More and more people join the crowd as they push me towards the home of the village headman. I recognize the house — it’s the only one that has a garden with grass growing in it. They throw me to the ground. The village imam speaks to me: “I’ve been told you’ve insulted our Prophet. You know what happens to anyone who attacks the holy Prophet Mohammed. You can redeem yourself only by conversion or death.”
“I haven’t done anything! Please! I beg you! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
The qari with his long, well-combed beard, turns to Musarat and the three women who were there on the day of the falsa harvest.
“Did she speak ill of Muslims and our holy Prophet Mohammed?”
“Yes, she insulted them,” replies Musarat, and the others join in:
“It’s true, she insulted our religion.”
“If you don’t want to die,” says the young mullah, “you must convert to Islam. Are you willing to redeem yourself by becoming a good Muslim?”
Sobbing, I reply:
“No, I don’t want to change my religion. But please believe me, I didn’t do what these women say, I didn’t insult your religion. Please have mercy on me.”
I put my hands together and plead with him. But he is unmoved.
“You’re lying! Everyone says you committed this blasphemy and that’s proof enough. Christians must comply with the law of Pakistan, which forbids any derogatory remarks about the holy Prophet. Since you won’t convert and the Prophet cannot defend himself, we shall avenge him.”
He turns on his heel and the angry crowd falls on me. I’m beaten with sticks and spat at. I think I’m going to die. Then they ask me again:
“Will you convert to a religion worthy of the name?”
“No, please, I’m a Christian, but I beg you . . . ”
And they go on beating me with the same fury as before.
I was barely conscious and could hardly feel the pain of my wounds by the time the police arrived. Two policemen threw me in their van, to cheers from the angry crowd, and a few minutes later I was in the police station in Nankana Sahib.
In the police chief’s office they sat me down on a bench. I asked for water and compresses for the wounds on my legs, which were streaming with blood. A young policeman threw me an old dishcloth and spat out at me:
“Here, and don’t get it everywhere.”
One of my arms really hurt and I thought it might be broken. Just then I saw the qari come in with Musarat and her gang. With me sitting there they told the police chief that I insulted the Prophet Mohammed. From outside the police station I could hear shouts:
“Death to the Christian!”