UK-Based Muslim Cleric Who Disowned Daughter for Converting to Christianity Finally Finds Jesus
I am sitting here today as a follower of Jesus Christ. But for 43 years of my life, I would have called that statement blasphemy worthy of death.
I would have quoted the Quran, cited the Hadith, and condemned anyone who spoke such words.
I was an imam, a Muslim cleric, a man who devoted his entire existence to Allah and the teachings of Muhammad.
I led prayers five times daily, delivered Friday sermons, counseledled hundreds of Muslims on matters of faith and life, and raised my children to follow the straight path of Islam.
My daughter Amara was the first person to walk away from everything I taught her.
She found Jesus Christ during her university years and I disowned her for it.
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.
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.
That moment marked a turning point in my life. I realized that religious leadership was not just about personal devotion.
It was about community respect, family honor and social position. Being an Imam’s son meant something.
And people looked at our family differently. They came to us with questions, with disputes to settle, with requests for prayers and blessings.
We were not wealthy in material terms, but we were rich in respect and influence.
At age 16, I made the decision that would shape the rest of my life.
I told my father I wanted to pursue formal Islamic studies and become an imam like him.
He wept with joy. My mother prepared a feast. The community celebrated. I was sent to a prestigious Madrasa in Lahore where I would spend the next six years in intensive study of the Quran, Hadith, Arabic language, Islamic law and theology.
Those years of study were rigorous and demanding. We would wake before dawn for prayer, then begin classes that lasted throughout the day.
We studied classical Arabic so we could read the Quran in its original language. I we memorized thousands of hadith, the reported sayings and actions of Muhammad.
We learned the intricate details of Islamic law, how to determine what was halal and haram, how to interpret passages of Quran for modern situations, how to lead a community in worship and practice.
I excelled in these studies. I had always been a good student but more than that I was genuinely devoted.
I was not just learning information. I was absorbing what I believed to be divine truth.
Every verse of Quran, every hadith, every legal ruling was part of a perfect system revealed by Allah through his final prophet Muhammad.
My job was not to question or critique but to understand and obey. During my fifth year of study when I was 21 years old, my father and some elders from our community arranged my marriage to Farida.
A young woman from a good family known for their piety. We met briefly twice before the wedding.
Always with family present. She was quiet and modest, wearing full hijab and keeping her eyes down.
I knew very little about her personality or thoughts, but that did not matter. Marriage in our community was not about romantic love or personal compatibility.
It was about building a Muslim family, having children, and continuing the faith. We married in a simple ceremony at the mosque.
I was nervous and excited. Farida was 18 years old and I was 21. We were essentially strangers bound together by family arrangements and religious duty.
But in those early months of marriage, we grew to care for each other. She was kind and obedient, devoted to prayer and to serving our household.
I I was beginning my work as a junior imam at a small mosque and she supported my religious calling without complaint.
One year after our marriage, Farida became pregnant. I prayed constantly that Allah would give us a son.
In our culture, sons carried the family name and legacy forward. Sons could lead prayers and become imams.
Sons were simply more valuable. But when the baby arrived in 1994, it was a daughter.
I will be honest, my first feeling was disappointment. I had wanted a son. But when the midwife placed that tiny baby in my arms when I looked at her small face and perfect features, something shifted in my heart.
We named her Amara, which means light or princess in Arabic. She was my first child, my daughter.
And despite my cultural preference for sons, I loved her immediately and completely. And I would wake in the night to her crying and feel this overwhelming protectiveness.
I would watch her sleep and feel amazed that Allah had entrusted this little life to my care.
As she grew from infant to toddler, she became the light of my life. She had these huge dark eyes that seemed to take in everything and she was curious about the world in a way that delighted me.
Two years later, Farida gave birth to our first son, Khalid. Two years after that, another son, Rashid.
I loved my sons. But my relationship with Amara remained special. Perhaps because she was the firstborn.
Perhaps because she was my only daughter. Perhaps because she was so intelligent and thoughtful.
Even as a small child, she asked questions that showed real contemplation. By the time I was 25, and I had established myself as a knowledgeable and respected young imam, I delivered Friday sermons, taught Quran classes to children, counseledled married couples having difficulties, and helped settle community disputes according to Islamic law.
People came to our home seeking advice and prayers. My father was proud. My wife managed our household efficiently.
My children were being raised in proper Islamic practice. Everything was going according to plan.
I believed I was living the life that pleased Allah. I believed I had found truth and purpose.
I believed my family would continue in this faith for generations to come. In 1998, when I was 27 years old, an opportunity arose that would change everything.
A large Pakistani community in Bradford, England, needed an imam for their mosque. And they wanted someone young enough to understand the challenges of raising Muslim children in the West, but knowledgeable enough to provide solid Islamic teaching.
Several people from our community in Lahore had immigrated to Britain and recommended me for the position.
The decision to move was difficult. We would be leaving our extended family, our familiar community, our entire support system.
But the opportunity was significant. The salary was better than what I earned in Lahore.
The mosque was larger and wellestablished. It would give me a platform to teach and lead on a bigger scale.
After much prayer and consultation with my father, I accepted the position. In the summer of 1998, we boarded a plane to England.
Amara was 4 years old, Khaled was 2, and Rashid was an infant. Farida was nervous about moving to a foreign country, but she trusted my decision.
I still remember the shock of arriving in Bradford. The weather was cold and gray even though it was summer.
The buildings looked nothing like Lahore. The streets were filled with white British people dressed in ways that would be considered shameful in Pakistan.
Women wore short skirts and tank tops. Men and women walked together holding hands openly.
Pubs on every corner advertised alcohol. The permissiveness of Western society was immediately visible and disturbing.
But Bradford also had a large Pakistani Muslim community. There were halal shops, Islamic bookstores, and several mosques.
We found a house near the mosque in a neighborhood that was predominantly Muslim. When I walked down our street, I heard Udu and Punjabi being spoken.
I smelled familiar foods cooking and the community maintained many of the practices and values we had left behind in Pakistan.
This gave me some comfort. But I remained vigilant. I understood that Britain was a dangerous place for Muslim children.
The society promoted values completely contrary to Islam. Individualism over community obligation. Personal freedom over religious duty.
Sexual permissiveness over modesty, materialism over spiritual devotion, entertainment and pleasure over prayer and submission to Allah.
I became even more strict with my own family than I might have been in Pakistan.
In Pakistan, Islamic values were reinforced by society itself. But here in Britain, we were surrounded by temptation and corruption.
I had to build strong walls around my family to protect them. We prayed together five times daily as a family.
I taught my children Quran every evening. Farida wore full covering whenever she left the house.
We did not own a television because I did not want Western programming influencing my children.
We attended mosque not just for Friday prayers but throughout the week for classes and community events.
I screen my children’s friends carefully allowing them to socialize only with other Muslim children from devout families.
Amara adapted to this strict upbringing better than I could have hoped. She was obedient and gentle.
She excelled in her Islamic studies, memorizing Quran passages quickly and asking thoughtful questions about their meanings.
When she was 9 years old, she began wearing hijab without me even requiring it.
She said she wanted to dress modestly like the prophet’s wives. I was so proud of her and the mosque community respected our family.
I was known as a serious imam who did not compromise on Islamic principles. My Friday sermons were well attended.
I counseledled many families struggling to maintain their faith in Western society. I helped parents deal with rebellious teenagers who wanted to dress like British youth or date like their classmates.
I provided Islamic answers to these challenges. Stricter rules, more religious education, less exposure to western culture.
People would often point to my own family as an example. Look at Imam’s children, they would say.
Look how well behaved they are, how modest and respectful. This is what happens when you maintain proper Islamic discipline in the home.
I believe them. I believed I was doing everything right. I believed my strict approach was protecting my children from the corruption around us.
I believed my family would remain strong in Islam despite living in Britain. Amara grew into a beautiful and intelligent young woman.
She did well in school, particularly in science subjects. She dreamed of becoming a doctor.
I encouraged this. Medicine was a respectable profession and Muslim communities always needed doctors who understood Islamic values.
I envisioned her becoming a doctor who treated primarily Muslim women who maintained her faith and modesty while serving the community.
When Amara was 17, she received acceptance to study medicine at the University of Manchester.
It was one of the best medical programs in Britain. I was proud but also terrified.
University was where many Muslim young people lost their faith. I’d seen it happen in families throughout our community.
Children went off to university and came back drinking alcohol, dating non-Muslims, skipping prayers, abandoning hijab.
Some stopped practicing Islam altogether. I laid down strict conditions for Amara. She could attend university only if she agreed to return home every weekend.
She must continue wearing hijab at all times. She must avoid social situations where there would be mixing with men.
She must maintain all five daily prayers. She must check in with me by phone regularly.
Amara agreed to everything without argument. She seemed genuinely committed to maintaining her faith at university.
When we drove her to Manchester in September 2011 to move into student housing, she assured me she would remain true to Islam.
While I hugged her goodbye and prayed that Allah would protect her from the temptations she would face.
The first semester went smoothly. Amara called home regularly. She came back to Bradford every weekend as promised.
She talked about her classes, about the difficulty of medical studies, about making friends with other Muslim students.
Everything seemed fine. But in the second semester, I began to notice small changes. Her phone calls became shorter.
She sometimes had excuses for why she could not come home on weekends. Her voice sounded different somehow, though I could not identify exactly how.
When I asked about her Islamic studies or whether she had been attending the campus mosque, her answers became vague.
Farida noticed these changes, too. We discussed our concerns late at night after the children were asleep.
Perhaps university was too much pressure for her. Perhaps she was struggling with her classes and did not want to admit it.
Perhaps we should insist she come home more frequently, but we convinced ourselves that we were probably overreacting.
Amara had always been such a good daughter. She would not stray from the path we had set for her.
Then came the phone call that destroyed my world. It was a Friday afternoon in late February 2012.
I was in my study at home preparing my sermon for that evening’s prayers. My phone rang.
It was Amara. I answered with some annoyance because I was busy and she usually called in the evenings.
She said she needed to tell me something important and that she needed me to listen.
Her voice was shaking. I thought perhaps something terrible had happened. Maybe she had been in an accident or failed her exams or been assaulted.
I said, “What is it?” I am preparing for Friday prayers. There was a long pause.