UK-Based Muslim Cleric Who Disowned Daughter for Converting to Christianity Finally Finds Jesus
Before our brother from Pakistan continues his 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.
And I disowned her for it.
I cut her out of my life completely, declared publicly that I had no daughter and lived with rage and bitterness for years because of her choice.
What I did not know then, what I could never have imagined was that her journey away from Islam would eventually become the path that led me to the greatest truth I would ever discover.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
To understand how a devoted Muslim cleric became a follower of Christ, you need to know where I came from and what my faith meant to me.
You need to understand that my devotion to Islam was not casual or cultural.
It was the foundation of my entire identity.
My purpose, my understanding of reality itself.
I was born in Lahore, Pakistan in 1971.
My family was not just religious.
We were known for our religious devotion.
My grandfather had studied Islamic theology and was respected throughout our neighborhood as a man of knowledge.
My father was an imam at our local mosque leading prayers and teaching Quran to young boys in the community.
I grew up hearing the call to prayer before I learned to speak properly.
The rhythms of Islamic practice were woven into every aspect of my childhood.
My earliest memories are of sitting on my father’s lap while he recited Quran in Arabic, the words flowing like music, even though I did not yet understand their meaning.
I remember the smell of the prayer mat, the feeling of cool tile against my forehead during prostration, the sound of my mother moving quietly through the house during morning prayers so as not to disturb the men at worshiP. These were not just religious practices to me.
They were the air I breathed, the framework of reality itself.
When I was 5 years old, my father began teaching me to memorize the Quran.
Every morning before school, I would sit with him and repeat verses until I could recite them perfectly.
He was strict but not cruel.
When I made mistakes, he would correct me patiently and have me repeat the passage again.
When I succeeded, he would smile with such pride that I felt like I had conquered the world.
That approval, that sense of making my father proud by excelling in religious knowledge became a powerful motivation in my life.
By the time I was eight, I could recite several suras from memory.
I loved the feeling of accomplishment, the respect I received from adults when they heard me recite.
Old men at the mosque would pat my head and tell my father that I would grow up to be a great scholar.
My mother would serve me extra sweets after I completed a new sura.
And the entire family structure reinforced one clear message.
Religious devotion and knowledge were the highest achievements in life.
When I was 12 years old, my father allowed me to lead one of the five daily prayers at our mosque.
I still remember standing in front of the rows of men, my voice shaking slightly as I began the recitation.
These were men who had known me since birth, who had watched me grow uP. Now I was leading them in prayer.
The weight of that responsibility was immense, but so was the honor.
After the prayer ended, several men embraced me and congratulated my father on raising such a devoted son.