My Family Poured Acid on My Face for Becoming a Christian”

My name is Aisha Malik and I need to tell you about the night my father and brothers held me down while my uncle poured acid on my face to punish me for becoming a Christian.

I was 29 years old, a respected school teacher in Lahore, Pakistan, married with two young daughters.

I had everything a woman in my culture could want. Education, respect, a good family security.

But when I accepted Jesus Christ as my savior, I lost it all in one night of unimaginable horror.

Before we begin, I want to ask you something. Please leave a comment telling me where you’re watching from.

It doesn’t matter if you’re in America, Africa, Asia, Europe, or anywhere else in this world.

Let’s connect as one family. Let’s pray for each other, encourage each other, and remind each other that we’re never alone in this journey of faith.

I grew up in a middle-class Muslim family in Lahore, one of Pakistan’s largest cities.

My father was a successful businessman and my mother was a homemaker who raised me and my three brothers with strict Islamic values.

We prayed five times a day, fasted during Ramadan and I wore hijab from the time I was 12 years old.

I was a good Muslim girl who followed all the rules and never questioned what I was taught.

I did well in school and went to university to study education. This was somewhat unusual for women in my community, but my father was progressive enough to allow it as long as I maintained my modesty and Islamic practices.

After university, I became a teacher at a girl school, teaching English and literature to students aged 12 to 16.

When I was 23, my family arranged my marriage to college, a man from a respected family who worked as an accountant.

We had a traditional wedding and within two years I had given birth to two beautiful daughters Zanab and Miam.

Life was comfortable and predictable. I taught during the day, came home to care for my husband and children and fulfilled all my duties as a Muslim wife and mother.

Everything changed in 2021 when a new teacher joined our school. Her name was Sister Mary and she was a Christian woman who taught science.

In Pakistan, Christians are a small minority, often looked down upon and discriminated against. Most Muslims I knew considered Christians to be unclean and inferior.

I had been taught that Christians worshiped three gods and had corrupted the true message that Jesus brought.

First, I avoided Sister Mary. I didn’t want to associate with a Christian woman. But over time, I couldn’t help but notice something different about her.

She had this peace and joy that I had never seen before. When other teachers gossiped and complained, she remained kind and positive.

When students were difficult, she showed patience and love. Even when people treated her poorly because she was Christian, she responded with grace and forgiveness.

One day, some students were being particularly cruel to her because of her faith, calling her names and mocking her beliefs.

I expected her to be angry or hurt, but instead she smiled and told them she would pray for them.

After the students left, I asked her how she could remain so calm when people treated her so badly.

She told me it was because of Jesus, that he had taught her to love her enemies and pray for those who persecuted her.

Her answer confused me. In Islam, we were taught to fight against those who opposed us, to defend our faith with strength.

But sister Mary was talking about loving enemies and praying for persecutors. I asked her more questions and she began to explain her faith to me.

She told me about Jesus dying on the cross to pay for our sins, about his resurrection, about how we could have a personal relationship with God through him.

I told her this was wrong, that Jesus was just a prophet, not the son of God.

But she gently asked me if I had ever read about Jesus for myself or if I was just repeating what I had been told.

That question stuck with me. I realized I had never actually investigated Christianity on my own.

I had simply accepted what I was taught without question. Over the next several months, Sister Mary and I had many conversations during our lunch breaks.

She never pushed her beliefs on me, but she answered my questions with patience and love.

She told me about her own life, how Jesus had transformed her heart and given her peace even in the midst of Pakistan’s persecution of Christians.

She said that knowing Jesus was worth any suffering in this temporary life because he had given her eternal life.

I was drawn to what she was saying, but I was also terrified. I knew that questioning Islam could have serious consequences.

In Pakistan, leaving Islam is considered apostasy, which can be punished by death under Islamic law.

Even if the government didn’t prosecute me, my own family could kill me in what’s called an honor killing to restore our family’s reputation.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about Jesus. Sister Mary gave me a Bible to read in secret.

And I began reading it at night after my husband and daughters were asleep. I would lock myself in the bathroom and read by the dim light.

My heart pounding with fear that someone would discover me. The words of Jesus captivated me.

His teachings about love, forgiveness, mercy, and grace were unlike anything I had learned in Islam.

When I read about him healing the sick, forgiving sinners, and welcoming outcasts, I felt something stirring in my heart.

When I read about his death on the cross, how he willingly suffered and died for humanity’s sins, I wept.

When I read about his resurrection and victory over death, I felt hope for the first time in my life.

For months, I struggled internally. Part of me wanted to accept Jesus. But another part was terrified of what that would mean.

I thought about my daughters, my husband, my family, my job, my entire life. If I became a Christian, I could lose everything.

Then one night in August 2022, I had a dream. I saw Jesus standing before me, his arms open wide, inviting me to come to him.

He told me that he loved me and had always loved me, that he was the way, the truth, and the life.

He told me not to fear what people could do to my body, but to fear living without knowing the truth.

When I woke up, I was crying, and I knew I couldn’t deny him any longer.

I knelt beside my bed and surrendered my life to Jesus Christ. I confessed that he was Lord, that he was the son of God, and that I believed he died for my sins and rose again.

In that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and freedom wash over me.

It was like chains I didn’t even know I was wearing suddenly broke off. I felt truly alive for the first time.

For 8 months, I lived as a secret believer. I continued to wear hijab, pray the Islamic prayers in front of my family, and maintain the appearance of being a good Muslim wife and mother.

But inside, I was a follower of Jesus. I read my Bible in secret, prayed to Jesus when I was alone, and met occasionally with Sister Mary and a small group of other secret believers.

But living a double life was tearing me apart. Every time I bowed toward Mecca and recited Islamic prayers, I felt like I was betraying Jesus.

Every time I taught my daughters about Islam, I felt guilty for not telling them about Jesus.

I knew I couldn’t continue like this forever. In April 2023, I made a decision that would change everything.

I decided to tell my husband about my conversion. I thought that maybe because he loved me and we had been married for 6 years, he might at least try to understand even if he didn’t agree.

I was terribly wrong. One evening after the children were asleep, I told Khaled that I needed to talk to him about something important.

I told him that I had been studying Christianity and that I had come to believe that Jesus was the son of God and the only way to salvation.

I told him I had become a Christian. His face changed from confusion to shock to rage in seconds.

He grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the wall, screaming at me, asking if I had lost my mind.

He called me a a traitor, and apostate. He said I had brought shame upon his family and that I deserved to die.

He dragged me to his phone and called my father. Within an hour, my father, my uncle, and my three brothers arrived at our house.

Khaled told them what I had confessed. My father’s face went pale. He asked me if it was true, if I had really left Islam for Christianity.

I couldn’t lie anymore. I told him yes that I believed in Jesus Christ. What happened next was the most terrifying night of my life.

My father started beating me, hitting me across the face again and again. My brothers joined in, punching and kicking me while I curled up on the floor trying to protect myself.

They called me every terrible name imaginable. They said I had disgraced the family name and that I was worse than a prostitute.

Then my uncle said something that made my blood run cold. He told my father that they needed to cleanse this shame with blood, that they had to kill me to restore the family’s honor.

My father agreed. They began discussing how they would do it, whether to strangle me, stab me, or make it look like an accident.

My mother, who had been silent this whole time, spoke up. She said that killing me quickly was too merciful.

She suggested they should disfigure me first, destroy my face so that everyone would know what happens to women who abandon Islam.

She said they should use acid. I begged them to have mercy. I cried and pleaded.

I told them I was still their daughter, still Zanab and Miriams mother. But they looked at me with such hatred, like I was a stranger, an enemy.

My father said I was no longer his daughter, that his daughter had died the moment I accepted Christianity.

My uncle left and returned an hour later with a bottle of acid. I was screaming trying to escape, but my brothers held me down on the floor.

My father grabbed my hair and forced my head back. My mother, my own mother, took a cloth and stuffed it into my mouth to muffle my screams so the neighbors wouldn’t hear.

Then my uncle poured the acid on my face. The pain was beyond anything I can describe with words.

It felt like my entire face was on fire, like my skin was melting off my skull.

I could smell my own flesh burning. I thrashed and screamed into the cloth, but they held me down and watched as the acid ate through my skin.

The acid destroyed the left side of my face. It burned through my cheek, my eye, my ear.

I could feel it dripping down my neck and onto my shoulder. The agony was so intense that I thought I would die from the pain itself.

But they didn’t let me die. After the acid stopped burning, they dragged me to the bathroom and threw cold water on me, which somehow made the pain even worse.

They locked me in a small storage room in the house for two days. I was in and out of consciousness from the pain.

My face was swollen and oozing. I had lost vision in my left eye. Every movement, every breath sent waves of agony through my body.

I prayed to Jesus, begging him to either heal me or let me die. The pain was unbearable.

On the third day, Khaled came to the storage room. He told me he was divorcing me immediately.

He said he was taking Zanab and Miam and that I would never see them again.

He said he would tell them their mother had died, that it would be better for them to think I was dead than to know I had become a Christian.

I begged him to let me see my daughters one last time. I screamed and cried and pleaded, but he refused.

He said I had given up the right to be their mother when I committed apostasy.

That was the last time I heard my husband’s voice. I never got to say goodbye to my daughters.

They were 5 and 3 years old. They’re 9 and seven now and they don’t know I’m alive.

After Khaled left, my father came in. He told me they had decided not to kill me because my destroyed face was punishment enough.

Everyone would see what happens to women who leave Islam. He said I was dead to the family and that if I ever tried to contact them or my daughters, they would finish what they started and kill me properly.

They threw me out of the house that night with nothing but the clothes on my back.

Half my face was destroyed. I was in agonizing pain. I had no money, no phone, nowhere to go.

I stumbled through the streets in the dark, barely able to see, wanting to die.

I don’t know how, but I found my way to Sister Mary’s house. When she opened the door and saw me, she gasped and immediately pulled me inside.

She wept when she saw what had been done to me. She cared for my wounds, gave me medicine for the pain, and contacted an underground Christian network that helps converts in danger.

For weeks, I stayed hidden in System Mary’s home, recovering from the acid attack. My face was permanently scarred.

My left eye was blind. My ear was partially melted. When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

The physical pain was terrible, but the emotional pain of losing my daughters was worse.

I cried every day, every hour, thinking about Zanab and Miam growing up without me.

The Christian network helped me escape Lahore. They gave me false documents and moved me to a safe house in a different city.

I’ve been in hiding ever since, moving from place to place every few months because my family is still looking for me.

They have vowed to finish the job and restore their honor by killing me. I also live under the constant threat of Pakistan’s blasphemy laws.

These laws make it illegal to insult Islam or the prophet Muhammad and they’re often used to persecute Christians and converts.

If someone accuses me of blasphemy, I could be arrested, imprisoned, and possibly executed by the state.

Mob violence is also common. People accused of blasphemy are sometimes killed by angry mobs before they even get to trial.

Every day is a struggle. I live in constant fear of being discovered. I’ve had to change my name and appearance.

I can’t work as a teacher anymore because someone might recognize me. I survive on the charity of underground believers who risk their own lives to help me.

The hardest part is not being able to see my daughters. I think about them every moment of every day.

I wonder if they remember me, if they ask about me, if they believe I’m really dead.

I wonder what they’re being taught about Christianity, if they’re being told that Christians are evil people.

I pray for them constantly, asking Jesus to protect them and somehow someday reveal himself to them.

I also carry scars that will never heal. Half my face is permanently disfigured. I can’t see out of my left eye.

The skin on my face, neck, and shoulder is twisted and scarred. People stare at me.

Children are frightened by my appearance. It’s a constant reminder of what my own family did to me because I chose to follow Jesus.

Some nights, the pain and loneliness are so overwhelming that I think about giving up.

But then I remember why I’m still alive. Jesus didn’t abandon me in that storage room when I was dying.

He led me to Sister Mary’s house. He provided people to care for me and protect me.

He has given me hope and purpose even in this suffering. I now help other women who are in danger because of their faith.

I’m part of the underground network that saved me, and we work to rescue women facing honor killings, forced marriages, and persecution for converting to Christianity.

Every woman I help escape is a way of redeeming some of the pain I’ve endured.

I also share my testimony even though it’s dangerous and painful. I want people to know what converts face in Pakistan.

I want people to understand that choosing Jesus in a place like this can literally cost you everything.

Your face, your family, your children, your entire life. But I also want people to know that Jesus is worth it.

When I look at my scarred face in the mirror, I see the price of following Christ.

But I also see the face of someone who has been set free, someone who knows truth, someone who has experienced the love and grace of God in the deepest way possible.

If you’re watching this and you think you could never survive persecution like this, let me tell you something.

I didn’t think I could either. But Jesus gives you strength you didn’t know you had.

He walks with you through the fire. He holds you when you’re broken. He gives you peace that makes no sense in the middle of suffering.

And if you’re watching this from a place where you’re free to worship Jesus without fear, please don’t take that freedom for granted.

Use it. Tell others about Jesus. Live boldly for him. And please, please pray for believers in places like Pakistan who risk their lives every day just to follow Christ.

Pray for women facing honor killings and acid attacks for their faith. Pray for children separated from their Christian parents.

Pray for underground believers living in constant fear. Pray for sister Mary and people like her who risk everything to share the gospel.

And pray for my daughters Zanab and Miam that somehow Jesus would reach their hearts and they would come to know the truth.

If you’re considering following Jesus but you’re afraid of what it will cost, I understand that fear completely.

Count the cost carefully. But also remember that Jesus counted the cost when he went to the cross for you.

He considered you worth dying for and knowing him truly knowing him is worth more than anything this world can offer.

Even more than your face, your family or your life itself. Thank you for listening to my story.

Please pray for me, for my daughters, and for all the hidden believers in Pakistan who are living in fear but holding on to Jesus.

May God bless you and keep you wherever you are in this world.