“Where Is Muhammad?”

I never planned to meet Jesus.

I was a Muslim girl from Morocco, raised in a world where Islam was not just my religion — it was my blood, my culture, my identity, and my future. There was no room for anything else. No Bibles. No churches. No questions. Only the Quran, five daily prayers, and the constant shadow of Allah.

But from the time I was eight years old, something inside me was restless. I loved God. I desperately wanted to be close to Him. So every night I would open the Quran and read for hours, searching for peace.

Instead, I found fear.

The more I read, the more anxiety gripped my heart. Allah felt distant, angry, and impossible to please. The only chapter that gave me any comfort was Surah Maryam — the one that speaks about Jesus and His mother Mary. I clung to those verses like a lifeline, never understanding why the Christian Jesus was the only part of the Quran that didn’t terrify me.

Then one night, everything changed.

In a dream more real than waking life, I stood alone in an empty Mecca. The Kaaba loomed before me, but the holy city was deserted. Dark shadows chased me, growing stronger every time I recited Quranic verses to protect myself. I ran in terror until I was suddenly transported to the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem. Locked inside with other women, the building was set ablaze. I burned. I suffocated. And when I woke up, I was buried alive in a grave, clawing desperately at wet soil.

At the moment I gave up and accepted death, a hand reached down and pulled me out.

I looked up — and there He was.

I didn’t know His name was Jesus. I only knew, with every fiber of my being, that this was Isa. He smiled at me with a love and confidence I had never seen. Overwhelmed and still thinking like a Muslim, I asked Him the question that burned in my heart:

“Where is Muhammad?”

He didn’t answer with words.