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 cooking 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 lives, 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.
I heard the Lord’s voice again: I will increase her pain, and she will call on me herself. Then she will be healed. This disease is to glorify my name.
†
It was easy to change the way I spoke to my mother. I no longer felt the need to defend myself against her or to avoid all but essential contact with her. I saw her not as someone who was persecuting me but as a fellow traveler soon to be invited onto the path of God’s great adventure.
I asked her again and again if I could pray for her. I didn’t mind when she shouted at me to leave or pushed me away. I just wanted her to know I was ready to pray for her, ready to believe that God would heal her and that his name would be glorified as a result.
She showed no sign of backing down, but her beatings slowed a little in both their frequency and their force. I wondered whether this was a sign that God was at work within her, but I knew there was another explanation to consider as well. She had been told by the doctor that the problem with her heart was rapidly getting worse and that her health would continue to deteriorate. Without any female surgeons in the city, both she and my father continued to refuse an operation. The longer she lived with her condition, the worse she became.
We were out shopping one day when my mother collapsed on the sidewalk beside me. One moment she was looking at fruit, and the next she lay twisted on the ground, surrounded by fallen mangoes.
I forgot all about the miracle I had been praying for and knelt beside her, desperate to do what I could to help. Her hands grabbed at my dupatta, and when she’d pulled me close enough to her face for me to hear her faint, rasping voice, she spoke. “You pray.”
A bunch of people gathered around and helped me move her off to the side. I sat there as her head rested limply in my lap, her eyes wide. I’d never seen her so scared.
“Lord, you said that she would ask for healing herself, and she has done just that. So please heal my mother.” She shut her eyes as I continued to pray. “Jesus, I bring her under your cross. I cover her with your holy blood. Whatever sickness is inside her body, remove it in your mighty name, Jesus.”
For a while we sat there like that, my mother lying in the dirt and the name of Jesus fresh on my lips while the rest of Pakistan went about its business around us. It seemed like the most normal thing in the world.
When I noticed that her face had relaxed and her breathing had calmed, I told her I wanted to call home and get my father to pick her up.
She opened her eyes and stared straight at me. “I have no pain,” she said. “I’m ready to go straight to the hospital.”
My father and brother came and drove us to the same building where I’d visited John so many times before. As I waited in the corridor while the doctor and nurses examined her, I felt an odd mixture of emotions. I wasn’t sure what was happening with my mother’s health, and I wondered how God would answer my prayer. At the same time, I was nervous that I might see John again, afraid that in the midst of all the chaos, he might somehow get found out and end up in trouble. Even so, part of me was desperate to walk up to the second floor and see him again. Months had passed since we last saw each other, and I had so much to tell him.
“It’s a miracle,” the doctor said as he stood beside my mother in the open doorway. “There’s nothing wrong with her heart at all!”
My father rejoiced and my brother hugged my mother while silent prayers of joy exploded within me. The only person who was not smiling or cheering was my mother. She stood still, her eyes fixed on the floor.
Later that night, when the house had cleared of guests and noise, I heard a soft knock on my door. My mother came in and sat on my bed, looking at her hands. She said nothing for a long time.
“I had such a strange experience when you started praying,” she said. “I saw fire.”
I desperately wanted to tell her that fire was a Christian concept—to share about Moses and the burning bush and the disciples on the day of Pentecost. I wanted to tell her that there could be only one possible explanation for her dramatic healing. I wanted to tell her everything about Jesus and the time I’d fasted and prayed and how he had promised to heal her. But I knew I couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. So I just stared at her hands too and waited for the moment to pass.
Finally she found the words she wanted to speak. “I heard the sound of a stone falling down. Then the pain vanished. That’s why I wanted to go straight to the hospital. I knew that my problem was gone. I just wanted proof.”
“You know who healed you, don’t you?”
She said nothing, just stared at her hands.
Before I could ask the question a second time, she stood up and left.