Muslim Housewife Executed For Not Wearing Hijab BUT JESUS MIRACLE CHANGED EVERYTHING
My name is Zulka. I’m 34 years old. And on April 13th, 2018, I was executed for removing my hijab.
They declared me dead. My heart stopped beating. But Jesus had other plans. This is my testimony of how Christ brought me back from death to eternal life.
I was born into a world where Allah’s commands shaped every breath I took. From the moment I could walk, my mother wrapped colorful scarves around my small head, teaching me that modesty was a woman’s greatest virtue.
By age 12, the hijab became as natural to me as breathing. I never questioned it, never wondered what my hair might feel like dancing in the wind.
This was simply who I was meant to be. At 18, my father arranged my marriage to a man named Ahmed, a devout follower of Islam, whose beard touched his chest and whose prayers echoed through our small house five times each day.
I moved into his family’s home with gratitude, believing I was blessed to join a household so dedicated to righteousness.
My new husband was respected in our community as a man who never missed a prayer, never spoke harshly of the prophet, and kept his family in perfect submission to Islamic law.
Our home became a sanctuary of religious devotion. Before dawn, Akmed’s voice would wake us all for faja prayer.
I would slip from our bed, perform my ablutions in the cold morning air, and prostrate myself on my prayer rug facing Mecca.
The Arabic words flowed from my lips like a river I had memorized but never truly understood.
After morning prayers, I would prepare breakfast while reciting verses from the Quran under my breath.
Every meal began with bismillah. Every task was done in Allah’s name. When Allah blessed us with children, my joy knew no bounds.
First came my son, then two daughters. I taught them to pray as soon as they could speak, showed my daughters how to cover their hair when we visited the mosque, and filled their young minds with stories of the prophet’s companions.
My son learned to wash his feet before prayer, and my daughters helped me prepare food for Ramadan if dinners.
We were the picture of Islamic devotion that other families in our neighborhood admired and sought to emulate.
The women in our community looked up to me as an example of perfect Muslim womanhood.
I never spoke loudly in public, never walked without my husband’s permission, and never questioned the teachings of our imam.
When younger wives struggled with submission to their husbands, their mothers would point to me and say, “Look at Zullea.
See how peaceful her home is because she fears Allah.” I wore this reputation like a badge of honor, believing that my obedience was storing up treasures for me in paradise.
My daily routine was as predictable as the sunrise. After faja prayer, I would wake my children, serve breakfast and send my son to the madrasa while keeping my daughters home to learn domestic skills.
Throughout the morning, I cleaned our house while humming Islamic songs, prepared lunch while listening to Quran recitations and spent afternoons teaching my daughters to read Arabic script.
Before each prayer time, I would gather my children around me and we would perform ablutions together, making it a family act of worship.
During Ramadan, our house transformed into a center of spiritual activity. I would wake hours before dawn to prepare suhur, then wake the family for this pre-dawn meal.
After fajger prayer, while others slept, I would sit with my Quran reading through prescribed portions each day.
My children learned to endure hunger and thirst as acts of worship, and I felt proud watching them develop the discipline that Islam demanded.
When the call to marri prayer announced the day’s fast was broken, our table would be filled with dates, water, and simple foods shared in gratitude to Allah.
The five daily prayers structured our entire existence. When the call to prayer echoed from the nearby mosque, everything stopped.
Conversations paused, cooking was set aside, and children’s play was interrupted as we rushed to our prayer rugs.
I found comfort in this rhythm, this constant reminder that we belong to Allah. During Zur prayer at midday, while my children napped, I would often linger in frustration, feeling closest to the divine in those quiet moments of submission.
Community life revolved around our shared faith. Every Friday, we attended Juma prayers where the imam would remind us of our duties as Muslim women and the importance of modesty.
I would sit in the women’s section, my daughters beside me, listening as he explained how our submission to our husbands reflected our submission to Allah.
After prayers, women would gather to discuss Islamic teachings, share recipes for halal cooking, and support each other in raising righteous children.
My relationship with my extended family was built entirely on our shared religious identity. My mother-in-law would test my knowledge of Islamic law, asking me questions about purification rituals, proper prayer postures, and the requirements for modest dress.
When I answered correctly, she would nod approvingly and tell others how blessed her son was to have such a knowledgeable wife.
Family gatherings were filled with religious discussions, recitations from the Quran, and stories about the prophet Muhammad’s life.
I thought I was living the perfect Islamic life. Every morning I woke up grateful to Allah for blessing me with a religious family, a faithful husband, and healthy children.
When I looked in the mirror, adjusting my hijab before leaving the house, I saw a woman who was pleasing to God, a woman who would earn paradise through her obedience and devotion.
The idea that I might ever question this life, this faith. This identity seemed as impossible as the sun rising in the west.
But Allah, in his mysterious wisdom, was about to place someone in my path who would change everything.
A neighbor woman whose joy I could not explain, whose peace seemed to flow from a source I did not recognize?
Have you ever met someone whose happiness puzzled you? Whose contentment seemed to come from somewhere beyond the rules and rituals you had always known?
Her name was Fatima, but she was unlike any Muslim woman I had ever known.
She lived three houses down from us, and every morning when I walked to the market, I would see her tending her small garden with a smile that seemed to come from somewhere deep within her soul.
While other women in our neighborhood moved through their daily tasks with the quiet resignation that I thought was proper Islamic submission, Fatima hummed under her breath and greeted everyone with genuine warmth that made you feel like you were the most important person in her world.
What puzzled me most was her peace during difficult times. When her husband lost his job at the textile factory, instead of the worried whispers and desperate prayers I expected, she continued her morning garden routine with the same serene expression.
When her youngest son fell ill with fever that lasted for weeks, she cared for him with a gentleness that seemed to flow from an inexhaustible source.
Other women would ask her how she remained so calm, and she would simply say, “I know who holds tomorrow in his hands.
One afternoon, while hanging laundry in my courtyard, I noticed a repair worker leaving Fatima’s house.
He was clearly not from our community, probably a Christian based on his appearance and the small cross hanging from his truck’s rearview mirror.
As he drove away, I saw something fall from his toolbox onto the dusty path between our houses.
Curiosity overcame my caution, and I walked over to see what had been left behind.
It was a small black book with golden letters I could barely read. The cover said Holy Bible in both Arabic and English.
My heart began racing as I looked around to make sure no one was watching.
I knew I should leave it there, or better yet, burn it to protect our neighborhood from such corruption.
But something made me pick it up and hide it under my abaya. I told myself I was just learning about the enemy’s book, that understanding their false teachings would make me a stronger Muslim.
That night, after my family was asleep, I lit a single candle in my kitchen and opened the forbidden book.
My hands trembled as I turned the pages, expecting to find blasphemous lies about Allah and ridiculous stories that would confirm everything our imam had taught us about Christian deception.
Instead, I found words that seemed to speak directly to my heart in ways that surprised and frightened me.
I read about a man named Jesus who claimed to be the son of God.
In Islam, we were taught that this was the greatest blasphemy imaginable that Allah could never have a son.
But as I read his words, something stirred within me that I had never experienced during all my years of Islamic prayer and study.
Jesus spoke about love in a way that seemed to encompass not just obedience but relationship.
He talked about forgiveness that was freely given, not earned through good deeds and ritual purification.
Night after night, I continued my secret reading. I would wait until my husband’s breathing became deep and steady, then slip into the kitchen with my hidden treasure.
The more I read, the more my carefully constructed Islamic worldview began to crack. Jesus spoke about peace that surpassed understanding, about casting all your cares upon him because he cared for you personally.
In all my years of Islamic devotion, I had felt Allah’s demands, but never his personal love.
The contrast became impossible to ignore. My daily Islamic prayers were filled with requests for forgiveness, constant fear of judgment, and desperate attempts to earn paradise through perfect obedience.
But Jesus spoke about grace, about salvation that was a gift rather than a wage, about a God who pursued lost sheep instead of waiting for them to find their own way home.
When I read that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, something broke open in my chest that I didn’t even know had been closed.
I began experiencing dreams that terrified and amazed me. In these visions, I would see a figure in white robes calling my name with a voice full of tenderness I had never heard before.
He would extend his hands toward me, and I could see wounds in his palms that somehow represented love instead of defeat.
When I would wake from these dreams, tears would be streaming down my face, and my heart would be filled with a peace that had nothing to do with my performance or obedience.
During my regular Islamic prayers, I found myself distracted by thoughts of Jesus. While prostrating toward Mecca, I wondered what it would be like to pray to someone who had actually walked on earth, who understood human suffering because he had experienced it himself.
When reciting Quranic verses about Allah’s transcendence and distance, I remembered Jesus saying that whoever had seen him had seen the father.
The idea that God might be knowable, approachable, even touchable through Jesus seemed too wonderful to be true.
The guilt was overwhelming. Every time I opened that Bible, I felt like I was betraying everything I had ever known, everyone I had ever loved, and every prayer I had ever prayed.
I was a respected Muslim wife and mother, secretly reading Christian scriptures by candle light, like a thief stealing something that didn’t belong to her.
But I couldn’t stop. Each page seemed to answer questions I hadn’t even known I was carrying in my heart.
I started paying closer attention to Fatima’s behavior, wondering if her inexplicable peace had something to do with these Christian teachings I was discovering.
When she would greet me in the mornings, I began to see something in her eyes that reminded me of the love I was reading about in the Bible.
She never spoke about religion directly, but her life seemed to radiate the kind of joy that Jesus described as the result of knowing God personally.
One morning, while reading about Jesus calling himself the way, the truth, and the life, something shifted permanently in my understanding.
I realized that my entire life had been spent trying to earn God’s approval through my own efforts, following rules and rituals that kept him at a safe distance.
But Jesus was claiming to be the bridge between humanity and God, offering relationship instead of religion, love instead of law.
The moment of complete surrender came during what should have been my regular dawn prayer.
As I knelt on my prayer rug facing Mecca, I found myself speaking words I never thought would come from my lips.
Instead of reciting familiar Arabic phrases, I whispered, “Jesus, if you are truly the son of God, if you are the way to the father, then I give you my heart.
I don’t want to just follow rules anymore. I want to know God personally.” That decision changed everything.
I knew that publicly declaring my faith in Christ would cost me my family, my community, my very life.
But I also knew I couldn’t continue living a lie. The truth I had discovered was too precious to hide, too life-changing to deny.