miss seeing the beautiful places in Pakistan, such as the northern mountains around Murree and the beautiful valleys of Kalash and Kaghan. I do not miss Pakistani food though—I can cook that pretty well at home! Chapattis, biriyani, and chicken masala are all regular dishes on our table.
Some things about American life still seem strange to us: days when the sun stays behind heavy clouds, times when I am alone at home. The most confusing thing is that even though people here are well and blessed and could go to church without any restrictions, they do not. When I was in Pakistan and I could not go to church, I would daydream about how wonderful it would be to be able to worship with God’s people. I thought that the Christians in the United States would be so happy to be able to go to church whenever they wanted to, but instead they want to go to the beach, watch football, or eat. It makes me a bit sad.
What are the biggest adjustments your family has faced as you are living in an unfamiliar culture?
Being a refugee in the United States has not been a bad experience for us. The government has helped us with jobs and finding work, and our church and local community have played a big part in making our transition easier. We arrived without two of our bags, so John and I had to wear the same clothes for three days. But the pastor of the first church we went to jumped in to help. He and some other people from the church took us shopping and bought us what we needed. Other people from the congregation invited us to eat with them and helped us in so many different ways. Someone even gave us a car! Their generosity was truly remarkable.
When we were in Malaysia, we were surrounded by people from so many different countries, so some parts of American culture are a little familiar to us. One of the challenges we didn’t expect was all the confusing paperwork! Perhaps the biggest adjustment is that John’s work qualifications and experience do not count over here, so he has to start his studies all over again if he wants to get a job in the same profession.
Amiyah has faced a few difficulties with other pupils at school, but she has handled them with courage, love, and prayer. I can see how God is using her already!
In what ways have you been welcomed in your new home?
We have been helped by so many wonderful people in local churches. They have given practical help and support—furniture, clothes, food—and they have invited us to become part of their families. At a point when I was particularly missing my mom, and Amiyah was sad that she does not know her aunties or grandmother, God sent us Lisa, a woman we met at church. Early on she said to me, “Call me Mom” and to Amiyah, “Call me Gran,” and there has not been a day when I have not thanked God for her.
God has gone before us in so many ways and has provided us with such a loving, generous bunch of people. We are eternally grateful for family in the form of our Christian brothers and sisters here.
What misconceptions would you say people have about Muslims?
It’s common for people in the West to assume that all Muslims spread hate and support terrorism. Even though I was prepared to give my life for jihad, I don’t believe that all Muslims feel this way. I was part of a dangerous minority, but in my opinion, there are many good, sensible, and educated Muslims out there who reject the jihad ideology mentioned in the Qur’an.
Do Christians and Muslims worship the same God?
When I was a Muslim, I believed that, yes, Muslims and Christians worship the same God. As a Christian, I no longer believe that. From all my experience—through my study of the Bible and th
e Qur’an, prayer, and everything that happened to me in Pakistan—I can say that the differences between the God of the Bible and Allah are so vast that they simply cannot be the same God. God is merciful and loving, but Allah has no mercy and no love.
In observing your debates about the Qur’an and the Bible, someone could say that the Bible’s inerrancy could be picked apart the way you challenged the Qur’an. How would you respond to that?
At its core, the Bible is built on truth. It points us to Jesus and invites us to deepen our own relationship with God. The Qur’an is built on confusion. Muslims are not encouraged to wrestle with it or to search for the truth themselves, and it is filled with contradictions. With the story of Jonah, for example, the account of how long he spent in the belly of the big fish varies throughout the Qur’an and the hadith: in some places it says one day, in others it says three, seven, or forty. That is why Muslims are not encouraged to read the Qur’an in their native tongue or question it in any way. I love the way we Christians can engage with and debate about the Bible—it is strong enough to withstand our questions. And searching for truth is exactly what we are encouraged to do. In Luke 11:9, Jesus says, “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.”
How does the church in the United States compare to the church in Pakistan?