Turkish Muslim Woman Burns a Bible and a Cross, She Didn’t Expect What Happened Next
My name is Isel.
I’m 33 years old now, but the story I need to tell you happened 5 years ago when I was 28.
I’m from Istanbul, Turkey.
Specifically, I grew up in the Fati district.
One of the most conservative neighborhoods in the city.
If you know anything about Istanbul, you know Fati is where tradition runs deep.
The mosques are full five times a day.
Women cover their heads.
Families guard their reputation like it’s more valuable than gold.
I was a teacher back then.
I taught English at a public middle school not far from where I grew up.
I loved my job.
I loved standing in front of those classrooms full of restless 12 and 13 year olds, teaching them irregular verbs and how to introduce themselves in English.
I took pride in my work.
But more than that, I took pride in being a good Muslim woman.
Hello viewers from around the world.
Before our sister Asil continues her story, we’d love to know where you are watching from and we would love to pray for you and your city.
Thank you and may God bless you as you listen to this powerful testimony.
I prayed five times a day without fail.
I fasted during Ramadan, even when it fell in the hottest summer months.
I wore my headscarf properly, never letting a strand of hair show.
I was the daughter my parents could point to with satisfaction.
My father, Mustafa, worked in construction management.
He was a hard man, the kind who believed that being soft was the same as being weak.
He had strong opinions about everything, especially about religion and what it meant to be Turkish.
For him, the two were inseparable.
To be Turkish was to be Muslim.
There was no other way.
My mother, Fatma, stayed home.
She cooked, she cleaned, she managed the household, and she never questioned my father’s authority.
I had a younger brother Barack who was 25 then and studying engineering at university.
He was my father’s pride.
The son who would carry on the family name with honor.
I was married too.
His name was Meett.
We got married when I was 22.
An arrangement that pleased both our families.
He worked at a bank, had a decent salary, came from a respectable family.
On paper, everything looked perfect.
In reality, our marriage was cold.
We lived like roommates who happened to share a bed.
He went to work, came home, ate dinner, watched television, and went to sleep.
I did the same.
We barely talked about anything meaningful.
But I didn’t complain.
This was normal.
I thought this was what marriage was supposed to be.
Everything in my life followed a predictable pattern.
I woke up, prayed, went to work, came home, prayed, made dinner, prayed, went to bed.
Weekends were for visiting family or hosting them at our small apartment in Khane.
And I was content with this rhythm.
Or at least I told myself I was content.
Looking back now, I realize I was numb.
I had built my entire identity on doing everything right, following every rule, meeting every expectation.
And somewhere deep inside where I didn’t let myself look, I was completely empty.
Then Elliff started working at my school.
She joined our staff in September of that year at the beginning of the academic term.
She was assigned to teach art to the younger grades.
Alif was quiet, polite, and kept mostly to herself.
She was Turkish like the rest of us, spoke perfect Istanbul Turkish, dressed modestly in long skirts and long-sleeved blouses.
But there was something different about her.
I noticed it the first week.
She wore a small silver cross on a thin chain around her neck.
It was delicate, but easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.
But I was paying attention.