My name is Fatima. I am 42 years old and I come from Gaza, a place where Islam is everything.

I grew up in a small house with a dusty courtyard where the call to prayer woke us every morning.

My father taught me to pray when I was five, my tiny hands copying his as we faced Mecca.

My mother showed me how to wear the hijab, wrapping it tight around my face, saying, “This keeps you close to Allah.”

Islam was my world.

Prayers, fasting, Quran.

It was the air I breathed, the path I walked, the only truth I knew.

10 years ago, I left Gaza with my husband, Hassan, and our two children at the time, Ysef and Aisha.

We came to Birmingham, UK, looking for a better life.

Gaza was hard.

War, fear, no jobs.

Hassan said to me, “We’ll go to England. I’ll lead a mosque, and our children will grow strong in faith.”

I was scared to leave, but I trusted him.

Hassan was a good man, a strong man.

He was 45 back then, with a deep voice that made people listen.

He had become the chief imam of a small community mosque in Birmingham.

Everyone respected him.

They called him Shik Hassan.

And when he spoke about Allah, you could feel it in your bones.

Life in Birmingham was different from Gaza.

But we held tight to our faith.

I worked as a cleaner at the city hospital.

It was hard work, scrubbing floors, emptying bins, wiping down beds.

My hands had become rough and my back would hurt by the end of the day, but I never complained.

I earned money to help my family and I thanked Allah for every penny.

When I wasn’t working, I stayed at home cooking, cleaning, teaching my children.

After settling in Birmingham, we gave birth to two more kids, Zob and Ibrahim, making it four altogether.

Ysef is currently 16, Aisha 14, Zob 10, and little Ibrahim who is currently seven.

They are my world, my joy, and my reason to keep going.

Yousef was my eldest, a serious boy with his father’s eyes.

He wanted to be an imam like Hassan.

He was always reading the Quran, his voice soft, but sure as he recited.

“Mama,” he would say, “I’ll lead a mosque one day, just like papa.”

I smiled and touched his cheek, feeling proud but a little worried.

He was so young but so sure.

Aisha, my 14-year-old, was different.

She was curious, always asking questions.

She loved books, stories, history, even science.

She had a spark in her eyes, but I saw her struggle sometimes.

She wanted to fit in at school, but we didn’t let her mix with non-Muslims too much.

“They’ll lead you astray,” Hassan would say.

Zinab was 10, my quiet one.

She was shy, always holding my hand, her big eyes watching everything.

She loved drawing, but we didn’t let her draw people.

Hassan said it was haram, against Islam.

And Ibraim, my baby at 7, was full of light.

He was always laughing, running around asking for stories.

“Mama, tell me about the prophet again,” he would say.

His smile so big it broke my heart with love.

Our life was strict, but it felt good at the time.

We prayed five times a day, no matter what.

I would wake up before dawn for fajer, my knees on the prayer mat, whispering to Allah while the house was still dark.

We fasted every Ramadan, even the children when they were old enough.

I had been to Hajj once, 5 years before all this happened, before I was born.

I had stood in Mecca, surrounded by millions, all of us in white, circling the Cabba.

I cried so hard that day, feeling so close to Allah, like I could touch paradise.

Back home, I taught my children the Quran, just like my mother had taught me.

We didn’t listen to music, didn’t watch movies with bad things, didn’t celebrate Christmas or Easter.

“These are for the Kufar, the non-believers,” Hassan would say.

“We follow the straight path to Janna to paradise.”

Hassan was a good leader.

At the local mosque, he taught hundreds of families.

On Fridays, the mosque would be full.

Men in the front, women in the back, all listening to his sermons.

He talked about Allah’s mercy, but also his punishment for those who strayed.

“Stay away from the Christians, the Jews, the atheists,” He would say.

“They’re lost. Only Islam is the truth.”

People nodded, their faces serious.

I nodded too, but sometimes deep inside I felt something heavy.

I didn’t tell anyone, not even Hassan.

I was a good wife, a good Muslim.

I couldn’t let those thoughts grow.

But there were moments when I couldn’t stop them.

Late at night, when the house was quiet, I would lie in bed staring at the ceiling.

I thought about things I shouldn’t have.

Why did Allah feel so far away sometimes?

I had prayed.

I had fasted.

I had given charity, but I didn’t feel him like I wanted to.

And why did good people go to hell just because they weren’t Muslim?

At the hospital, I worked with a nurse named Sarah.

She was Christian, always smiling, always kind.

She would bring me tea on hard days, saying, “Fatima, you’re doing great.”

I liked her, but Hassan said I shouldn’t get too close.

“She’s not one of us,” He would say.

I wondered, would Sarah go to hell?

She was so good.

Better than some Muslims I knew.

It didn’t feel fair.

One day, Aisha came home from school, her face full of questions.

She sat at the kitchen table while I chopped onions for dinner.

“Mama,” she said, her voice small.

“My friend Emma at school is so nice. She’s Christian. She gave me her pencil when mine broke. But papa says, Christians go to hell. Is that true? Will Emma go to hell?”

My heart stopped for a second.

I looked at her, my smart girl, her eyes searching mine.

I wanted to say something soft, something kind, but I knew what I was supposed to say.

“Yes, Aisha,” I said, my voice flat.

“If she doesn’t accept Islam, she’ll go to hell. That’s what Allah says.”

Aisha looked down, her fingers playing with her hijab.

“But she’s so nice, mama,” she whispered.

I turned back to the onions, my eyes burning.

Not from the onions, but from something deeper.

I didn’t know what to say.

I changed the subject.

“Go help Zanob with her homework,” I told her.

But Aisha’s question stayed with me like a stone in my chest.

I pushed those thoughts away.

I had to.

I was Fatima Al-Masri, wife of an imam, mother of four, a good Muslim woman.

I couldn’t let doubts grow.

I focused on my life.

Cleaning at the hospital, cooking for my family, praying with my children.

Hassan led the mosque with strength and I stood by him, smiling at the women who came to me for advice.

“Fatima, you’re so strong,” they would say.

“You and Shake Hassan are a blessing.”

I nodded, but inside I felt a crack.

Small but real.

I didn’t know it then, but that crack was about to break wide open and my whole world would change.

On the evening of Wednesday, April 3rd, 2024, everything changed.

It was a rainy night in Birmingham, and I was exhausted.

I’d just finished a long shift at the hospital.

My hands achd from scrubbing floors, and my back felt broken.

I’d been working extra hours during Ramadan to buy new clothes for the kids for Eid.

The hospital was chaotic that night.

Nurses running, patients coughing, the smell of cleaning liquid everywhere.

I changed out of my uniform, pulled my coat tight, and wrapped my hijab around my head.

It was dark outside, and the rain fell hard, turning the streets shiny and wet.

I needed to catch the bus home.

My family was waiting for me to cook ifar.

We broke our fast together every night during Ramadan.

I can already picture Ibrahim’s smile when he saw the dates I’d bought and Aisha helping me set the table.

I stepped out of the hospital, the cold air hitting my face.

The rain was loud, splashing on the ground, and I pulled my coat closer.

The bus stop was across the street, and I looked both ways before I started walking.

The traffic lights were red, so I thought it was safe.

But as I stepped onto the road, I heard a loud screech.

Tires screaming on the wet pavement.

I turned my head and bright headlights blinded me.

A car was coming fast, too fast, speeding through the red light.

My heart jumped into my throat.

I tried to move, but my legs felt like stone.

I screamed, “Allah, help me.”

But the car didn’t stop.

It hit me hard and everything went black.

I didn’t feel pain at first.

It was like I was floating, light as a feather.

I opened my eyes and I was above the street looking down.

I saw my body on the ground lying still in the rain.

My hijab was loose, my coat torn and blood was mixing with the water around me.

Paramedics were there shouting, “She’s not breathing.”

They pressed on my chest trying to bring me back.

A crowd gathered, some people crying, others whispering, “Poor woman.”

A man in a yellow jacket said, “The driver was drunk.”

He didn’t even slow down.

I wanted to scream, “I’m here. I’m alive.”

But no one heard me.

I felt strange.

No pain, no fear, just a quiet peace.

I thought of my children, Ysef, Aisha, Zob, Ibraim, who would cook for them that night, who would hug them when they were scared.

I thought of Hassan, my strong husband.

Would he be okay without me?

But then something changed.

The air around me turned cold, so cold it burned.

I heard whispers, like voices crying in the dark, full of sadness and fear.

I looked down and a black tunnel opened beneath me like a hole in the world.

It was pulling me, a strong force I couldn’t fight.

I screamed, “No, let me go.”

But the tunnel swallowed me.

I was falling, falling fast, the whispers growing louder, turning into screams.

The tunnel was dark.

So dark I couldn’t see my hands.

It smelled like smoke and something rotten.

My heart was pounding and I was so scared.

I called out, “Allah, save me, please. I’m your servant.”

But there was no answer, only the sound of my own voice echoing back.

The tunnel ended and I landed on hard ground.

My knees hurt and I looked around, my eyes wide.

I was in a place I had never seen before, a place that made my blood turn cold.

It was hell.

The ground was black and cracked with red fire coming up through the cracks.

The air was so hot it burned my skin and the smell of burning flesh made me want to vomit.

Everywhere I looked, there were people, souls screaming in pain.

Some were chained to rocks, their bodies covered in burns.

Others were running, but the fire followed them, licking their legs.

I heard cries, “Help me! I was wrong,” but no one came to help.

The sky above was dark, not with clouds, but with smoke, thick and heavy.

I covered my mouth, trying to breathe, but the air choked me.

I stumbled forward, my feet shaking.

I didn’t know where I was going, but I couldn’t stay still.

The screams were so loud they hurt my ears.

I saw a woman with no eyes, her face melting as she cried.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

I saw a man with chains around his neck, the fire eating his hands as he begged, “Give me another chance.”

I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go.

I fell to my knees, my hands covering my face.

“Allah, why am I here?” I cried.

“I prayed. I fasted. I followed your rules. Why am I in hell?”

Then I heard a voice.

A voice I knew calling my name.

“Fatima, my daughter.”

I looked up and my heart stopped.

It was Shik Omar, my father-in-law, Hassan’s father.

He had died 5 years ago in Gaza.

He was a big imam there, a man everyone loved with a long white beard and a voice like thunder.

He used to give sermons that made people cry, telling them to stay away from Christians and Jews, to follow Islam or burn in hell.

But now he was here in hell.

His white robe was gone, his body covered in burns.

His beard was singed, and his eyes were wide with pain.

Flames were all around him, burning his legs, his arms.

He reached for me, his hands shaking, and grabbed my arm.

His touch was hot like fire, and I screamed, but I couldn’t pull away.

“Fatima,” he said, his voice breaking.

“I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

Tears fell from his eyes, but they turned to steam in the heat.

“I led thousands to this place with my teachings. Islam is a lie. I thought I was serving Allah, but I was serving a lie.”

I shook my head, my mind spinning.

“No, Baba, you were a good imam. You taught us the truth.”

But he gripped my arm tighter, his nails digging into my skin.

“No, Fatima, listen to me. Jesus is the only way. I see it now, but it’s too late for me. I’m burning here because I rejected him. I led so many people astray. my followers, my family, even my son.”

He started to sob, his body shaking as the flames grew higher around him.

“Tell Hassan to turn to Jesus. Tell him to stop leading people to hell with Islamic teachings. He’s an imam now, just like I was. He’s taking thousands down the wrong path. Save him, Fatima. Save my son. Save your children.”

I was crying now, my tears falling fast.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

Shake Omar, the man I looked up to, the man who taught me so much about Islam, was telling me it was all a lie.

I saw the pain in his eyes, the regret, the fear.

The flames around him grew bigger, and a dark shadow moved behind him like a monster made of smoke.

It grabbed him, pulling him away from me.

“No, Fatima, tell him,” He screamed as the shadow dragged him into the fire.

His voice faded, but his screams echoed in my ears, mixing with the cries of the others.

I fell to the ground, my hands in the ash, my body shaking.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

My father-in-law’s words burned in my mind.

Jesus is the only way.

How could this be?

Everything I’d believed, everything I’d lived for, it was all wrong.

I closed my eyes, my heart breaking, and I whispered, “Allah, please show me the truth.”

But the fire kept burning, and the screams didn’t stop.

I was on my knees in hell, my hands in the ash, my body shaking.

The screams around me were so loud, and the fire burned my skin.

My father-in-law’s words echoed in my head.

Jesus is the only way.

And I felt like my heart was breaking.

I closed my eyes, tears falling, and whispered, “Allah, please show me the truth.”

The air was so hot, I couldn’t breathe, and the darkness felt like it was swallowing me.

But then something changed.

The screams started to fade, and the heat on my skin turned into a soft warmth, like a blanket on a cold night.

I opened my eyes and the fire was gone.

The black ground, the smoke, the burning souls, they were all gone.

Instead, I was surrounded by a golden light, so bright but not hurting my eyes.

It was like a sunrise that never ended, warm and alive, wrapping around me like a hug.

I looked around, my heart still racing.

The light was everywhere, coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

It felt alive, like it knew me, like it loved me.

I had never felt love like this before.

Not from my parents, not from Hassan, not even from my children.

It was big.

So big it filled every part of me, washing away my fear, my pain, my confusion.

I started to cry again.

But these tears were different.

They were tears of joy, of peace.

I felt safe, like I was home.

Even though I didn’t know where I was, the light grew brighter, and I saw a figure walking toward me.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was a man, but not just any man.

I knew who he was, even though I had never seen him like this before.

It was Jesus.

He wasn’t the prophet Issa I had learned about in Islam.

The one we said was a good man but not God.

No, this Jesus was different.

He was a king, a Lord with a presence so strong I couldn’t stand.

I fell to my knees again, my hands shaking.

He was wearing a white robe that glowed like the light around him.

And his face, oh, his face was so beautiful, so full of love.

His eyes looked at me and I felt like he saw everything.

Every prayer I had made, every tear I had cried, every doubt I had hidden.

He saw the good things I had done, like giving food to the poor and the bad things, like judging people who weren’t Muslim.

He saw it all, but there was no anger in his eyes.

No judgment, only love.

A love so deep it made my heart hurt in a good way.

I tried to speak but my voice wouldn’t come.

“I I don’t understand,” I whispered finally.

“I’m a Muslim. I followed Allah. Why am I here? Why did I see hell?”

Jesus didn’t speak with his mouth.

But I heard his voice in my heart, soft and strong at the same time.

“Fatima,” he said, “I am the truth. I am the way. I love you, and I’ve always loved you.”

His words filled me with warmth and I started to sob, my whole body shaking.

He stepped closer and I felt his hand on my head, gentle like a father.

The love coming from him was so big I couldn’t hold it all.

It was like a river washing away everything I thought I knew.

Then he showed me things not with words but with pictures in my mind like a dream I could feel.

First, he showed me his crucifixion.

I saw him on a cross, nails in his hands and feet, blood dripping down his face.

I felt his pain, not just in his body, but in his heart.

He was carrying something heavy, something I couldn’t see, but I could feel.

It was the sins of the world, my sins, everyone’s sins.

I heard him cry out, “Father, forgive them.”

And I knew he was talking about me, about all of us.

I fell to the ground crying so hard I couldn’t breathe.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why did you do this?”

He looked at me, his eyes full of tears, and I felt his answer in my heart.

“Because I love you, Fatima. I died so you can live.”

Then he showed me his resurrection.

I saw the tomb, dark and cold, but then a light brighter than the sun filled it.

Jesus rose, his body whole again, his face shining with power.

He was alive, and I felt the joy of it like a song in my soul.

Death was gone.

Sin was gone.

Jesus won.

I understood now.

He wasn’t just a prophet.

He was God, the Savior, the one who loved us all.

I thought of what I had been taught in Islam, that Jesus didn’t die, that someone else took his place on the cross.

But I knew now that was a lie.

I saw it.

I felt it.

Jesus died for me and he rose for me.

He showed me more.

He showed me the Trinity, Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

I used to think this was sherk, a sin, believing in three gods.

But Jesus made me feel it, not just see it.

They’re one, a perfect love, like a family that can’t be broken.

The father’s love, the son’s sacrifice, the spirit’s guidance, they’re all one God, and they love me.

I felt so small, but so loved.

I’d never felt this close to God before, not even in Mecca during Hajj.

Then Jesus showed me the truth about Islam.

He took me to a cave and I saw a man, Prophet Muhammad.

He was receiving the Quran, but it wasn’t from an angel like I had been taught.

It was a dark spirit pretending to be light, whispering lies.

I saw how this spirit used fear and rules to trap people, to keep them away from the real God.

I saw the five pillars I had followed, prayers, fasting, Haj, charity, faith.

They looked so small now, like empty boxes with nothing inside.

Jesus showed me Mecca, the Cabba I circled with so much love.

But now I saw darkness around it, a heavy shadow that made my stomach turn.

“This is not my way,” Jesus says in my heart.

“I am the way.”

He showed me the hijab I had worn since I was a girl.

I thought it made me holy, kept me safe.

But Jesus showed me it was a chain, a lie to blind me from his love.

I touched my head, my hijab still there, and I felt ashamed.

All my life I thought I was doing right, but I was so wrong.

I saw souls in hell again, crying, “We didn’t know.”

And I thought of my father-in-law, Shake Omar, burning, begging me to save Hassan.

My heart hurt so much I couldn’t stop crying.

Then Jesus showed me my children Ysef, Aisha, Zab, Ibraim.

He showed me two futures.

In the first, they stayed Muslim, following the path I taught them.

Ysef became an imam, strict like his father, but his heart was empty.

Aisha married a man who didn’t let her read.

Her spark gone.

Zab and Ibrahim grew up afraid, always trying to be good enough for Allah, but never feeling his love.

They died one day, and I saw them in hell crying, “Mama, why didn’t you tell us?”

My heart broke into pieces, and I screamed, “No, not my children.”

But then Jesus showed me another future.

They found him.

They found Jesus.

Yousef’s face was full of peace, not rules.

Aisha’s spark was back, her eyes shining as she read the Bible.

Zob and Ibrahim laughed, free, praying to Jesus with joy.

They were in heaven, surrounded by light, and I felt their happiness like it was my own.

Jesus looked at me, his eyes so kind.

“Fatima,” he said, “I love your children. I love all Muslims. They’re my children, too. I want them to know me, to know my love.”

I nodded, my tears falling.

“But how?” I asked.

“I’ve taught them Islam. Hassan is an imam. They won’t listen.”

Jesus touched my face, and I felt his strength fill me.

“Go back,” he said.

“Tell them what you’ve seen. Tell them I am the way. It won’t be easy, but I’ll be with you. I’ll never leave you.”

His words were like fire in my heart.

A fire that didn’t burn but gave me hope.

I knew what I had to do.

I had to go back.

I had to tell the truth, even if it cost me everything.

I felt the light around me start to fade.

But Jesus’s love stayed in my heart, warm and strong.

His voice echoed in my mind.

“Go back, Fatima. Tell them I am the way.”

I wanted to stay with him in that place of peace, but I knew I couldn’t.

My children needed me.

Hassan needed me.

I had to tell them the truth.

Suddenly, I felt a pull like I was being sucked back into my body.

The golden light disappeared and I heard a loud beeping sound.

I opened my eyes and I was in a hospital room.

The ceiling was white and the air smelled like medicine.

Machines beeped around me and I felt a sharp pain in my chest.

I was alive.

I tried to move, but my body was heavy.

I looked down and saw tubes in my arms, a bandage on my head.

My hijab was gone, and my hair felt sticky with sweat.

I heard a voice, soft and worried.

“Fatima, Fatima, you’re awake.”

It was Hassan.

He was sitting by my bed, his face tired, his eyes red from crying.

My children were there, too.

Ysef, Aisha, Zab, and Ibrahim.

They looked scared, their faces pale.

Ibrahim ran to me, his little hands grabbing mine.

“Mama, you’re okay,” he said, his voice shaking.

Zob hugged me, her tears wetting my arm.

Aisha stood back, her eyes wide, and Yousef looked at me with a frown, like he was trying to understand something.

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry.

I swallowed hard and whispered, “Jesus! Jesus.”

The words came out before I could stop them, and the room went quiet.

Hassan’s face changed, his eyes narrowing.

“What did you say?” he asked, his voice low, like he was trying not to shout.

I looked at him, my heart beating fast.

I knew I had to tell him.

I couldn’t keep this inside.

“Hassan,” I said, my voice stronger now.

“I died. I went to hell. I saw your father Shik Omar. He was burning Hassan. He told me Islam is a lie. He said to tell you to turn to Jesus, to stop leading people astray. And then I saw Jesus. He showed me the truth. He’s the only way.”

Hassan stared at me, his mouth open.

Then his face hardened like stone.

“Fatima, stop this,” he said, his voice loud.

“Now this is Sherk. You’re speaking against Allah. You’re confused. That’s all. You were hurt. Your mind is playing tricks.”

I shook my head, tears falling down my cheeks.

“No, Hassan. It was real. I saw it. I felt it. Jesus loves us. He died for us. Islam is wrong. I saw it.”

Ysef stepped forward, his face angry.

“Mama, how can you say this?” He said.

“Papa is an imam. We’re Muslims. You’re saying everything we believe is a lie?”

Aisha looked at me, her eyes full of questions, but she didn’t speak.

Zob and Ibrahim started to cry, confused, holding my hands tighter.

Hassan stood up, his hands shaking.

“Enough,” he shouted.

“You will not speak this blasphemy in front of our children.”

He turned to a nurse who was standing at the door watching us with wide eyes.

“Call the doctor,” he said.

“My wife is not well. She’s saying things that make no sense.”

The doctor came, a kind man with glasses.

He checked my chart and said, “Mrs. Al-Masri, you were clinically dead for 20 minutes. It’s a miracle you’re alive. No brain damage, no major injuries, but sometimes after trauma, the mind can imagine things.”

I shook my head.

It wasn’t my mind.

I said it was real, but no one listened.

The next few days were hard.

I was in the hospital.

My body healing, but my heart was heavy.

Hassan brought imams from the mosque to pray over me.

They sat around my bed reciting the Quran, their voices loud and serious.

One of them, an old man with a white beard, looked at me with pity.

“Sister Fatima,” he said, “you’ve been through something terrible, but you must come back to the right path. What you saw was a trick from Shayan, the devil. He wants to lead you astray.”

I looked at him, my eyes full of tears.

“No,” I said, “it wasn’t Shayan. It was Jesus. I know what I saw.”

The imam shook his head and Hassan looked at me like I was a stranger.

When I finally went home, things got worse.

The news of what I said spread fast in our community.

People who used to smile at me now turned away.

At the mosque, women whispered behind my back, “Fatima has lost her way. She’s an apostate.”

One day I was walking to the shop to buy bread, and a man I had known for years spat on the ground near me.

“Kafir,” he said, his voice full of hate.

I felt like I was shrinking, like I didn’t belong anymore.

At home, Hassan barely talked to me.

He slept on the couch, his face cold.

“I don’t know you anymore, Fatima,” he said one night.

“You’re shaming me, shaming our family. You need to stop this.”

The children were confused.

Yousef was the hardest.

He was 16, so much like his father.

So sure of Islam.

“Mama, you’re wrong,” he said, his voice hard.

“Papa says you’re sick. I’ll pray for you, but you need to come back to Allah.”

Aisha was different.

She came to me one night when Hassan was at the mosque.

“Mama,” she whispered.

“Is it true? Did you really see Jesus?”

I nodded, my heart racing.

“Yes, Aisha,” I said.

“He’s real. He loves us. He showed me the truth.”

She looked at me, her eyes search it mine.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said.

“Papa says it’s wrong, but I feel something when you talk about it.”

I hugged her, my tears falling into her hair.

“Pray, Aisha,” I said.

“Ask God to show you.”

Zob and Ibrahim didn’t understand, but they felt the tension.

They clung to me asking, “Mama, why is Papa angry? Why are people mean to you?”

One night, I was in the kitchen cooking dinner when I heard a loud crash.

I ran to the window and saw a stone on the floor.

Glass everywhere.

Someone threw it through our window.

There was a note tied to it written in red ink.

“Apostate, leave or die.”

I fell to my knees, my hands shaking.

Hassan came in, saw the note, and his face turned pale.

But instead of comforting me, he said, “This is your fault, Fatima. You brought this on us. You need to stop talking about this Jesus nonsense or they’ll hurt us all.”

I looked at him, my heart breaking.

“Hassan,” I said, “I can’t stop. It’s the truth. Your father told me to save you. Jesus told me to tell you I can’t lie about what I saw.”

He slammed his hand on the table, his voice a roar.

“Enough. I won’t let you destroy our family. If you don’t stop, I’ll take the children away. You’ll never see them again.”

That night, I lay in bed, my pillow wet with tears.

I prayed to Jesus, my voice a whisper.

“Lord, help me. I’m trying to do what you said, but it’s so hard. Hassan won’t listen. My community hates me. I’m losing everything, but I can’t turn away from you. Please give me strength.”

I felt a warmth in my heart, like Jesus was with me, holding me.

I knew I couldn’t give up.

I had to keep going for my children, for Hassan, for all the Muslims who didn’t know the truth.

But I didn’t know how much more I could take.

I felt so alone, so scared, and I didn’t know what Hassan would do next.

I couldn’t stay in Birmingham anymore.

My heart was breaking, but I knew I had no choice.

Hassan’s words kept ringing in my ears.

“I’ll take the children away. You’ll never see them again.”

Every day, he grew colder, his eyes full of anger.

He didn’t touch me.

Didn’t talk to me unless he had to.

The community’s hate was getting worse.

More whispers, more threats.

Last week, someone wrote “apostate” in red paint on our door.

I was scared all the time, not just for me, but for my children.

I prayed to Jesus every night, asking for help, for a way out.

“Lord,” I whispered, “show me what to do. I can’t lose my faith, and I can’t lose my children.”

One night, I heard Hassan on the phone.

He was in the living room, his voice low but sharp.

“She’s shaming our family,” he said.

“I’ve spoken to a center in Saudi Arabia. They’ll take her for re-education. They’ll fix her, make her a Muslim again.”

My heart stopped.

I knew about those centers, places where they locked you up, forced you to pray, punished you if you didn’t obey.

I had heard stories of women who never came back the same, their spirits broken.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I couldn’t let them take Jesus away from me.

And I couldn’t let my children grow up believing a lie, thinking Islam was the truth.

When I’d seen hell, when I’d seen Jesus, I knew I had to leave.

But it was so hard.

Leaving meant losing Ysef and Aisha, my two oldest.

They were too big to take without Hassan noticing.

And Ysef was so loyal to his father.

Aisha wanted to believe me, but she was scared.

I could only take Zob and Ibrahim, my little ones.

They were 10 and seven, small enough to come with me quietly.

I cried every night, thinking about leaving Ysef and Aisha behind.

But I had to save who I could.

I had to trust Jesus to protect them, to show them the truth.

One day, I found help online.

I joined a secret group for Muslims who’d become Christians.

They were kind, sending me messages of hope.

One woman, Sarah, said, “Fatima, we’ll help you. There’s a family in Ireland who can take you in. They’re Christians. They’ll keep you and safe.”

She gave me a plan.

Take a bus, then a ferry, and get to a small village in Ireland.

My hands shook as I read her messages.

I’d never done anything like this before.

I was a cleaner, a mother, a wife.

I didn’t know how to run away, but I felt Jesus with me giving me strength.

I had to do this.

The night I left was dark and stormy.

Rain pounded the windows and thunder shook the house.

Hassan was at the mosque for a late meeting and the children were asleep.

I packed a small bag, just a few clothes, some food, and a picture of all my children together, smiling at the park last year.

I went to Ysef’s room first.

He was sleeping, his Quran open on his chest.

I kissed his forehead, my tears falling on his face.

“I’m sorry, my son,” I whispered.

“I love you. I pray you’ll see Jesus one day.”

I went to Aisha’s room next.

She was awake, sitting up in bed, her eyes wide.

“Mama, what’s happening?” she asked.

I kneled by her bed, my voice shaking.

“Aisha, I have to go. Papa wants to send me away to make me stop believing in Jesus. I’m taking Zab and Ibraim. I can’t take you. It’s too dangerous, but I love you so much. Please keep asking questions. Look for Jesus. He’s the truth.”

She started to cry, hugging me tight.

“Mama, I’m scared,” she said.

I held her close, my heartbreaking.

“I know, my darling, but Jesus will protect you. I’ll pray for you every day.”

I kissed her one last time and left before I lost my courage.

I woke Zob and Ibrahim, their sleepy eyes confused.

“We’re going on a trip,” I whispered.

“Be very quiet.”

They nodded, trusting me.

I wrapped them in coats and we sneaked out the back door.

The rain was cold, soaking us in seconds.

I held their hands tight, my bag on my shoulder, and we ran to the bus stop.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it over the thunder.

I kept looking back, expecting to see Hassan chasing us, his face full of anger.

The bus came and we got on, sitting at the back.

Zinob whispered, “Mama, where are we going?”

I forced a smile, my voice shaking.

“Somewhere safe, my love, somewhere we can pray to Jesus.”

Ibraim curled up in my lap, his little body warm against mine.

I held them close, praying, “Jesus, protect us. Don’t let Hassan find us.”

The bus took us to the ferry port.

The rain was still falling and the wind was strong, making the sea look wild.

I bought tickets with the little money I had.

My hands trembling as I handed over the cash.

We boarded the ferry, and I found a quiet corner for us to sit.

The boat rocked as it moved, and I felt sick, not just from the waves, but from fear.

I kept thinking Hassan would find us, that he’d storm onto the ferry and drag us back.

But he didn’t.

The ferry took us across the sea, and by morning, we were in Ireland.

The sky was gray, but the rain had stopped.

A kind man named Michael met us at the port.

He was part of the Christian family Sarah told me about.

“Fatima,” he said, his voice gentle.

“You’re safe now. Come with me.”

Michael drove us to a small village in Ireland where green hills stretched as far as I could see.

The village was quiet with little houses and a small church at the center.

Michael’s family welcomed us.

His wife Anna hugged me tight and their children played with Zob and Ibraim.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe.

They gave us a small room in their house with a bed for me and the kids.

I started working as a cleaner again at a local school this time.

The work was hard, but the people were kind.

They didn’t judge me for my past.

I joined their church, a tiny place with wooden benches and a cross on the wall.

The first time I went, I took off my hijab.

My hands shook as I did it, my hair falling free.

I felt naked, but also free, like a weight was gone.

I prayed to Jesus with the others, my voice loud for the first time, not a whisper.

“Thank you, Lord,” I said, for saving me.

I taught Zanab and Ibrahim about Jesus.

At first, they were confused.

“Mama, what about Allah?” Ibrahim asked, his big eyes looking at me.

I smiled, my heart full.

“Allah was what we knew before,” I said.

“But Jesus is the truth. He loves us and he’s with us.”

They started to pray with me, their little voices saying, “Jesus, we love you.”

Zob drew pictures of him, now her face glowing with joy.

Ibraham asked me to tell him stories about Jesus every night.

His smile so big it made me cry.

I felt peace here, but my heart achd for Ysef and Aisha.

I left them behind and I didn’t know if I’d ever see them again.

I prayed every day.

“Jesus, please show them your light. Let them find you when they grow up.”

Months passed and I started to feel like I could live again.

But one day, a letter came.

It was from Aisha, smuggled through a friend who knew where I was.

My hand shook as I opened it, my heart racing.

Her handwriting was small, her words careful.

“Mama,” she wrote, “I can’t stop thinking about what you said. I found a Bible at school and I’ve been reading it in secret. I feel something real, something I’ve never felt before. I think I believe in Jesus, but I’m so scared. Papa found out I was asking questions. He was so angry. He’s sending me to Gaza to marry a strict man, someone who will fix me. I don’t want to go, mama. I want to be with you. Help me. I love you.”

My heart stopped.

I read the letter again, my tears falling on the paper.

Aisha was reaching for Jesus, but she was in danger.

Hassan was sending her away to a place where she’d be trapped.

Her faith crushed.

I fell to my knees, clutching the letter, my voice a sob.

“Jesus, save her. Don’t let them take her away from you.”

I knew I had to do something.

I couldn’t lose Aisha.

Not like this.

I had to find a way to get her back, to bring her to Jesus.

I’d do anything to save my daughter.

I sat in my small room in Ireland that night, the village outside quiet under a starry sky.

A candle flickered on the table, its light dancing on the walls.

Zob and Ibraham had fallen asleep in the bed behind me, their soft breathing the only sound in the room.

I held Aisha’s letter in my hands, the paper worn from how many times I had read it.

Her words, “I think I believe in Jesus, but I’m so scared,” had filled my heart with both hope and fear.

I knew I had to save her, to bring her to Ireland, where she could be free to love Jesus.

But that night, I had another task.

I recorded a video to share my story with the world.

I had set up a small camera I borrowed from Anna, the kind woman who took us in.

My hands shook as I pressed the record button, but I felt Jesus with me, giving me strength.

I looked into the camera, my voice soft but full of fire, and I began to speak.

“My name was Fatima Al- Masri,” I said, my eyes steady.

“I was a Muslim, a good Muslim. I grew up in Gaza, where Islam was everything. I had prayed five times a day, fasted every Ramadan, and went to Hajj. I wore my hijab with pride, thinking it made me holy. My husband Hassan was an imam, a leader in our mosque in Birmingham. We had raised our four children, Ysef, Aisha, Zinab, and Ibraim to be strict Muslims. I thought I was on the right path, the path to paradise.”

“But I was wrong. I had been blind.”

I took a deep breath, my voice shaking as I remembered.

“One night, I was hit by a car. I died for 20 minutes. I went to hell, a place of fire and screams. I had seen my father-in-law shake Omar, a great imam, burning there. He grabbed my arm, his face full of pain, and said, ‘Fatima, I was wrong. Islam is a lie. Jesus is the only way. Tell Hassan to stop leading people astray.’ I couldn’t believe it. Everything I knew had fallen apart. But then a light came. A golden light full of love. And I saw Jesus.”

Tears filled my eyes, but I kept going.

“Jesus wasn’t just a prophet. Like I had been taught. He was God, the Savior. He showed me his crucifixion. The nails in his hands, the blood on his face. I felt his pain, his love for me, for all of us. He had shown me his resurrection, rising from the dead, defeating sin and death. He showed me the truth about Islam, that it was a lie, a trap to keep people from him. The prayers, the fasting, the Hajj, they were empty. I saw two futures for my children. One where they stayed Muslim and ended up in hell crying for me. Another where they found Jesus. Their faces full of joy in heaven. Jesus had told me, ‘Fatima, I love your children. I love all Muslims. Go back and tell them I am the way.’”

I paused, my voice a whisper as I finished.

I asked you to pray for Aisha.

I asked you to pray for me that I could save her.

And if you had found Jesus, I wanted you to share your story.

I wanted you to let others know his love.

I stopped the recording, my hands shaking.

I had felt peace, but also fear.

Aisha needed me, and I wouldn’t stop until she was safe.