The worst part was that my conversion made it even harder to see my daughters.
When Khaled found out I had become a Christian, he told me I was no longer welcome in his house and that I was forbidden from seeing Amina.
He said I was contaminated, that my presence would pollute his home and his wife, that an apostate father was worse than no father at all.
Ibrahim reacted the same way when he heard the news, cutting off all contact between me and Fatima.
Rashid went even further.
He came to my house one night with three other armed men and they threatened to kill me if I ever tried to contact Zanab again.
He told me that as far as Zanab was concerned, I was dead.
That she had been instructed to forget she ever had a father.
That if he caught me anywhere near her, he would put a bullet in my head.
So now I had lost my daughters twice.
The first time was when I gave them away to those terrible men, thinking I was being righteous.
The second time was when I found the truth and tried to build a bridge back to them, only to have that bridge burned by their husbands who hated me for leaving Islam.
The pain of this was almost unbearable.
There were nights when I lay awake wondering if I had made a mistake.
If I should have kept quiet about Jesus, if I should have stayed Muslim on the outside, even though I believed in Christ on the inside, maybe then I could have at least maintained some contact with my daughters.
Maybe I could have been there for them in small ways even if I couldn’t rescue them.
But every time I had these thoughts, Jesus would remind me that truth matters.
that living a lie dishonors him, that I couldn’t truly help my daughters by denying the only one who had the power to save them.
So, I held on to my faith even though it cost me everything.
My wife finally gave her life to Jesus about 8 months after I did.
I came home one evening and found her sitting on the floor with tears streaming down her face, holding the Bible open in her lap.
She looked up at me and said that she couldn’t deny what she had been reading anymore, that the words of Jesus had pierced her heart, that she knew he was the truth and the way and the life.
We prayed together that night, and I got to experience the joy of leading my own wife to Christ, of watching her receive the same forgiveness and peace and love that had transformed me.
From that moment on, we were united not just as husband and wife, but as brother and sister in Christ.
Both walking the same difficult road.
Both trusting the same faithful God.
Both waiting and praying for the day when our daughters would be free.
Years have passed since that night when I gave my life to Jesus on the floor of my daughter’s empty room.
I am now 53 years old and my hair has turned mostly gray.
My daughters are grown women now, though I rarely get to see them.
Amina is 25, Fatima is 24, and Zanab is 23.
They have spent some of the best years of their lives trapped in marriages that have stolen their joy, their health, their dignity, and their hope.
This reality sits like a stone in my chest every single day.
There are mornings when I wake up and the first thought that enters my mind is of them.
And the pain is so sharp that I have to immediately start praying just to make it through the next hour.
But I have learned things during these years of waiting and praying and hoping that I never would have learned if my daughters had been freed quickly.
I have learned that faith isn’t just believing God can do miracles when you see them happen right away.
Real faith is continuing to trust God even when years go by and the miracle you’re begging for hasn’t come yet.
Even when circumstances seem to get worse instead of better.
Even when every logical part of your brain is screaming that hope is foolish and you should just give up.
I have learned that God’s love for my daughters is greater than even my love for them.
And my love is so strong it feels like it could break me in half.
If I love them this much, how much more does their creator love them? This thought sustains me when nothing else can.
I have learned that God sees every tear my daughters cry, knows every moment of their suffering, and is working in ways I cannot see or understand to bring about redemption from this horrible situation I created.
There have been small moments of light in these dark years.
About 3 years ago, I managed to see Amina briefly when Khaled was away on a long mission.
A neighbor who felt sorry for her secretly sent word to me, and I rushed to see my daughter before the opportunity disappeared.
She was still thin and tired looking, still bearing the marks of a hard life.
But when she saw me, something flickered in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in years.
She hugged me, actually hugged me, and whispered that she had been praying.
I asked her who she had been praying to, and she said she wasn’t sure that she had been taught to pray to Allah, but lately she had been talking to God and asking him to help her, to save her, to give her a reason to keep living.
My heart nearly exploded with hope.
I told her quickly, knowing our time was short, about Jesus.
I told her that he loved her, that he saw her suffering, that he wanted to set her free, not just physically, but spiritually.
I told her that she could talk to him anytime, anywhere, and he would hear her.
She listened with hunger in her eyes, absorbing every word like someone dying of thirst drinks water.
Before I had to leave, she squeezed my hand and told me she would try talking to this Jesus I had told her about.
I have held on to that moment like a precious treasure ever since, praying constantly that the seed planted that day would grow in her heart.
Two years ago, something happened with Fatima that gave me both hope and heartbreak at the same time.
Ibrahim was killed in a clash with enemy forces.
When I heard the news, my first feeling was relief, which then made me feel guilty for being relieved that someone had died.
But I couldn’t help it.
This man had been beating my daughter for years, treating her like property, making her life a nightmare.
With him gone, I thought maybe Fatima could finally be free.
Maybe she could come home.
Maybe we could begin to heal the wounds of the past.
But Islamic law and custom had other plans.
As Ibrahim’s widow, Fatima was required to marry his younger brother, a man named Mustafa, who was just as harsh and radical as Ibrahim had been.
The cycle of suffering continued.
When I tried to intervene, tried to argue that Fatima should be allowed to choose her own path, I was threatened again and reminded that I had no rights as an apostate father.
I had to watch helplessly as my daughter was handed from one cruel man to another, like a piece of furniture being moved from one room to the next.
Zanab remains the daughter I know least about because Rashid has kept her completely isolated.
I have only seen her twice in the past 5 years.
Both times from a distance at community events where Rashid couldn’t completely prevent her presence without raising questions.
Each time I saw her, she looked more broken, more empty, more like a living ghost than a real person.
It tears me apart not knowing what she endures day by day.
Not being able to help her or comfort her or even let her know that I am praying for her constantly.