On Death Row For Christ

                Right now, approximately 7,400 miles from Daniels West Virginia, it is around 8pm in the city of Lahore, Pakistan.  44 kilometers away (about 27 miles) in Sheikhupura sits an ancient prison.  Inside, in a cell measuring 8 by 10 feet, a 47 year old woman has been living in solitary confinement for the last five years after being arrested on June 19, 2009.  Her name is Aasiya Noreen Bibi.  She is allowed out of her cell for 30 minutes per day and is permitted a one hour visit per week from her family, consisting of a husband and five children.  Aasiya is on death row, convicted by a local judge in November 2010 of blasphemy and sentenced to death by hanging.  After her conviction Aasiya’s case was immediately appealed to the high court of Lahore and she has been waiting ever since through repeated delays.

                What would cause the high court to delay for so long and so consistently?  You see, Aasiya and her family are Christians in a country where only 1.8% of the population of 186,000,000 share their faith.  In their home village of Ittan Wali they were one of only three Christian families out of 1,500.  And it was in this village where Aasiya’s troubles began.  

In her own words (WARNING - mild language is contained in the following):

That morning I got up earlier than usual, to take part in the big falsa-berry harvest. I’d been told about it by Farah, our lovely local shopkeeper. “Why don’t you go falsa picking tomorrow in that field just outside the village? You know the one; it belongs to the Nadeems, the rich family who live in Lahore. The pay is 250 rupees (ed. this is just over four U.S. dollars).”

Because it was Sunday, my husband Ashiq wasn’t working in the brickworks. While I was getting ready to go to work he was still fast asleep in the big family bed with two of our daughters, who were also worn out after a long week at school. I looked at them with love before I left the room, and thanked God for giving me such a wonderful family.

When I got to the field, around 15 women were already at work, picking away, their backs hidden by the tall bushes. It was going to be a physically exhausting day in such heat, but I needed those 250 rupees.

Some of the women greeted me with a smile. I recognized my neighbor, Musarat, who was the seamstress in my village. I gave her a little wave, but she turned back to the bushes again at once. Musarat wasn’t really an agricultural worker and I didn’t often see her in the fields, so I realized times must be hard for her family. In the end, it was just our lot to be poor, all of us.

A hard-faced woman dressed in clothes that had been mended many times came over to me with an old yellow bowl.

“If you fill the bowl you get 250 rupees,” she said without really looking at me.

I looked at the huge bowl and thought I would never finish before sunset. Looking at the other women’s bowls, I also realized mine was much bigger. They were reminding me that I’m a Christian.

The sun was beating down, and by midday it was like working in an oven. I was dripping with sweat and I could hardly think or move for the suffocating heat. In my mind, I could see the river beside my village. If only I could have jumped into that cool water!

But since the river was nowhere near, I freed myself from my bushes and walked over to the nearby well. Already I could sense the coolness rising up from the depths.

I pull up a bucketful of water and dip in the old metal cup resting on the side of the well. The cool water is all I can think of. I gulp it down and I feel better; I pull myself together.

Then I start to hear muttering. I pay no attention and fill the cup again, this time holding it out to a woman next to me who looks like she’s in pain. She smiles and reaches out . . . At exactly the moment Musarat pokes her ferrety nose out from the bush, her eyes full of hate:

“Don’t drink that water, it’s haram!”

Musarat addresses all the pickers, who have suddenly stopped work at the sound of the word “haram,” the Islamic term for anything forbidden by God.

“Listen, all of you, this Christian has dirtied the water in the well by drinking from our cup and dipping it back several times. Now the water is unclean and we can’t drink it! Because of her!”

It’s so unfair that for once I decide to defend myself and stand up to the old witch.

“I think Jesus would see it differently from Mohammed.”

Musarat is furious. “How dare you think for the Prophet, you filthy animal!”

Three other women start shouting even louder.

“That’s right, you’re just a filthy Christian! You’ve contaminated our water and now you dare speak for the Prophet! Stupid bitch, your Jesus didn’t even have a proper father, he was a bastard, don’t you know that.”

Musarat comes over as though she’s going to hit me and yells: “You should convert to Islam to redeem yourself for your filthy religion.”

I feel a pain deep inside. We Christians have always stayed silent: We’ve been taught since we were babies never to say anything, to keep quiet because we’re a minority. But I’m stubborn too and now I want to react, I want to defend my faith. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with courage.

“I’m not going to convert. I believe in my religion and in Jesus Christ, who died on the cross for the sins of mankind. What did your Prophet Mohammed ever do to save mankind? And why should it be me that converts instead of you?”

That’s when the hatred bursts from all sides. All around me the women start screaming. One of them grabs my bowl and tips the berries into her own. Another one shoves and Musarat spits in my face with all the scorn she can manage. A foot lashes out and they push me. Even when I run home, I can still hear them complaining.

Five days later, I went to work fruit picking in another field. I’ve almost filled my bowl when I hear what sounds like a rioting crowd. I step back from my bush, wondering what’s going on, and in the distance I see dozens of men and women striding along towards our field, waving their arms in the air.

I catch the cruel eyes of Musarat. Her expression is self-righteous and full of scorn. I shiver as I suddenly realize that she hasn’t let it go. I can tell she’s out for revenge. The excited crowd are closer now; they are coming into the field and now they’re standing in front of me, threatening and shouting.

“Filthy bitch! We’re taking you back to the village! You insulted our Prophet! You’ll pay for that with your life!”  They all start yelling: “Death! Death to the Christian!”

The angry crowd is pressing closer and closer around me. I’m half lying on the ground when two men grab me by the arms to drag me away. I call out in a desperate, feeble voice:

“I haven’t done anything! Let me go, please! I haven’t done anything wrong!”

Just then someone hits me in the face. My nose really hurts and I’m bleeding. They drag me along, semi-conscious, like a stubborn donkey. I can only submit and pray that it will all stop soon. I look at the crowd, apparently jubilant that I’ve put up so little resistance. I stagger as the blows rain down on my legs, my back and the back of my head. I tell myself that when we get to the village perhaps my sufferings will be over. But when we arrive there it’s worse: there are even more people and the crowd turn more and more aggressive, calling all the louder for my death.

More and more people join the crowd as they push me towards the home of the village headman. I recognize the house — it’s the only one that has a garden with grass growing in it. They throw me to the ground. The village imam speaks to me: 

“I’ve been told you’ve insulted our Prophet. You know what happens to anyone who attacks the holy Prophet Mohammed. You can redeem yourself only by conversion or death.”

“I haven’t done anything! Please! I beg you! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

The qari with his long, well-combed beard, turns to Musarat and the three women who were there on the day of the falsa harvest.

“Did she speak ill of Muslims and our holy Prophet Mohammed?”

“Yes, she insulted them,” replies Musarat, and the others join in:

“It’s true, she insulted our religion.”

“If you don’t want to die,” says the young mullah, “you must convert to Islam. Are you willing to redeem yourself by becoming a good Muslim?”

Sobbing, I reply:

“No, I don’t want to change my religion. But please believe me, I didn’t do what these women say, I didn’t insult your religion. Please have mercy on me.”

I put my hands together and plead with him. But he is unmoved.

“You’re lying! Everyone says you committed this blasphemy and that’s proof enough. Christians must comply with the law of Pakistan, which forbids any derogatory remarks about the holy Prophet. Since you won’t convert and the Prophet cannot defend himself, we shall avenge him.”

He turns on his heel and the angry crowd falls on me. I’m beaten with sticks and spat at. I think I’m going to die. Then they ask me again:

“Will you convert to a religion worthy of the name?”

“No, please, I’m a Christian, but I beg you . . . ”

And they go on beating me with the same fury as before.

I was barely conscious and could hardly feel the pain of my wounds by the time the police arrived. Two policemen threw me in their van, to cheers from the angry crowd, and a few minutes later I was in the police station in Nankana Sahib.

In the police chief’s office they sat me down on a bench. I asked for water and compresses for the wounds on my legs, which were streaming with blood. A young policeman threw me an old dishcloth and spat out at me:

“Here, and don’t get it everywhere.”

One of my arms really hurt and I thought it might be broken. Just then I saw the qari come in with Musarat and her gang. With me sitting there they told the police chief that I insulted the Prophet Mohammed. From outside the police station I could hear shouts:

“Death to the Christian!”

After writing up the report the policeman turned and called to me in a nasty voice:

“So what have you got to say for yourself?”

“I’m innocent! It’s not true! I didn’t insult the Prophet!”

Immediately after I’d protested my innocence I was manhandled into the police van and driven away. During the journey I passed out from pain and only came back to myself as we were arriving at Sheikhupura prison, where I was thrown into a cell.

Since that day I haven’t left prison.

                In the intervening years since her arrest and conviction, while the high court has repeatedly delayed her appeal, Aasiya has languished in jail.  Aasiya has to cook her own food, provided by the prison guards, due to fears that she will be poisoned by another inmate.  In January of 2011, Salman Taseer, the governor of Punjab province where Aasiya lives, was assassinated because he, although a Muslim, had spoken out against Pakistan’s blasphemy laws and had supported a pardon for her.  In March of the same year Shahbaz Bhatti, the only Christian member of Pakistan’s cabinet and another who had spoken out in support of Aasiya, was also murdered.

                The high court has been internationally embarrassed by Aasiya’s case.  But they are afraid to give her the appeal she has requested out of fear of radical Islamist militants and the civil chaos as well as personal injury they might cause.  So the government is biding its time, hoping Aasiya will just quietly die in prison.

                Aasiya’s family has been deprived of their wife and mother.  They have gone into hiding because of death threats.  And their fears are very real considering what has already happened to those who tried to support their mother. 

Aasiya’s daughter Alishba had this to say:

" We are praying and fasting for our mother so that she can be with us, I visit her with my father and each time I meet her, i cant stop myself and tears pour out. My mother tries to hold my hand through the gaps between the grilled window and says, have faith in the Lord, He will bring me home one day. Every time I hear these words, I cry to the Lord to bring back my mother so that we can be with her again."

And her youngest daughter poured out her heart in these words:

" It has been months I have not met my mother, I am scared... I just see her pictures and can't control my tears. I fear that I will not be able to see my mother in the condition she is in. As I have the pleasant memories of her when she was with us, so I cannot even imagine what she is going through. 
There are times I even lose all the hope of seeing her ever again, so I want to keep the memories of her smiling and playing with us. If she comes back to us, I will forget this whole thing as a bad dream."

                Voice of the Martyrs has been supporting Aasiya since her arrest.  They are working on a 1,000,000 member petition (currently at 681,239 signatures) to be delivered to the Pakistani embassy in Washington D.C. to plead for Aasiya’s release.  To add your name to this petition, find out other ways you can help, or just to find out more information about Aasiya Bibi’s situation please visit www.callformercy.com.  At the very least please join us each day in praying earnestly and steadfastly for God’s grace to sovereignly intervene on behalf of Aasiya.  Hebrews 13:3 instructs us to “Remember the prisoners, as though in prison with them, and those who are ill-treated, since you yourselves also are in the body.”  An excellent opportunity to obey this command corporately is coming up one week from tomorrow on October 6^th.  We invite you to join us at Daniels Bible Church for our monthly prayer meeting for the persecuted church.