The Convert's Dilemma | معضلة المهتدية
"A white convert to Islam. A Muslim man who's been watching her at the mosque. Their faith brings them together—but passion threatens to tear them apart."
The Convert's Dilemma
معضلة المهتدية
I took shahada six months ago.
"La ilaha illallah, Muhammadur rasulullah."
There is no god but God, and Muhammad is His messenger.
The sisters cried. The imam smiled. I felt... home.
I'm Rebecca. Now Rahima.
Thirty-six, white, former Catholic from Minnesota. I found Islam through books, then podcasts, then visiting the local mosque. It filled something in me that nothing else had.
But I didn't expect Omar.
He teaches the Sunday halaqa.
Sudanese, forty-two, divorced. Beautiful in a way that makes me forget my prayers mid-prostration.
"Sister Rahima," he says after class. "Your Arabic is improving."
"Thank you, brother." I try not to stare at his hands. "I practice every night."
"It shows."
We shouldn't be alone together.
The mosque rules are clear—no khalwa, no privacy between unmarried men and women. But somehow, after every halaqa, we end up talking.
About Islam. About our pasts. About everything except what's building between us.
"Why did you convert?" he asks one night.
Everyone else has left. We're in the community room, ten feet apart. Technically halal.
"Because I was empty. And Islam filled me."
"That's a beautiful answer."
"It's a true answer. Why did you stay?"
"Stay?"
"After your divorce. After..." I gesture vaguely. "Everything. Why didn't you leave?"
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Because Islam isn't about what people do to you. It's about what you are to Allah. My ex-wife's betrayal didn't change my relationship with God." He meets my eyes. "If anything, it deepened it."
"That's... that's a beautiful answer."
"It's a true answer."
We shouldn't meet outside the mosque.
But we do.
Coffee shops. Parks. Public places where we're technically chaperoned by crowds.
"This is inappropriate," he says.
"I know."
"People will talk."
"They already do."
"Then why do you keep coming?"
"Because I can't stay away."
The words escape before I can stop them.
He stares at me.
"Neither can I."
We don't touch.
For weeks, we don't touch. We're good Muslims, trying to do this right. We talk about marriage—the halal way forward. He'll speak to the imam. We'll have a proper courtship.
But one night, the dam breaks.
His car, outside my apartment.
We've been talking for hours. It's 2 AM. I should go inside.
"Omar—"
"Rahima—"
We speak at the same time. Stop. Laugh.
And then he kisses me.
I've been kissed before.
But not like this. Not by a man who's been restraining himself for months. Not with this hunger, this desperation, this overwhelming need.
"We shouldn't," he gasps.
"I know."
"We should wait—"
"I know."
Neither of us stops.
We end up in my apartment.
Haram. So haram. I know it as I pull him inside, as he pushes me against the wall, as his hands find the curves hidden under my modest clothes.
"Astaghfirullah," he breathes.
"Astaghfirullah."
We sin anyway.
He undresses me like I'm sacred.
My hijab first—the first man to see my hair in six months. Then my dress, my underwear. I'm standing naked in front of a man I'm not married to.
"Beautiful," he says.
"Omar—"
"I mean it. Every inch." He traces my curves. "This is what I've been dreaming about. What I've been fighting."
"You don't have to fight anymore."
He worships me.
With his mouth, his hands, everything. He kisses my neck, my breasts, the soft belly I've always hidden. He drops to his knees and tastes me until I'm crying out in English and Arabic and languages that don't exist.
"Ya Rabb—Omar—please—"
"Come for me. Show me what you look like when you let go."
I shatter against his mouth.
He catches me when my knees give out, carries me to the bed, covers me with his body.
"Inside me," I beg. "I need—"
"Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He enters me slowly.
We've both been alone too long—he groans at the sensation, I gasp at the fullness. Then he moves, and thought dissolves.
"Allah forgive me—you feel—"
"Don't stop. Whatever you do—"
He doesn't stop.
We make love until Fajr.
Then we lie in my bed, wrapped in guilt and satisfaction, listening to the adhan from a mosque three blocks away.
"What have we done?" he whispers.
"What we couldn't stop ourselves from doing."
"We should pray."
"We should."
Neither of us moves.
"Marry me," he says.
"What?"
"Today. Now. We'll find an imam. Make this halal before Dhuhr."
"Omar, that's—"
"Crazy? Yes. But we've already sinned. The only thing worse than sinning would be continuing to sin." He sits up. "I love you, Rahima. I've known it for months. Let me make this right."
We have nikah that afternoon.
The imam doesn't ask questions. Two witnesses from the mosque, a simple ceremony. By Maghrib, I'm his wife.
"We did it backwards," I say.
"We did it human. Allah knows our hearts."
"Does that make it okay?"
"It makes it forgiven. And that's all we can ask."
One year later
I'm still learning.
Arabic. Fiqh. How to be a Muslim wife. It's hard sometimes—I'm the only white convert in my circles, always aware of not belonging.
But Omar makes me belong.
"Jazakallahu khair," he says every night. "For choosing this life. For choosing me."
"I'd choose you again."
"Even knowing it would mean giving up everything?"
"Everything I gave up was nothing. Everything I gained is everything."
We're trying for a baby now.
Practicing regularly. Enthusiastically.
"For religious purposes," he deadpans.
"Absolutely. Very pious of us."
He laughs into my neck and proves just how pious we can be.
Some nights, I think about my old life.
The bars. The dating apps. The empty feeling that Islam filled.
Then Omar wraps around me, whispers Quran verses against my skin, and I know:
This is where I was always meant to be.
Alhamdulillah.
Praise be to God.
For converts who find home.
For sins that lead to salvation.
For love that makes everything halal.
The End.