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 so 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?”
“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.”