A Daughter No One Expected

A New Muslimah’s Story –

The story of your sister in Islam, Umu Huda

I was born as the third daughter to a Hindu father and a Christian mother. My father deeply wanted a son, though he loved his daughters sincerely. My mother, exhausted by pregnancy and the burden of raising children, decided to abort the third child.

But my father rushed to the hospital, pulled my mother out, and declared with certainty that this time it would be a boy.

When the time for delivery came, my mother was in the hospital with my grandmother. My father received a phone call. It was another girl.

He sat down in silent disappointment. Exactly as Allah described in the Quran

“And when one of them is informed of [the birth of] a female, his face becomes dark, and he suppresses grief.” (Qur'an, 16:58) That girl was me.

Yet Allah placed something unexpected in his heart. Despite his earlier wish, my father grew to love me the most—babying me, spoiling me, holding me close. But alongside that love came a slow and painful destruction: alcohol.

His addiction consumed him. He lost his sense of self, hallucinated, and often forgot who we were. We were three small girls—too young to understand, too frightened to ask questions. In our small town, rehabilitation was unheard of. Hospitals became familiar places. Many of my childhood memories are not playgrounds, but long hospital corridors.

When I was in the ninth grade, my father became critically ill. His kidneys failed, jaundice took over, and we could no longer afford private hospitals. Doctors told us to take him home. Later, we rushed him to a government hospital. There, we were told he had slipped into a coma. A few days later, he passed away.

But the war with alcohol did not end there. Almost every uncle in my family generation after generation met the same fate. Even their sons followed the same path. I still struggle to understand how something so cheap, so normalized, and so poisonous destroyed the men of my family and members of our village.

That was the moment something broke—and something awakened—inside me.

I declared war on alcohol and on the lies surrounding it. I didn’t yet have answers, but I knew this pain had a purpose. One day, I would search for solutions.

My uneducated mother was suddenly left alone with three young daughters. Life became a daily struggle, just to survive, just to eat. Yet through it all, she never compromised on one thing: our education. Against all odds, she made sure we learned, grew, and dreamed.

Looking back now, I know this was not coincidence. This was Allah preserving a life—not just to survive, but to testify.

For most of my life, I was Hindu, following my father’s teachings. Surprisingly, I was the most religious among my siblings.

Later in life, when we moved closer to my mother’s Christian relatives, I became Christian, while still practicing aspects of Hinduism. I attended church regularly, prayed to Jesus (peace be upon him), cried during prayers, and read the Bible daily.

After college, I began working at a company owned by a family friend—a Muslim who often visited our home. Casual conversations slowly turned into long discussions about Islam.

As a woman—and as an abortion survivor—I became a strong defender of women, standing against injustice and oppression regardless of religion or system. Among the many questions I debated were: Why hijab? Why multiple marriages?

Although he was not a scholar, his answers were simple, brief, and honest. What he said made sense. This conversation stirred something in my heart.

I returned home and began watching Islamic lectures, searching online, and asking questions in forums. Something settled in my mind and heart, though I was not fully convinced yet. One command of Islam struck me deeply: Alcohol is forbidden.

Coming from a family destroyed by drinking, this divine prohibition—and the way most Muslims strictly obey it—pulled my heart toward Islam. I finally found support for my lifelong war against alcohol, the deadly disease that took everyone I loved, everyone I knew in my village.

As my studies about Islam continued, my clothing changed, idol worship stopped, and church visits ended—yet I still did not officially accept Islam.

Then one day, a fear seized my heart like never before: “What if I die as a non-Muslim?” I discovered about Hellfire and Paradise. I did not want Hell. I decided:

I will become Muslim first. Whatever comes later, I will face it. I took the Shahadah.

To hide my conversion to Islam, I joined another company. For two painful years, I hid my Islam while living with my mother. My sisters were already married. These were the hardest years of my life.

In Hinduism, the dead are honored and worshipped. On death anniversaries, photos are placed beside idols, with rituals and feasts. For me, it wasn’t just worshiping, it was my father’s memory.

Suddenly, I had to avoid everything. My mother noticed.

One day, she saw me through the window praying salah. A huge fight erupted. My sisters were called. I was forced to swear that I would stop practicing Islam—to protect myself, I agreed outwardly.

They accused me of being brainwashed by the Muslim man I had worked for. He was reported to the police. His company was shut down illegally.

Where I come from, Muslim men are punished for contacting Hindu girls. Families are tortured. New Muslim women are beaten until they leave Islam. I feared for his life. I feared for my faith.

My photos were sent to matrimonial sites, while I was struggling just to cover my hair and body. At that point, I was ready to marry any Muslim man—only to save my Islam.

Life became unbearable—for me and for that brother. I suffered twice: from my own pain, and from knowing that he had lost his livelihood and was under police surveillance because of me.

At that point, I begged Allah for one thing only: “Take me out of here, so I can protect my Islam.”

During this chaos, that brother proposed marriage to me. I accepted wholeheartedly—without knowing how it would work, while both family and police watched us.

But Allah plans—and His plans always succeed.

Looking back, I now see it clearly: His proposal was the answer to my du‘a. We married secretly and decided to leave the country quietly.

Another pain I never expected was leaving my mother—the only guardian who raised me, fed me, and educated me single-handedly.

For five years, I lived without seeing her, fearing more trouble. To this day, it hurts deeply knowing how much pain I caused her. But I could not abandon my faith, even for the love I held for her.

Today, 13 years after accepting Islam, Allah has begun to heal both wounds—hers and mine.

My family and my mother are together with me again. They still dislike Islam, but less than before. They know more now. And I remain hopeful that one day, they will embrace Islam. That will be the happiest day of my life.

Today, I can pray in front of them. I wear hijab openly. They visited us in the new country where we live now. Here, they see Islam practiced beautifully—so different from what they once believed. I pray Allah opens their hearts to Islam.

My husband and I are happily married, blessed with two beautiful children. I love my hijab, my prayers, my fasting, and memorizing the Qur’an.

Do I regret hurting my mother? Yes. Every single day.

I beg Allah to forgive me, and I pray that one day she will understand that I had no choice—but Allah had a plan.

I pray for every brother and sister walking this painful path. May my story prepare you for the trials ahead. Wait patiently for the victory, the reunion, and the day your loved ones may join you.

And if they do not—remember the Prophet ﷺ and his uncle, whom he loved deeply, yet who died without accepting Islam.

Conclusion

This was the story of Sister Umu Huda, a member of our group, whose real name cannot be disclosed for security reasons, as you have seen through her journey.

Until we meet again with another story,

Wa Salaamu Alaykum.

Written and shared by Adam Abdi.