I don’t know if I believe it yet, I said.

The Christian stuff, I mean, it seems too good to be true.

Like the idea that God loves me no matter what I’ve done.

That seems impossible.

Maybe it’s not.

Aisha said, “Maybe that’s exactly what you need to hear right now.

” She was right.

It was exactly what I needed to hear.

The question was, could I believe it? I started meeting with Margaret outside of the Thursday group and Sunday services.

She became something like a mentor to me.

We would meet for coffee or lunch but and I would ask her all my questions about Christianity.

I had so many questions.

If Jesus is God, why did he pray? Who was he praying to? If God is all powerful, why did he let evil exist? If Christianity is true, what happens to people who never heard about Jesus? How can you trust the Bible when it’s been translated so many times? What about all the different denominations? How do you know which one is right? Margaret never seemed frustrated by my questions.

She answered what she could, and when she didn’t know the answer, she said so.

She gave me books to read.

She introduced me to other people at the church who could help.

But mostly she just pointed me back to Jesus.

Don’t get lost in all the theological debates.

She said once, “Start with Jesus.

Read his words.

Look at his life.

See how he treated people.

What ask yourself if he seems like someone worth following.

Everything else can come later.

” So that’s what I did.

I focused on Jesus.

I I I read the sermon on the mount where Jesus taught about being merciful and pure in heart and making peace.

I read about Jesus feeding the 5000.

I read about Jesus healing the sick.

I read about Jesus raising the dead.

And I read about Jesus dying on the cross.

That part was hard.

In Islam, we’re taught that Jesus didn’t actually die on the cross.

that Allah wouldn’t let his prophet be humiliated like that, that someone else died in his place.

But Christians believe Jesus really died, that he suffered, that he was tortured and humiliated and killed, and they believe he chose it, that he could have called down angels to save him, but he didn’t.

He chose to die.

Why? Uh Margaret explained it to me using an analogy.

She said, “Imagine you committed a serious crime and were going to be executed for it, but then someone else, someone innocent who loved you, stepped forward and said they would take your place.

They would die instead of you.

” That’s what Jesus did for us.

She said, “We all deserve punishment for our sins.

We all deserve death.

But Jesus took our place.

He died the death we deserved so we could live.

It was a beautiful idea.

But it was also hard to accept because if Jesus died for me, that meant I was worth dying for.

And I had spent my whole life believing I wasn’t worth anything.

About six months into my church attendance, there was a baptism service.

Several people from the church were getting getting baptized declaring publicly that they had decided to follow Jesus.

But I watched them go into the water one by one.

The pastor would say something about their story about their decision to follow Jesus and then he would baptize them in the name of the father, son, and holy spirit.

When they came up out of the water, everyone cheered.

One of the people being baptized was a woman from the Middle East.

I didn’t know her well, but I knew she was from a Muslim background like me.

She stood in the water and she said, “I was looking for love in all the wrong places, but I found it in Jesus.

He loves me completely and I’m never letting go of that love.

” Then she went under the water and came back up behind, tears streaming down her face, smiling so big.

I wanted that.

I wanted that joy, that certainty, that love.

But I was terrified because getting baptized would mean I really was leaving Islam.

Not just culturally, but spiritually.

It would mean I believed Jesus is God, that he died for me, that I was a Christian, and apostasy, leaving Islam, is punishable by death according to Islamic law.

If I got baptized and my family found out, they would consider me truly lost, beyond saving.

I was already cut off from them.

But this would be final, permanent.

There would be no going back.

Could I do it? Could I make that choice? I didn’t know.

Not yet.

I spent the next few weeks wrestling with the decision.

Every time I went to church, every time I read the Bible, every time I prayed, and yes, I was praying now, though I still wasn’t sure who I was praying to, I felt pulled in two directions.

One part of me wanted to surrender, to accept Jesus, to be baptized, to finally have that relationship with God that everyone kept talking about.

Uh, but another part of me was afraid, afraid of making a mistake, afraid of being deceived again, afraid of the consequences.

What if Christianity wasn’t true? What if I was just emotionally vulnerable and these Christians were manipulating me? What if I converted and then regretted it? And what about my family? Yes, they had disowned me.

Yes, they considered me dead.

But getting baptized would make it official.

There would be no possibility of reconciliation ever.

They would know for certain that I had become an apostate.

Could I live with that? I started reading the Quran again, not because I wanted to go back to Islam, but because I needed to be sure I was making the right choice.

I needed to compare what I had been taught with what I was learning about Christianity.

I read the verses about women, about how men are in charge of women, uh, about how a man can hit his wife if he fears disobedience, about how men can marry up to four wives, about how a woman’s inheritance is half a man’s.

About how a woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s.

I read the verses about non-believers.

about how Jews and Christians are misguided.

About how those who don’t accept Islam will burn in hell forever.

About jihad, about fighting until all religion is for Allah.

I read the verses about apostasy, about how those who leave Islam should be killed.

And I compared them to what Jesus said.

Jesus said to love your enemies, to pray for those who persecute you, to turn the other cheek, to forgive 70 times seven times.

Jesus said that everyone who believes in him will have eternal life.

Not because of their works, but because of his sacrifice.

Jesus said, “Come to me, o all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

” The more I read both books side by side, the clearer it became.

Islam offered me rules, fear, and conditional acceptance.

Christianity offered me grace, love, and unconditional acceptance.

Islam told me I was deficient because I was a woman.

Christianity told me I was made in God’s image and loved completely.

Islam told me I had to earn my way to paradise through good good works.

Christianity told me paradise was a free gift I couldn’t earn.

The choice became obvious.

But there was still one more hurdle, one more question I needed answered.

If Jesus was real, if he really loved me, I needed to experience him for myself, not just read about him, not just hear other people’s stories.

I needed my own encounter.

So, I prayed, really prayed, not the ritual prayers I learned in Islam, like but a real conversation.

I was in my room late at night sitting on my bed and I just talked out loud.

Jesus, if you’re real, I need to know.

I need you to show me.

I’ve left everything.

My family, my country, my religion, I can’t afford to be wrong about this.

So, please, if you’re really the son of God, if you really died for me, if you really love me, show me.

Help me believe.

I didn’t hear a voice.

I didn’t see a vision.

Nothing dramatic happened.

But I felt something.

A warmth in my chest.

A peace that I can’t quite explain.

Like someone was there with me in that room.

Like I wasn’t alone.

And I had this sudden overwhelming sense that I was loved.

Deeply, completely, unconditionally loved.

I started crying.

Not sad tears, but tears of relief.

Like I had been holding my breath for years.

And finally, finally, I could breathe.

Uh I don’t know how long I cried.

But when I stopped, I knew Jesus was real.

He loved me and I was his.

I told Margaret the next day that I wanted to be baptized.

Uh we were having coffee and I just said it straight out.

I want to be baptized.

I want to follow Jesus.

I’m ready.

Her face lit up as she reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

Are you sure? She asked.

Do you understand what this means? Yes, I said.

It means I’m choosing Jesus.

It means I’m declaring publicly that I believe he died for me and rose again.

It means I’m a Christian now.

It also means you might face opposition, Margaret said gently.

From your community, from other Muslims.

Are you prepared for that? I’m already facing opposition, I said.

I already get death threats.

I am already disowned.

This won’t change that, but it will change me.

Then it will make it real.

Margaret nodded.

Then let’s talk to the pastor and set a date.

The baptism was scheduled for three weeks later.

In those three weeks, I met several times with the pastor and some church leaders.

They wanted to make sure I understood what I was doing, that I wasn’t being pressured, that I had counted the cost.

We talked about my testimony, my story of how I came to faith.

They encouraged me to write it down and share it at my baptism.

Writing my testimony was emotional.

I had to go back through my whole life growing up in Saudi Arabia.

The oppression, the escape, the emptiness, the search, the finding.

I wrote about how Islam taught me to fear God, but Jesus taught me to love him.

How Islam made me feel worthless but Jesus made me feel precious.

How Islam offered me rules but Jesus offered me relationship.

I wrote about the moment I prayed and felt his presence about how I knew without any doubt that he was real and that he loved me.

Reading it back to myself, I couldn’t believe this was my story.

that I had gone from a girl in an an abaya in Riyad to a woman about to be baptized in London.

God had brought me so far.

The day of my baptism, I was nervous, not because I doubted my decision, but because I was about to stand in front of hundreds of people and declare my faith publicly.

My housemates came to support me.

Aisha came even though she was still Muslim.

Some of my classmates came.

The women from the Thursday group were all there sitting in the front row.

I wore a simple white dress, white for new beginnings, white for purity, white for the clean slate I was receiving through Christ.

When it was my turn, Adi, I stepped into the baptismal pool.

The water was warm.

The pastor was standing there smiling at me.

He asked me to share my testimony.

I took a deep breath and spoke into the microphone.

My voice shaking a little at first but getting stronger.

I told them about Saudi Arabia, about being told I was less because I was a woman, about escaping to London, about the freedom that still felt empty, about finding the church, about reading the Bible and seeing how Jesus treated women with dignity and love.

About the night I prayed and felt God’s presence for the first time.

about how I knew without any doubt that Jesus was the way, the truth, and the life.

For so long, I was told I had to earn love.

I said that I had to be perfect to be accepted.

That I was never good enough.

But Jesus showed me that love is a gift.

Uh that I’m loved not because of what I do, but because of who I am, his child.

And that changes everything.

There were tears in the audience.

I could see Margaret crying.

Even Aisha had tears in her eyes.

Then the pastor asked me the questions.

Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God? I do.

Do you believe that he died for your sins and rose again? I do.

Do you accept him as your Lord and Savior? I do.

Then I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

He put his hand on my back and lowered me into the water.

For a moment, I was completely submerged, completely under.

And in that moment, I felt all the old life washing away.

All the shame, all the fear, all the worthlessness, all the years of being told I wasn’t enough, gone.

Then he lifted me up out of the water.

I gasped.

Odd water streaming down my face.

My hair plastered to my head, and I felt new, clean, reborn.

The congregation erupted in applause and cheers.

I was crying and laughing at the same time.

The pastor hugged me.

Margaret was there with a towel, wrapping me up, crying with me.

“Welcome to the family,” she whispered.

“I was home.

Being baptized didn’t magically make all my problems disappear.

I still had struggles.

I still had doubts sometimes.

I still made mistakes.

But everything was different now because I knew I was loved.

When I messed up, I didn’t have to fear that God would reject me.

I could come to him and ask for forgiveness knowing he would give it.

When I felt lonely, I could pray and know that he was with me.

When I felt afraid, I could remember that nothing could separate me from his love.

Uh, I started learning what it meant to be a Christian.

Not just in belief, but in practice.

I learned about forgiveness, real forgiveness.

The pastor preached about how Jesus told us to forgive, not seven times, but 70 times.

Seven times to forgive as we have been forgiven.

That was hard because I had a lot of unforgiveness in my heart toward my father, toward my family, toward the culture that oppressed me, toward the religion that taught me I was less.

But I started praying for them, actually praying for them, asking God to open their eyes, to help them see his love, to set them free from the bondage I had been in.

It didn’t happen overnight.

Forgiveness is a process, but slowly the bitterness started to loosen its grip.

I also learned about grace, extending to others the same grace God had extended to me.

I thought about all the people who had hurt me and I realized they were trapped too.

My father was trapped in a system that taught him women were property.

My mother was trapped in a life where she had no voice.

The religious leaders were trapped in a rigid interpretation of Islam that left no room for love or mercy.

They weren’t free.

They were just as much prisoners as I had been.

And Jesus died for them, too.

That realization changed how I saw them.

I could hate what they did without hating them.

I could reject their beliefs without rejecting their humanity.

My relationship with my church family deepened.

These people became my real family.

The family I chose and who chose me back.

When I was sick, they brought me soup.

When I was struggling with coursework, they helped me study.

When I was sad, they sat with me.

Oh my.

When I celebrated something good, they celebrated with me.

This was what family was supposed to be, not control and obligation, but love and support.

I also started serving in the church.

I joined the hospitality team, helping welcome new visitors.

I knew what it felt like to walk into a church for the first time, nervous and uncertain.

So I made sure to greet people warmly to make them feel seen and valued.

I also started helping with the international students ministry, reaching out to other students from Muslim backgrounds who were exploring Christianity.

I could relate to their questions, their fears, their struggles.

I could share my story and help them see that it was possible to leave Islam and find real peace in Jesus.

This became my passion, helping other women who were trapped like I had been.

My Instagram continued to grow.

Uh, I was posting regularly about my faith now, pictures of me at church, Bible verses that meant something to me, reflections on my journey.

The response was mixed.

Some people celebrated with me.

Other ex-Muslims reached out to say my story gave them hope.

Christians thanked me for being brave enough to share.

But the hate increased, too.

I received more death threats, more messages calling me an apostate, a traitor, a People said I had sold out my culture for the West, that I was going to hell, that Allah would punish me.

Some of the messages were specific and frightening.

People claimed to know where I lived, threatened to find me, promised to make me pay.

I was scared sometimes.

I won’t pretend I wasn’t.

There were nights I doublech checked my locks and looked over my shoulder walking home from the tube.

But I refused to be silent.

Because for every hate message I received, I also received messages from women thanking me.

Women saying my story helped them.

women saying they were leaving Islam too because they saw that there was hope on the other side.

If my story could help even one woman find freedom, the risk was worth it.

I also started speaking more publicly, not just at small university panels, but at conferences, at churches, at events focused on religious freedom and women’s rights.

I would tell my story, the whole story, growing up in Saudi Arabia, the oppression, the escape, the search, finding Jesus, and I would speak directly about Islam, not with hate, but with truth.

I talked about the specific teachings that harmed women.

The verse that says men can strike their wives.

The law that says a woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s.

Uh the practice of child marriage, which Muhammad himself participated in when he married Aisha at age six.

I talked about the hypocrisy I witnessed.

Men who prayed a five times a day but were cruel to their wives.

Religious leaders who preached piety but lived in luxury.

A system that claimed to honor women but treated them like property.

I talked about the fear that per permeates Islam.

Fear of hell.

Fear of punishment.

Fear of doing something wrong.

living your whole life afraid of a God who seems more interested in judging you than loving you.

And then I would talk about Jesus, about how he set me free, how he showed me what God is really like.

Not a distant judge waiting to punish, but a loving father running to embrace his lost children.

How he died for me while I was still a sinner.

Not after I cleaned up my life, but while I was still a mess, I would end every talk with an invitation.

If you’re a Muslim woman who feels trapped, I want you to know there is hope here.

There is freedom.

There is love waiting for you in Jesus Christ.

I’m not asking you to leave your family or your country.

Though you may have to make hard choices, I’m asking you to open your heart to the possibility that Jesus is who he says he is, that he loves you, that he died for you, that he wants to set you free.

Read the Gospels for yourself.

Ask Jesus to reveal himself to you, and see what happens.

Some people walked out of these talks.

Some shouted at me, but others stayed.

Others cried.

Others came up afterward and asked how they could know more.

And some months or years later or would send me messages saying they had given their lives to Christ because of my testimony.

That made everything worth it.

About a year after my baptism, I was invited to speak at a gala in London.

It was a charity event raising money for women’s rights and they wanted me to share my story as part of the program.

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