POWERFUL TESTIMONY - The Torn Veil - The story of Sister Gulshan Esther Christ's healing power breaks through to a muslim girl. The Torn Veil: The Best-Selling Story of Gulshan Esther PDF Kindle edition by . Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Sister Gulshan Esther experiences more persecution from Muslim people, from her neighbors and even from fellow Christians in this sequel to 'The Torn Veil'.
|Language:||English, Spanish, Indonesian|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Registration needed]|
Since the veil of the temple was rent in twain, the Holy Bible invites you to enter in What would have happened to the people of God if Esther had failed? 9. In The Torn Veil, Gulshan Esther shares her remarkable story of conversion and physical healing. Growing up as a Muslim girl in Pakistan and severely disabled . THE TORN VEIL THE BEST SELLING STORY OF GULSHAN ESTHER - In this site isn`t the same as a solution manual you buy in a book store or download off.
He even knows my secret thoughts. He loves and cherishes me. He will reward me in heaven for all my good actions and punish me in hell for all my evil deeds. Have you any questions?
Our religion is greater than any other because, first of all, the glory of God is Mohammed. He destroyed all the idols and converted all the people who worshipped the idols to Islam. Third, God gave the Quran to Mohammed, after all the other holy books. All other writings are incomplete.
His words are writing themselves on the tablets of my mind and my heart. If there is time I ask him to tell me again about the picture in my room.
What is it like to go on pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca, that magnet towards which every Muslim turns to pray five times daily? We turn too in our city, as the muezzin calls the azzan from the minaret of the mosque. The sound ricochets along the avenues, above the noise of traffic and of the bazaar, and enters our screened windows at dawn, noon, dusk and at night, calling the faithful to prayer with the first declaration of Islam: La ilaha ill Allah, There is no God but Allah: And Mohammed is the Prophet of God.
Father explains it all to me. He has been twice on pilgrimage — once by himself and once with his wife, my mother.
To go on pilgrimage is the fifth of the basic Five Pillars of Islam, which unite millions of Muslims in many different countries and ensures the continuance of our faith. He laughs and stoops to kiss my forehead. When you are older and perhaps. He is also a Pir — religious leader, and a landlord with a large estate in the country and a commodious bungalow surrounded by gardens on the edge of our city.
I begin to understand why we are so respected as a family, even by the mullah, or maulvi, who comes to ask questions of my father, religious questions, which he himself can- not answer. Looking back now I can trace a purpose in those captive years, when mind and spirit unfolded like the rosebuds in our well-watered garden, tended so lovingly by our gardeners.
I, a sickly plant to bear such a name, was tended in the same way by my father. He loved all of us — his two sons, Safdar Shah and Alim Shah, and three daugh- ters, Anis Bibi, Samina and me, but although I disappointed him in being born a female, and then when I was six months old, being left a weak cripple by typhoid, Father loved me as much, if not more than the others.
Had not my mother given him a sacred charge on her death bed to look after me? He had promised her those many years ago, and he had kept his word in a land where a man might have up to four wives, according to the Quran, if he were rich enough to treat each one with equality and justice. Such was the undisturbed pattern of my life, until that visit to Eng- land when I was fourteen. It changed everything in subtle ways, setting in motion a chain of unintended consequences.
We waited for the verdict of the English specialist my father had heard of during the search for treatment in Pakistan, who would settle, once and for all, my future.
If I could be cured of this sickness that had paralyzed my left side when I was an infant, then I should be free to marry my cousin, to whom I had been betrothed at three months, and who was now at home in Multan, Punjab, awaiting news of my recovery.
And if not, my engagement would have to be broken, and my shame would be greater than if I had been married and then divorced by my husband. We heard the footsteps coming. Salima and Sema jumped up and arranged their long, scarf-like dupattas nervously. Salima pulled mine right down over my face, as I lay on the coverlet of my bed.
I was shivering, but not from cold. I had to grit my teeth to stop them from chattering. The door opened and in walked my father with the doctor. I could not see the face of this Dr.
David, but he carried with him an air of authority and knowledge. Firm hands pushed up my long sleeve and tested a limp left arm and then my wasted leg.
One minute passed and then the specialist straightened up. David to my father. There was no mistaking the quiet finality in his voice. Lying on my couch, I heard the name of God used by the strange English doctor. I was puzzled.
What could he know of God? I sensed from his kind and sympathetic manner that he was dashing our hopes of my recovery, and yet he had pointed to the way of prayer.
My father walked to the door with him. Tears were gathering behind my eyes. Father patted my lifeless hand. Let us knock on the heavenly door. We will go on to Mecca as we intended. God will hear our prayers, and we may yet return home with thanksgiving.
There was renewed hope in his voice. We stayed at the hotel for a few more days, while Father arranged for the flight through to Jeddah, the airport used by pilgrims to Mecca. He had planned this visit to fall just before the annual month of pilgrimage, so that after treatment we should be able to go to Mecca to give thanks.
During those days of waiting, Father went out to see friends in the Pakistani community or they came to see him. Ordinarily the women of those families would have visited me.
But I felt the shame of my condition and was not accustomed to meeting strangers at home, so few of the ladies knocked at my door.
Who would want to see with- ered limbs, with the skin turned black, wrinkled and hanging loose, and with whatever fingers there were sticking together with all the muscular strength of a piece of jelly? It had thick carpets and its own bathroom. Apart from tending me and washing our undies in the bathroom by hand, Salima and Sema, who slept in my room on a folding bed, sit- ting up in shifts to protect me and see to my needs, had little to do.
But time passed quickly enough with my books, the five prayer times and with the ordinary details of washing, dressing, eating, which always take longer when a person is disabled. At other times I listened to the entertaining gossip of my maids. They made occasional forays to the lobby downstairs, but were too frightened to go out alone. Most of the time they contented themselves with a view of the world outside the window, reporting to me what they saw.
She gets up and walks miraculously! This was when she was 19 years of age. The actual date is not mentioned that has surprised me, but we must remember that the story was written and published in , nearly 13 years later.
Thanks to the miracle, which her relatives and friends could not really believe, Gulshan decided to become a Christian. When she announced such intention, the behaviour of her brothers and others, went to the bottom of the pit. The saddest part of the story according to me is the inhumanity of Islam.
The relatives who should have exulted at her healing were threatening to kill her rather than let her lead a life of her own according to her own beliefs. Gulshan is forced to sacrifice the wealth bequeathed by her rich father, and she took the option of walking out of the family house penniless. She underwent baptism and became a full-fledged Christian.
Her name changed from Gulshan Fatima to Gulshan Esther. Life after that for her was full of dramatic and interesting developments of various kinds from time to time which I shall not describe here.
What is surprising is that even her Christian bosses showed her inhumanity when she reported to work in a Blind School three days late, by terminating her services without asking for reasons. Hitlerism is often-times the mark of hierarchical institutions and power can become a cause for revelry if I may put it so!
The males in the family the brothers , bearing the intolerance-aspects of Islam on their shoulders, are the most evil-natured creatures going to any lengths to humiliate her and just stopping short of murdering her. Nothing is overstretched or underplayed and the recounting is very sincere.
It does not appear that the underlying intention of the book is to proselytize people to Christianity or to condemn Islam. In fact, there are thousands of cases of conversion of people from one religion to another, and the driving force behind a book is normally the un-usuality of the experiences.