07/26/2026
IMPREGNATED 6 TIMES BY HER OWN FATHER – HOW JESUS FREED A MUSLIM WOMAN FROM CAPTIVITY
Hello, My name is Amina. I am 35 years old today and I can tell you for a fact that I have six children and my own biological father is the father of them all.
I was born in Baghdad in 1988, a time when Iraq was already a land filled with conflict and strong religious traditions.
I am the daughter of a man who was not only my father but also an imam, a respected teacher in the mosque whom many in our community turn to for answers about Islam and life.
For the people around us, he was a man of wisdom and authority and his words carried weight like scripture itself.
For me, he was my entire world. The one who shaped my thoughts and decisions from the earliest days I can remember.
My childhood was not filled with toys, games or friendships, but with rules, restrictions and lessons that he believed were from Allah.
To everyone else, he was a man of God. But for me, he was my master, my teacher, and the only voice that defined my life.
When I was 6 years old, my mother passed away. And that day remains like a deep wound in my memory.
She had been the soft balance to my father's harshness. A woman who rarely spoke against him, but whose presence gave me a sense of safety.
I remember her warm hands, her gentle voice, and the way she tried to shield me from the strictness of my father.
But death took her quickly and I was left with only my father. The neighbors came to our home in Baghdad with tears, bringing food, reciting verses, and consoling us.
But I was too young to understand what it meant to lose a mother. I only knew that one day she was there and the next day she was gone, buried in the soil, leaving me in a house that suddenly felt colder and emptier.
It was then that my father's grip on my life grew even tighter, as if her absence gave him a freer hand to shape me alone.
After my mother's death, everyone expected my father to remarry. It was common, even encouraged in Islam, for a man to take another wife, especially when he was young and had a small child to raise.
In our neighborhood, people whispered about which family he might choose a woman from. Some women even came forward through relatives, offering themselves, thinking it was honorable to marry a respected imam.
But to everyone's surprise, he refused. He said that Allah had given him a special responsibility and that his life would be dedicated to teaching, praying, and raising me alone.
People tried to convince him otherwise, reminding him that Islam permitted a man to marry more than one wife, but he stood firm.
To the community, this refusal made him look like a man of rare discipline, someone who valued faith above desire.
But to me it meant there would be no softness in the house, no other woman to comfort me or to share the burden of his authority.
It was me and him and nothing else. From the moment I could speak, my father instilled in me the teachings of obedience.
He told me that a woman was created to serve, to submit, and to obey.
He often quoted the Quran to prove that men were placed above women by Allah's design.
I still remember him sitting cross-legged on the floor with me kneeling before him as he repeated verses that he claimed made his word final.
He told me that my duty was not to question him but to accept everything he said as law.
Even as a child, I felt the weight of those words pressing down on me.
While other children in Baghdad played in the streets, laughing and running with their friends, I sat indoors memorizing lessons that told me I had no voice of my own.
My father's house was not a place of laughter, but a place of silence, discipline, and unending rules.
He ruled the house with the same firmness he used in the mosque. There were times when neighbors came to him for advice, and I would watch them listen with respect, nodding at every word.
At home, I was expected to do the same. If I disagreed, even in small matters, his eyes would grow stern and his voice would thunder that I was stepping out of line.
Meals were eaten in silence with me sitting below him waiting for his signal before I could touch the food.
Every corner of the house was a reminder that my father's authority was absolute. Even the way I dressed was controlled.
He made sure I wore long clothing. Even as a little girl, reminding me that modesty was a woman's duty.
I grew up believing that my thoughts did not matter, that my opinions were sinful, and that obedience was the only path to survival.
Around the year 2000, when I was 12, my father made a decision that changed our lives.
He announced that we would leave Baghdad and move to a small desert town far from the city.
He never explained his reasons clearly, but he told me it was Allah's will and that questioning it would be disobedience.
We packed what little we had, and I remember leaving behind the tall buildings, the crowded streets, and the familiar call to prayer that echoed through Baghdad's mosques.
The desert town we moved to was quiet, isolated, and harsh. Our home was a simple mud brick structure with little comfort, surrounded by sand and silence.
There were no schools nearby, no relatives to visit, no girls my age to talk to.
My father said this was better, that I would not be corrupted by the outside world.
In that desert, I learned what it meant to be truly alone, trapped in a life where the only voice I heard was his...
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