I never imagined that taking my daughter to Mecca, the holiest city in Islam, would lead to her being tied up and beaten by religious leaders.

I am Hale Lima, a widow from Gaza.

And what I am about to share with you happened to me and my daughter in the shadow of the Cabba itself.

My 11-year-old daughter Mariam began having dreams every night in our hotel room, and she kept whispering one name over and over in her sleep.

Jesus.

When I reported this to the Eom thinking she was being attacked by evil spirits, they took her from me.

When I came back the next day, I found my little girl bruised, starving, and barely able to stand.

But what happened after that changed everything.

In my darkest moment of desperation, when I thought I had lost my only child, I cried out to the unknown God and begged him to save her.

This is our story of what happened when Jesus invaded the holiest city in Islam and changed our lives forever.

Before I begin my story, I want to thank the Encountering Christ channel for giving me this opportunity to share what happened to me and my daughter Miriam.

I also want to thank the journalist who reached out to this channel on our behalf.

I cannot mention her name because of her work and for her safety.

But she knows who she is and she knows that without her, my daughter and I would not be alive today.

It was her idea to share our testimony.

And I pray that through our story, someone will find the courage to seek the truth no matter what it costs.

My husband was killed during one of the attacks on our area, leaving me alone with our 11-year-old daughter, Miam.

His death broke something inside both of us.

But it hit Miam especially hard because she was very close to her father.

After my husband died, I felt lost and empty.

We had no other family left in Gaza.

Just the two of us trying to survive in a place where survival itself felt like a daily miracle.

I threw myself into prayer, seeking comfort in Allah, fasting more than required, reading Quran for hours, trying to find peace in my faith.

But the emptiness remained, and I could see the same emptiness in my daughter’s eyes.

About 6 months after my husband’s death, my late husband’s brother, who lives in Saudi Arabia, sent me money and an invitation.

He said he wanted to sponsor Mariam and me to perform Umrah, the lesser pilgrimage to Mecca.

He thought it would bring us spiritual healing and peace during our time of grief.

He arranged everything, the visa, the flight, the hotel near the Grand Mosque.

All we had to do was come.

I was hesitant at first because I had never traveled outside Gaza and the idea of going to Saudi Arabia felt overwhelming, but everyone I spoke to encouraged me, saying that visiting the holy city and praying at the Cabba would heal my broken heart and help Miriam recover from losing her father.

So I accepted the invitation and we flew to Jedha and then traveled to Mecca.

Mecca is unlike anywhere I had ever been.

The city is built around the Grand Mosque.

And everywhere you look, there are pilgrims from every country in the world.

All dressed in white or black, all moving toward the same center, all seeking the same thing.

The hotel’s tower over the mosque.

And from our room on the 15th floor, we could see the Cabba in the distance, that massive black cube that Muslims face when they pray five times a day.

The first few days were beautiful and peaceful.

Miam and I performed tooth together, walking around the Cabba seven times with millions of other pilgrims.

We prayed in the mosque, drank water from the Zamzam well, and felt surrounded by a sense of devotion and faith that was powerful.

I thought this trip was exactly what we needed, that Allah would heal us here in this holy place.

But on the fourth night of our stay in Mecca, everything changed.

I woke up around 2:00 in the morning to the sound of Miam crying out in her sleep.

She was tossing and turning in her bed, her face twisted in what looked like pain or fear.

I rushed to her side and shook her gently to wake her up.

When her eyes opened, she looked confused and frightened, not sure where she was.

I asked her what was wrong, if she was having a nightmare.

She told me she had been dreaming, but she could not explain what she saw.

Her words came out jumbled and unclear, and finally she just said she was fine and wanted to go back to sleep.

I stayed awake watching her for a long time, worried about what was troubling my daughter.

The next night, it happened again.

Miam struggled in her sleep, making sounds like she was trying to speak, but could not get the words out.

This time, when I woke her, she was covered in sweat and breathing hard.

I held her and asked her to tell me about the dream, but she just shook her head and said she did not understand it herself.

By the third night, I was convinced that something spiritual was attacking my daughter.

In our Islamic tradition, we believe that jin evil spirits can torment people, especially in times of weakness or grief.

I thought perhaps because Miam was still grieving her father and because we were in such a spiritually intense place as Mecca, the jin had found a way to attack her.

I began reciting Quran over Mariam before she went to sleep each night.

I read Ayat al- Kuri, the verse of the throne which is supposed to protect against evil spirits.

I recited Surah Alfalak and Surah Anas, the chapter specifically meant to seek refuge from Satan and his followers.

I even put a small amulet with Quranic verses around her neck, something my mother had given me years ago for protection, but none of it worked.

Night after night, Miam would struggle in her sleep.

Sometimes she would cry out.

Sometimes she would whisper words I could not understand.

Sometimes she would just toss and turn for hours.

I was exhausted from waking up constantly to check on her, and I was terrified about what was happening to my child.

After a week of this, I sat Miam down during the day and told her she had to tell me everything about these dreams.

I said I could not help her as she did not tell me the truth about what she was seeing.

At first, she was reluctant, looking down at her hands and saying she was afraid I would be angry.

I promised her I would not be angry, that I just wanted to understand so I could protect her.

Finally, Miriam told me what had been happening in her dreams.

She said a man dressed in white kept appearing to her every night.

His clothes seemed to glow with light, and his face was kind and gentle.

He would tell her his name was Issa, which is what we Muslims called Jesus.

He told her he was the truth and the light, and that he wanted her to know him.

He showed her beautiful places she had never seen before, places he said were in heaven.

He told her that God loved her more than she could imagine, that she was precious and valued, and that he had come to save her.

My blood went cold as I listened to my daughter describe these dreams.

Jesus was appearing to her in Mecca, in the holiest city in Islam.

This made no sense.

Jesus was a prophet in Islam, yes, but nothing more.

Why would he be appearing to my daughter telling her these things? And why here of all places? I asked Mariam if this man in her dreams had said anything else.

She hesitated, then told me that he showed her his hands, and she saw wounds there.

He told her these wounds were from dying for her sins, and that through his death she could be forgiven and have eternal life.

He said that following religious rules could not save her, that only believing in him could give her true peace.

I did not know what to think.

Part of me wanted to believe these were just normal dreams.

The imagination of a grieving child who had heard stories about prophets and was processing her father’s death in strange ways.

But another part of me was deeply afraid.

In Islam, we believe that Satan can appear as an angel of light to deceive people.

What if my daughter was being deceived by evil spirits pretending to be Jesus? Over the next few days, I noticed that sometimes Miam would say the name Jesus in her sleep, not loudly, but in a whisper over and over again.

One night, I counted and she said his name for nearly 10 minutes straight while she was sleeping.

Her lips would move and I could hear her saying Jesus or Isa again and again as if she was having a conversation with him.

I was terrified and did not know what to do.

We were in Mecca surrounded by millions of Muslims in the shadow of the Cabba itself.

And my daughter was dreaming about Jesus and saying his name in her sleep if anyone heard this, if anyone found out.

I did not know what would happen to us.

Finally, I decided I needed to seek help from someone with religious authority and knowledge.

I went to the Grand Mosque and found one of the imams who was available to speak with pilgrims.

I explained to him carefully and quietly that my daughter was having troubling dreams and that a figure claiming to be Issa was appearing to her and saying strange things.

The imam’s face became very serious.

He asked me detailed questions about what Mariam had told me, about how often these dreams were happening, about whether she seemed different during the day.

I answered as honestly as I could, though I was careful not to mention that Mariam said Jesus’s name in her sleep because I was afraid of how that would sound.

The imam told me that my daughter was likely being attacked by jin who were using the form of Jesus to confuse and mislead her.

He said this was a serious spiritual attack and needed to be addressed immediately through prayers and incantations.

He told me to bring Mariam to him that evening after the Issha prayer and he would perform special rituals to drive out whatever evil was tormenting her.

That evening I brought Mariam to a small room in the mosque complex where the imam was waiting with several other religious men.

Mariam was frightened and held tightly to my hand.

The imam began reciting verses from the Quran over her, blowing on her and making gestures meant to cast out evil spirits.

The other men joined in, their voices rising in prayer and command for any jin to leave this child alone.

Miriam sat quietly through all of this, looking small and scared.

When they finished, the e-om told me to take her back to our hotel and that the dreams should stop now that the proper prayers had been made.

But that very night, Miam had the same dream again.

She woke me up crying, saying that the man in white had come again and was calling her to follow him.

The next morning, I went back to the Imam and told him the prayers had not worked.

He looked troubled and said that if the Jin were still present after such powerful prayers, then the situation was more serious than he had thought.

He told me to leave Mariam with him and the other religious elders for more intensive treatment.

He said I should come back the next day to collect her.

I did not want to leave my daughter with strangers, but I also felt I had no choice.

This was the holy city.

These were religious authorities and I was just a widow from Gaza who did not know what else to do.

The imam assured me that Miam would be safe and that they would do what was necessary to free her from this spiritual attack.

I left the mosque and returned to our hotel room alone.

My heart heavy with worry.

I tried to pray, tried to read Quran, tried to do anything to calm my mind, but I could not focus.

All I could think about was Miam and what they might be doing to her.

The hours dragged by slowly, and I barely slept that night.

The next morning, I went back to the mosque to collect my daughter.

When they brought her out to me, I almost did not recognize her.

Her face was swollen and bruised.

Her wrists had marks on them like she had been tied up, and she could barely walk.

When she saw me, she collapsed into my arms, sobbing.

I demanded to know what they had done to her.

One of the elders told me coldly that my daughter was possessed by a demonic spirit masquerading as Jesus and that they had been trying to drive it out.

He said they had tied her up for her own safety because she had been fighting them.

He said they had been praying over her continuously and had even struck her several times to shock the demon out of her body.

I felt rage and horror flood through me.

These men had beaten my 11-year-old daughter, had tied her up like an animal, had terrorized her in the name of religion.

I tried to take Miam and leave, but they stopped me.

They said Miam was still possessed, that the demon had not left yet, and that if I took her away now without completing the treatment, she would be in grave spiritual danger.

They said she needed to stay with them for at least another few days of intensive spiritual cleansing.

When I refused and tried to push past them with Mariam, two of the men physically blocked my way.

They told me I was being foolish and emotional, that I did not understand the seriousness of the situation, and that as a woman, I should trust the male religious authorities to handle this properly.

I had no power there.

I was a foreign widow with no husband, no family in Saudi Arabia, no connections or authority.

They could do whatever they wanted and I could not stop them.

Finally, they pushed me out of the room and locked the door.

I could hear Mariam screaming for me on the other side, but I could not reach her.

I left the mosque in a state of complete despair.

I went back to our hotel room and collapsed on the floor, crying harder than I had cried even when my husband died.

At least when he died, I still had Mariam.

Now I was losing her, too.

and there was nothing I could do to save her.

For 3 days, I tried everything I could think of.

I went to the police, but they told me this was a religious matter and they could not interfere with the imam’s authority.

I tried to find my husband’s brother who had sponsored our trip, but he was traveling and I could not reach him.

I even tried to go back to the mosque and beg the imam to give me my daughter, but the guards would not let me near the room where they were keeping her.

On the third night, completely broken and hopeless, I fell to my knees in that hotel room and cried out to God.

But this time, I did not pray to Allah in the formal way I had been taught.

This time, I just poured out my heart in desperation.

I said that if there was any god anywhere who actually cared about a suffering mother and her tortured child, I needed him to help me.

I said that if the dreams Miriam was having were really from Jesus, then I needed Jesus to come to me too and show me the truth.

I said that if he was real, if he truly had power, then I begged him to save my daughter and help me understand what was happening.

I must have fallen asleep on the floor because the next thing I knew, I was waking up and the room was filled with light.

Not the light from the window or the lamps, but a different kind of light that seemed to come from everywhere.

and nowhere at once.

And standing in that light was a figure of a man dressed in white.

I was not asleep.

I was fully awake and alert, more awake than I had ever been in my life.

And I knew immediately, without anyone telling me, that this was Jesus, the same man Miam had been seeing in her dreams, the same man the imam had called a demon.

He looked at me with such love and compassion that I started crying again.

His eyes seemed to see all the way into my soul, to know every pain and fear and doubt I had ever carried, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle, but filled with authority that made me want to fall at his feet.

He told me that he was Jesus, that he was the son of God, and that he had heard my desperate prayer.

He said he loved me and Mariam, that he had been calling my daughter because he wanted both of us to know the truth.

He showed me his hands and I saw wounds there, scars that still looked fresh.

He said these wounds were from dying for my sins, for all the wrong things I had done in my life so that I could be forgiven and have peace with God.

He explained that no amount of prayers or fasting or good works could ever make me clean before a holy God.

He said that salvation was not something I could earn, but something he wanted to give me freely if I would just believe in him and accept what he had done for me.

He said Mariam had been dreaming of him because he was calling her to follow him and now he was calling me too.

I asked him why he was doing this, why he would care about a poor widow from Gaza and her daughter.

He said that every person was precious to him, that he had created us and loved us and wanted us to know him personally.

He said he was not just a prophet like Islam taught, but the very son of God who had come to earth to rescue humanity from sin and death.

As he spoke, I felt something breaking inside me.

All my life, I had tried to be a good Muslim, had followed the rules, had prayed and fasted and done everything I was supposed to do.

But I had never felt close to God.

Never felt loved or at peace.

Never felt certain that I would go to paradise when I died.

And here was Jesus offering me all of that freely just for believing in him.

I asked him what I should do about Miam, how I could save her from the men who were hurting her.

He told me to go back to the imam in the morning and demand my daughter back with boldness and that he would give me the words to say.

He promised me that Miam would be returned to me and that we would both be safe.

Then the light faded and he was gone.

But the peace he had left in my heart remained.

For the first time since my husband died, maybe for the first time in my entire life, I felt truly at peace.

I knew Jesus was real.

I knew he loved me and I knew I could trust him.

The next morning, I went back to the mosque.

This time I was not begging or pleading.

I walked in with confidence I did not know I had and demanded to speak with the imam.

When they tried to turn me away, I refused to leave.

I stood there and spoke loudly enough that other people started paying attention.

I told the imam that I knew my daughter was not possessed by demons, that she had been visited by Jesus himself, and that he had come to me as well and told me to take my daughter and leave.

I said that if he did not return Miam to me immediately, I would go to every authority I could find and tell them how religious men in Mecca had beaten and tortured an 11-year-old girl.

The imam looked angry and threatened to have me removed.

But I could see fear in his eyes, too.

He knew that if this story got out, if people heard that a child had been abused in the holy city, it would be a scandal.

After a tense confrontation with several of the elders present, they finally brought Mariam out and released her to me.

My daughter looked even worse than the last time I had seen her.

She was weak from not eating, covered in bruises, and her eyes were dull with pain and trauma, but when she saw me, she tried to smile, and I knew she was still my Mariam, still alive despite everything they had done to her.

The Imam warned me that I was making a grave mistake, that my daughter was clearly possessed by a Christian demon and would lead us both to hell.

He said that officially he would have to report that Miam was mentally unstable and possibly insane and that I was an unfit mother for encouraging her delusions.

But he said if I left Mecca immediately and never spoke of this again, he would not pursue the matter further.

I agreed to anything just to get Mariam out of there.

We went back to our hotel and I held my daughter while she cried and told me about the terrible things that had been done to her.

I told her I was sorry, that I should have protected her better, that I should have believed her from the beginning.

I told her that Jesus had come to me, too, and that I finally understood what she had been trying to tell me.

Miam looked at me with such hope and relief.

She said she had been trying to tell them that Jesus was good and loving, that he was not a demon, but they would not listen.

She said even while they were hurting her, she could feel Jesus’ presence with her, giving her strength to endure.

She said he had told her to be brave because her mother was going to come and rescue her.

We stayed in our hotel room for 2 days, both of us recovering from the trauma.

I took care of Mariam’s injuries as best I could, feeding her, helping her bathe, trying to help her feel safe again.

We talked about Jesus, about what he had shown each of us, about what it meant that he had come to both of us in the holiest city of Islam.

On the third day, there was a knock on our hotel room door.

I opened it cautiously and found a woman standing there, a foreigner who introduced herself as a journalist working for an international television network.

She said she had been in Mecca covering stories about the pilgrimage season when she heard rumors about a girl who had been beaten by religious authorities for claiming to see Jesus in her dreams.

The journalist asked if she could speak with me about what had happened.

I was hesitant at first, afraid this might be a trap or that talking to media would bring more trouble, but something about her face made me trust her.

So I invited her in and with Mariam sitting beside me, I told her everything that had happened.

When I finished, the journalist had tears in her eyes.

She told me something that shocked me.

She said she was a Christian, a follower of Jesus from the United States.

She said she believed everything I had told her was real, that Jesus truly had appeared to Mariam and to me.

She said that all over the Muslim world, Jesus was revealing himself to people through dreams and visions, calling them to follow him.

She told me that what Mariam and I had experienced was not unusual among Muslims who encountered Jesus.

Many had similar testimonies of being rejected by family, abused by religious authorities, and declared insane for believing in Jesus.

But she said Jesus was real and worth following despite any cost.

The journalist offered to help us.

She said she was working with a team of believers, Christians who helped Muslims who had come to faith in Jesus and were facing persecution.

She said they could provide protection, help us leave Saudi Arabia, and connect us with other believers who would teach us about Jesus and help us grow in our new faith.

I did not know whether to trust her, but I also knew we could not go back to Gaza.

Now, the imam had declared Mariam mentally unstable, and word would spread quickly.

We would be outcasts, possibly in danger.

And beyond that, Jesus had changed us.

We could not go back to Islam now that we knew the truth.

So I accepted her help within a week.

She and her team had arranged for us to leave Saudi Arabia.

I cannot tell you exactly where we went or how they did it because I promised to keep those details secret to protect others who might need the same help.

But I can tell you that we are now in a safe place living among other believers who have welcomed us like family.

The journalist and her team have been teaching us about Jesus, about the Bible, about what it means to be a Christian.

We are learning that following Jesus is not about following rules to earn God’s approval, but about having a relationship with God based on his love and grace.

We are learning that Jesus did not just come to be another prophet, but to be the savior who rescued us from sin and death.

Miam is doing much better now.

Her physical wounds have healed, though I know the emotional scars will take longer, but I see joy returning to her face, see her smile again, see her excited to read stories about Jesus and learn more about him.

She tells me often that even though what happened in Mecca was terrible, she does not regret it because it led us to Jesus.

The journalist has become like a sister to us.

She checks on us regularly, prays with us, and has promised to help us relocate to a country where we can practice our faith openly and safely.

She says the process will take time, but that we should not lose hope, that God has a plan for our lives.

I think often about how all of this started with Mariam’s dreams in Mecca.

Of all the places in the world for Jesus to appear to my daughter, he chose the holiest city in Islam.

Maybe that was not an accident.

Maybe Jesus wanted to show that no place is beyond his reach.

That he can call people to himself even in the heart of the Islamic world.

I am telling this story now because the journalist suggested it.

because she believes our testimony will encourage others who are searching for truth.

I am afraid of what might happen if the wrong people see this, afraid of being found, afraid of putting Mariam in danger again.

But I am also convinced that Jesus wants this story told, that there are other mothers and daughters out there who need to hear that Jesus is real and that he sees them and loves them.

If you are a Muslim woman who is reading or watching this, I want you to know that I understand your situation.

I was you.

I followed Islam faithfully.

I raised my daughter in the faith.

I believed I was on the right path.

But Jesus showed me that there is a better way.

A way that leads to real peace and relationship with God.

If you are having dreams about Jesus, do not be afraid of them.

Do not let anyone tell you that you are crazy or possessed.

Jesus is real.

He is reaching out to you and he wants you to know him.

Following him may cost you everything, just like it cost me and Mariam everything, but he is worth it.

If you are a mother watching your child suffer or struggle, I want you to know that Jesus sees you.

He heard my desperate prayer when I had nowhere else to turn.

He came to me when I needed him most.

He can come to you, too.

To the journalist who saved us, who I cannot name, but who knows who she is.

Thank you for risking your safety to help a widow and her daughter from Gaza.

Thank you for showing us the love of Jesus through your actions.

Thank you for giving us this opportunity to share our story.

May God protect you and bless you for what you have done for us.

To everyone that the encountering Christ channel, thank you for sharing our testimony.

We pray that it will reach the people who need to hear it most.

My name is Hale Lima.

My daughter is Mariam.

And we are followers of Jesus Christ.

He found us in Mecca, saved us from darkness, and gave us hope and peace we had never known before.

That is our testimony and we share it with grateful hearts praying it will bring glory to Jesus and encouragement to all who hear