Ayah’s Story

I was about seven or eight years old when I had my first dream. At that time, I was living in my home country, in a small village. In the dream, I was inside my house, in a room that looked out toward the outside. The room was crowded with people, yet it felt strangely silent. Near the window stood a man. His face was filled with light—so bright it was almost impossible to look at him. His clothes were completely white. Even though the room was full, no one could get close to him.

I was with my older sister, whom I will call Mariam. As we entered the room, she immediately tried to pull me back. “Don’t go near the window,” she warned me over and over. I told her everything was fine, but she was afraid. She said no one could hear him, no one could touch him. But I didn’t feel afraid. I walked toward the window and reached out my hand. I touched him. The moment I did, I woke up. That was my first dream.

In my second dream, I was still a child and still living in my home country. At that time, my father worked on a farm. In the dream, I met a man with dark skin and long hair. His name was Nadir, an Arabic name that means “the one who stands alone.”

He took my hand and gently led me out of the house. Because I was a child, he held my hand firmly, protectively. As we walked, I looked back and asked, “What about my family?” He answered calmly, “Don’t worry. I will take care of you.” And I kept walking with him.

When I woke up, I knew this wasn’t just a dream. I felt a presence around me, something real, something near. I began searching for him in my thoughts, in my heart. I even told my mother and my brother that there was a boy, someone I wanted to meet, someone who felt close to me—though I couldn’t explain how.

Years later, as a teenager, in 2013, my family fled and moved to a refugee camp in a neighboring country. I was at an age where everything felt unfair. I complained constantly. I questioned why boys were allowed things that girls were denied. As I grew older, I began to witness terrible realities—so-called “honor killings,” where families justified murdering their own daughters. People always had excuses for violence. Those excuses crushed me.

At night, I couldn’t sleep. I felt guilty, as if the blood of those girls was on my hands. Desperate for answers, I turned to the Qur’an. I read it more and more, and I bought books explaining its verses. But it was painful. Early on, I read verses declaring that Christians would go to hell. I thought of the Christian friends I had made in the refugee camp. And I asked myself, How could that be true?

When I was eighteen, I made a decision that changed everything. I stopped calling myself a Muslim—not out of rebellion, but because I could no longer accept what I was reading. I began studying other religions.

In the refugee camp, there was a kind and gentle couple—people I trusted deeply. I told them I wanted to study different faiths, and they supported me without judgment. Together, we read the Bible and explored Christianity and other beliefs. As time passed, I could see their frustration. I wasn’t ready to commit. I didn’t want to blindly replace one belief with another. I wanted truth, even if the search took longer.

One day, something changed. They ended their prayer—not just in the name of God, but in the name of Issa. The moment I heard that name, I broke down in tears. Something stirred deep inside me—something I still struggle to explain. I didn’t want pressure. I didn’t want anyone to force a decision. And they respected that completely.

Later, I told them quietly that I was thinking about baptism, but I asked them not to tell anyone. From that point on, I continued studying the Bible alone. I needed space to reflect, to listen, to search deeply. Eventually, I made my decision. I asked to be baptized on my birthday—which happened to fall on a Saturday. And I was baptized.

Years before that, something else had happened—something I didn’t fully understand until much later. My sister, Mariam, had been pregnant with her son. One night, she had a dream. When she woke up, she said she had seen Issa. In the dream, he was there for her, and she ran to him and held his hand. Because of that dream, she named her son Issa. To this day, I must hide my faith from my entire family. Carrying this secret is heavy, especially because I long to share Jesus with those I love.

A few months after my baptism, I had to return briefly to my home country because my grandfather was very ill. Whenever I think about Jesus’ love, I think of my grandfather. He was a deeply religious man, but in the gentlest way. He loved everyone. He helped everyone. He lived more than a hundred years—strong, active, always working in the fields. He called every woman in the family his daughter. Seeing him sick in bed broke my heart. It was the first time I had ever seen him weak. That day was a Saturday.

I asked my friends in the refugee camp to pray for him, and I told my mother that my Christian friends were praying. The room was full of people, all crying. Suddenly, the lights went out. In the darkness, I grabbed a towel and walked toward my grandfather. Even without light, I could see his eyes. He looked straight at me and began repeating one name over and over: “Issa. Issa. Issa.” I asked him, through tears, “What are you saying? What do you see?” I knew then—he was seeing something. Someone. I believe he saw the One I loved. In that moment, I understood: Issa was not only in my dreams. He was around me. He was comforting me in the hardest moment of my life. My mother told those present that this happened because I had asked my Christian friends to pray for him. Sometimes we cannot speak openly about our faith. But there are other ways to share it—without words, even with those closest to us.