Esther Ahmad - Defying Jihad: The Dramatic True Story of a Woman Who Volunteered to Kill Infidels—and Then Faced Death for Becoming One

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Defying Jihad: The Dramatic True Story of a Woman Who Volunteered to Kill Infidelsand Then Faced Death for Becoming One

Copyright 2019 by Esther Ahmad. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of woman copyright selimaksan/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Ahmad, Esther, author.

Title: Defying Jihad : the dramatic true story of a woman who volunteered to kill infidelsand then faced death for becoming one / Esther Ahmad with Craig Borlase.

Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., 2019. | Includes bibliographical references.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018036560| ISBN 9781496425881 (hc) | ISBN 9781496425898 (sc)

Subjects: LCSH: Ahmad, Esther. | Christian converts from IslamPakistanBiography.

Classification: LCC BV2626.4.A36 A3 2019 | DDC 248.2/4670092 [B] dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018036560

Build: 2019-04-15 08:26:25 EPUB 3.0

This book is dedicated to my husband, John, and my daughter,

Amiyah. You have risked so much by being with me, and there

is not a day that passes when I dont thank God for you.

I pray that God will continue to bless and protect you.

This memoir is the true story of my journey from growing up in a militant Muslim family to my life-changing encounter with Jesus. For the protection of my familyboth those who remain in Pakistan and those in the United StatesI have changed some of the names and specific locations, and in the case of my children, I have created a composite character to safeguard their identities.

I would also like to acknowledge that my story is just thatmy story. Not all Muslims are extremists, and not all Muslims interpret jihad the way my community did. I hope this book gives you a window into a life you may not know much about, and I hope it encourages dialogue among people of various cultural and religious backgrounds.

I step back from the window and try to ignore the noise of the mob gathering outside my home. They are even more agitated than the last time they came and shattered the nighttime peace of our quiet, respectable street. They should be agitated. After what I have done and who I have become, it is only a matter of time before their anger turns to rage.

Standing in the entryway, I close my eyes, but I can still see them bathed in the orange glow of a single streetlight. The young men with their mouths twisted in anger, fists punching in the air. The women, their faces hidden behind burkas, leaning from the windows of neighboring houses. The old men watching from the side, their eyes fixed on the man in the middle of them all. The man with more power than any of them.

My father.

I exhale and work harder to still my thoughts. I let the individual cries of Allahu Akbar! and Bring out the girl! blur and fold into one another. I dont want to hear their voices, and I dont want to see their faces. Not because I am scared, though. I ama little. But fear is the last thing I need right now.

I just need to be able to think. I want to cast out my anchor and steel my mind against these fierce currents that are pushing past me, trying to drag me down into panic. I want to hold on to what is real. Whatever is coming next, I must hold fast to my faith.

I bring to mind the book I was given, one of the two books I have kept secret from almost everyone else in my house. Behind its creased and faded cover are tales of men and women who died professing their allegiance to God. The deaths described are brutal, but the power of their stories is enough to make my breath quicken within my chest and my heart swell with hope.

I have read those stories again and againso many times that I know them as well as I know the fig trees and guava trees in the courtyard. Right now, they are the only living things separating me from the mob.

I think about the other book I have hiddenthe one with the black leather cover and the pages so thin I am always afraid I will tear them if I do not handle them with the greatest of care. I think about the stories those pages contain. I think about Paul and Stephen and so many others who died a martyrs death.

Did they feel this same fear I feel when they faced their mob? Did their minds race and their hearts rage as the end drew near? Did they struggle the way I do now, battling to keep their thoughts on the eternity after death instead of the moments before it? If they did, is there hope for me?

My life is paper thin right now. My time here on earth is about to end. I am ready to arrive in heaven. But leaving earth behind? That is harder. Will I be erased from my familys story? Will they forget about me? Will the memory of me be wiped out?

The noise from outside takes a leap forward, like a tiger pouncing on its prey. Someone has opened the front door. I squeeze my eyes, willing them to remain shut. I can feel the warm summer breeze on my cheek.

I hear my mothers voice mingling with the crowd. Is she shouting at someone? I have to ignore her, too.

Daniel. That is who I choose to think about. I picture him facing the mob calling for his death; I see him being thrown into the den of lions, trusting that God and God alone is in control. I recall Daniels three friends, too, as strong hands pushed them closer to the furnace. I do not even have to imagine the heatI can practically feel it on my own arms.

I remember the fourth man who was seen among the flamesthe man nobody could name but everybody could see. The man who turned the mob and the whole kingdom back to God. The man who changed everything.

I open my eyes to see my mother standing in front of me, her face framed with a veil. She arranges a dupatta on my head, covering my hair and the lower part of my face with the cloth. She is staring into my eyes with tears in her own.

Send her out! says a deep voice behind her. My fathers voice is always the loudest.

I can tell my mother wants to say something, but the words catch in her throat. We embrace, and I feel her tears on my cheeks.

Remember that he is our refuge, I tell her. He is our deliverer and our ever-present help in trouble. Whether I live or die, Jesus Christ will come to rescue me. To rescue us both.