I am Khed Alami, an Imam who migrated to America, but that day— that day everything changed. My family, my friends, and all my faith were gone. To help you understand better, I need to take you back to that date.
The year I turned 67, doctors diagnosed me with pancreatic cancer, stage four. They said I knew this illness was a test from Allah, just as Ibrahim was tested with the command to sacrifice his son. My test was this illness, but my faith was strong.
During every chemotherapy session, I found myself trembling in prayer, whispering over and over each night as I lay in bed. I would pray, "If I die tonight, oh Allah, let me meet You. " In the end, my prayers would be answered, but not in the way I expected.
One day, after returning home from a chemotherapy session, I felt a tightness in my chest. At first, I thought it was just a cramp, but it grew worse. Breathing became nearly impossible.
When I looked around, I saw nurses and doctors rushing around my body. They were pressing on my chest, performing CPR. I was watching myself from above—how was that possible?
Shouldn't my consciousness have stopped when my heart stopped? But I was there. I was watching.
My body was lifeless, but I was alive. I’m here, I wanted to shout, but no one heard me. Is this death?
I thought, or am I going to meet Allah? This was just the beginning; I didn't know that at the time. When I opened my eyes, I didn't understand where I was.
At first, I saw the ceiling of a hospital room, but somehow it felt like I was looking at it from above. Then I noticed it: a man lay motionless on the bed below. Nurses were pressing on his chest, and a doctor was shouting, "Chest compressions!
Keep going faster! " Is that me? I wondered.
Just then, I saw a light. As I moved toward it, I heard murmurs around me. These sounds— they were so familiar.
I heard lullabies my mother used to sing when I was a child and the prayers my father would recite before the evening adhan. It felt as if echoes from my entire life were converging in this moment. Verses from the Quran were being recited, but who was reciting them?
Where did I know these voices from? Is that my voice? For a moment, everything came together—my past, my childhood, my memories—they were all gathered here in this light.
"This is it," I said to myself. "This is peace. This is the presence of Allah.
" Tears streamed down my face, but they were not tears of pain; they were tears of joy. "This must be paradise," I said. I had no doubt.
"Praise be to Allah who brought me here. " But that peace didn't last. Suddenly, everything changed.
The leaves of the trees around me began to wither; the branches turned black. The fresh fruit shriveled up and fell to the ground, rotting instantly. The smell of decay spread through the air.
The leaves fell, and the branches turned stiff and lifeless. The sun vanished, and everything turned gray. Suddenly, I felt a chill.
Moans echoed from afar—not whispers, but screams. The cries of people in pain—men, women, and children—they were all crying. Their suffering seeped into my heart, but worse than that was one voice that stood out—a woman's scream.
Yes, that voice; it was my mother's voice. "Have mercy! Have mercy!
" she cried. It was so dark, but this darkness wasn't like the darkness you see when you close your eyes. This darkness surrounded me, smothered me.
It was a darkness that echoed inside my mind—an endless void—no up, no down, just darkness. But within that darkness, there was a voice. It was deep and resonant, as if it was right next to my ear—so deep, I felt it vibrating in my chest.
"Khed, everything will now be revealed. " At that moment, I knew this was hell. This was the place Allah had warned us about, and I was here.
Why was I here? It had to be a mistake. I am an Imam!
I served Allah! Why am I here? But no answer came—only silence.
Ahead of me was a throne; it stood high on a platform. Someone was sitting on it. When I saw him, my knees gave out.
No, no! This had to be an illusion! This couldn't be real!
Sitting there, chained by his hands and shackled by his feet, was a man I recognized instantly. It was him—the man I spoke about in every sermon and every khutbah—Prophet Muhammad. What was he doing here?
His hands were bound with thick iron chains. His eyes were filled with sorrow; his face showed a mixture of pain, regret, and helplessness. He looked at me—he looked directly at me.
I dropped to my knees; my lips quivered. "This—this can't be! " My heart felt like it was being crushed.
Everything was wrong; none of this should be happening. He wasn't supposed to be here! This had to be a mistake.
"I'm an Imam! " I screamed, but he only lowered his head. Tears streamed down his face.
This broke something inside me. I felt an icy void in my chest. It gnawed at me from within.
"Is this a test? " I asked, but no sound came out. My eyes locked onto the Prophet.
"Speak! Why aren't you saying anything? " Suddenly, a voice echoed around the throne.
It was unlike any voice I had ever heard in the world—deep, resonant, ancient. The sound pinned me to my spot. "The time has come for you to know, Khed; everything will be revealed.
" I had heard this voice before; it sounded like the voice of Allah. But if this was Allah's voice… Then why was it here in a place like this? Why was I here?
I didn't have an answer, but I knew one thing for certain: this was hell. This was the hell I had preached about, the one Allah had promised. But why was I here?
As someone who had served Allah, I shouldn't be here; I wasn't supposed to be here. At that moment, I realized that everything I believed in was about to be shattered. In the stillness that followed, a book appeared before me.
It fell from the sky, crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust. Everything around me trembled. My eyes fixed on the book—I knew that book.
It was the Quran. What is the Quran doing here? I wondered.
As I pondered the question, the book began to open on its own. The pages turned slowly, though there was no wind; it was as if invisible fingers were flipping each page one by one. I didn't blink.
This had to be a sign; it had to be an answer. At that moment, I heard a voice. This voice was deeper than anything I’d ever heard before.
It was powerful enough to shake the heavens and the Earth, so sharp it felt like it was speaking directly to my heart. “Who is Allah, Khaled? Have you ever questioned that?
” Something broke inside me. I clutched my head in my hands. What kind of question was that?
Who would ever question Allah? My heart began to race. This had to be a test.
I recognized that voice; it had to be the voice of the Lord I had spoken about in my sermons. With confidence, I shouted back, “He is the creator of all things. He is Allah, the most merciful, the most compassionate.
” But the voice didn't seem to hear me. Or maybe it did, but it didn't care. “How do you know he is the creator of all things, Khaled?
Have you ever truly thought about that? ” I froze. My face went pale with a cold sweat.
I had never asked myself that question before. Who is Allah? I had never asked it.
All I needed to know was that he was the creator of everything; wasn't that enough? But the voice wanted an answer to that question. The Quran's pages began to turn faster.
One by one, images began to rise from the pages. At first, they looked like clouds of dust, but then they became clear. It was a scene of a city.
I recognized it immediately: it was the Kaaba, but it wasn't the Kaaba I knew. It was surrounded by idols. People circled it with incense in their hands, praying to their gods.
There were 360 idols around it, each one representing a different god. “What is this? How is this possible?
Isn't the Kaaba the house of Allah? ” Just then, the voice spoke again. “This is the Kaaba before Islam.
Look at the idols, Khaled. Do you recognize their names? Al-Lat, Al-Uzza, Manat, and one more name.
” These were the idols I had spoken about in my sermons. “Yes, yes, these are the gods of the Age of Ignorance. I know this!
This must be part of the test,” I reassured myself. But the voice wanted to show me something else. “Where did they place Allah, Khaled?
Where was He in the Kaaba? ” I was confused. “Allah wasn't an idol!
Allah is greater and above all of them! ” I shouted. But the voice continued, “But didn't people pray to Allah even before Islam, Khaled?
” A flash of realization struck my mind. “Yes, yes, the Arabs believed in Allah before Islam, but this Allah was the God above their other gods. That's why we said Allah is one.
” “Then who was that Allah, Khaled? What do you mean, 'who'? Allah is Allah!
” I yelled. But inside me, that unsettling doubt took hold. I had never asked that question before—never.
Another image appeared. This time it was an older scene. It wasn't Arabia; it was another region.
It was the land of Canaan. People were gathered around a temple. They held bowls of offerings and animal sacrifices gathered around an altar.
I recognized the people; they were Canaanites, known for their idol worship. But when I looked closely at the large idol they were bowing to, my heart stopped. The name of that idol was Baal.
My knees gave out, and my eyes widened in shock. “This can't be! ” There was an inscription carved on Baal's body.
It was written in a script that looked very similar to Arabic. One word stood out: “El. ” I knew that word.
It was the ancient term for God; it was used in old Hebrew texts to refer to God. How could that be here? The voice whispered closer than ever before.
“Baal—the name Allah that the Arabs used. You've never thought about it before, have you, Khaled? ” Suddenly, a strong wind swept over me.
Breath—that was the first thing I felt. My lungs sucked in air so hard it felt like I had been pulled out of water after drowning. My eyes opened, but my vision was blurry.
Light shined from above. Everything was white. Silhouettes moved around me.
“He's breathing! He's back! ” one of the voices echoed in my ear.
It sounded distant, like it was coming from a tunnel. Where was I? The pain in my lungs and the sharp, shallow gasps of air told me I was alive.
“Am I alive? ” That thought echoed in the depths of my mind. But I had died.
I knew I had died. I had just been in a place that felt like hell. I'd seen Gaddafi, Bin Laden, and many more—and that figure on the throne, the prophet!
Why was he there? But now, I was here, back in my body. My hands, my feet, my chest—they were mine once again.
But… That cold feeling lingered deep inside me. The sounds around me became clearer; a nurse's face leaned in close. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders, and her eyes stared at me with concern.
"You're very lucky God brought you back," she said softly. The moment I heard those words, something stabbed into my heart. My eyes locked onto hers.
"Which God? " I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Her face changed; she looked at me with confusion, as if I had spoken nonsense.
"What do you mean? " she asked with a smile. To her, it was a simple, meaningless phrase, but for me, in that moment, everything came crashing down like a blade slicing through my mind.
My eyes wandered up to the ceiling; the blinding white light no longer gave me peace. A heavy weight settled in my heart like a stone, pressing down on my soul. "Which God?
" That question echoed in my mind. "It was a. .
. wasn't it? " I thought to myself.
But what were those images I had seen? "Bali Allah. " They were all tangled together in my mind.
I shut my eyes tightly, trying to push away the thoughts, but no matter how hard I tried, that voice—that echoing voice—wouldn't stop. For days, I remained silent. My family came to visit, but I could barely hear them.
My wife sat next to me, holding my hand. My grandchildren sat by my bedside, but I felt nothing. I didn't want to feel anything.
I wanted to close my eyes and forget everything. But those images wouldn't leave: "Bali Allah, Muhammad, hell. " They spun in my mind like a whirlwind.
One morning, he came—a priest. At first, I didn't pay attention to him. He wore a white robe and held a book in his hand—the book, a Bible.
He sat beside me and waited quietly. He didn't say a word at first; he just sat. What was he doing here?
He was a priest. We were in America, so perhaps these visits were normal. But as he sat there, I felt a strange sense of peace.
"Hello, Khed," he said. "I want to talk to you. " "To me?
" I asked, turning my head to look at him. My voice sounded like a man who had returned from hell: hoarse, cracked, and desperate. The priest smiled.
"Yes, with you. " He placed the Bible on his lap and watched me silently. "You saw something, didn't you?
" he said. My heart stopped for a moment. He knew.
He knew what I saw. I shouldn't talk to him, but deep down, there was a part of me that wanted to—a part of me that wanted to tell him everything. But if I did, what would happen?
"How do you know what I saw? " I asked him, locking eyes with him. I turned my head and looked at the ceiling again.
My eyes began to fill with tears; it was such a heavy feeling—indescribable. But the more I stayed silent, the heavier that weight became. "I saw hell," I said in a strained voice.
The priest nodded. "Yes," he said calmly. "There was a throne," I stammered, "and on it, someone was sitting there.
But he wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed to be there. " Tears flowed from my eyes.
The priest said nothing. There was no judgment on his face; he just listened. "Who was it?
" he asked. I lowered my head and covered my face with my hands. "Muhammad," I said.
"He was there, but he wasn't supposed to be there. " As I spoke those words, the weight on my chest doubled. It felt like a stone had settled on my heart.
The priest took a deep breath. "And what about Jesus? " he asked.
I opened my eyes and looked at him. "Jesus? No, Jesus wasn't there.
He wasn't one of the crucified souls. But why wasn't he? I had never asked myself that question.
Because. . .
because Jesus was the Savior, wasn't he? " But this time, for the first time, I wondered where Jesus was. The priest slowly opened the Bible.
He read quietly, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. " John 14:6.
I had heard that verse before, but this time, every word felt like a dagger to my heart. "I am the way, the truth, the life. " The words echoed in my mind.
The priest placed his hand on my shoulder. "God brought you back, Khed, because he doesn't want to lose you. " From that moment on, I was never the same.
Something inside me had changed. My mind became a battlefield. "Was it all a lie?
" That question echoed in my mind every night as I tried to sleep. But that night, everything was different. I saw that throne again in my dream—the one sitting on it was the prophet once more.
But this time, something was different; his chains were gone. He was watching me, and his eyes no longer wept. Slowly, he stood up.
With every step he took toward me, something inside me broke. "Go find the truth," he told me. This time, his voice didn't echo; every word was clear and sharp.
I woke up gasping; tears poured from my eyes. I buried my face in my pillow and cried. "What is the truth?
Oh Allah, where is the truth? " With the first light of that morning, I made a decision. I would seek the truth.
That day, I went to see Father John. This time, it was my choice. He slowly opened the Bible.
"What are you looking for, Khed? " he asked. "The truth," I said.
"Tell me. " John read this verse from the Bible: "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.
" John 14:6. The words pierced my heart. Heart like a blade.
No one comes to the Father except through Me. That sentence was etched into my mind: Jesus. Who was Jesus?
I had never asked myself that question before, but now I had to. That night, I had another dream. This time, there was no one sitting on the throne; there was only a light.
From that light, a figure emerged: a man in white robes. I didn't need to ask His name; I knew who He was. He walked toward me.
"Do not be afraid," He said. "I am here. " Those two words shook me so deeply that I woke up immediately.
The next morning, I went to Father John and asked, "John, would Jesus accept me? " John smiled warmly. "He's been waiting for you," Khed.
While holding the Bible in my hands, my grandson Yousef saw me. "Grandpa, what's that? " he asked, his eyes wide with surprise.
At that moment, my daughter entered the room and saw me, her face twisted with rage. "Is that a Bible? You're an Imam, Khed!
What does this mean? " I took a deep breath. For the first time, without fear or hesitation, I replied, "I am no longer an Imam.
" Those words were so heavy that my heart broke and healed at the same time. My daughter's face went cold as ice. "You're shaming us," she said, grabbing Yousef's hand and walking out.
Everything went silent in that moment, but that day, everything changed. My family, my children, my grandchildren—they all turned their backs on me. I was expelled from the mosque; my community abandoned me.
The color they once knew was gone. But that loneliness did not frighten me because I was no longer alone. A few days later, Father John took me to the church.
"Today is the day of your baptism, Khed," he said. At that moment, I felt a peace I had never known. For the first time, I felt absolutely certain of my decision.
The water poured over my head, and it felt like everything had been washed away—all the chains, the nightmares, the throne—they all flowed away with the water. Tears rolled down my face, but this time they weren't cold; they were warm. For the first time, I felt free.
I heard a voice in my heart: "You have found Me. " For years, I prayed to Allah, but for the first time, I received an answer from Jesus. That sentence changed everything for me.
The old Khed no longer existed. I was no longer an Imam; I was just a man. But for the first time, I was truly alive.
Not long after, I experienced a miraculous healing. The cancer that had gripped my body was gone. The doctors were baffled, but I knew—I knew who had healed me.
Every morning, I open the Bible. Every morning, I fall to my knees and pray, but now the words that pour from my lips have changed. "Thank You for waiting for me, Jesus.
Thank You for finding me. " One morning, I woke up. For the first time, I had no nightmares.
There was no throne in my dreams; no hell, no weight, no cold, no chains—all of it was gone. I was now in the arms of Jesus, and for the first time, I was truly alive. "I am the way, the truth, and the life.
