Wednesday night was ladies night at Josephine’s in Sheffield. I had been clubbing since I was 15. My friends and I had always been the ones who made a grand entrance through the plush lobby at 1am – entering the masses freshly made up, black mini skirts (what my mother would call ‘belts’), balancing on four inch stilettos and sober as the local vicar (I hated the taste of alcohol). This was my time to strut: The time when most other girls were sprawled on faded pink velvet couches;  blotchy and panda eyed, with never to be seen again one night loves. There were of course the rejected ones. Most others, who didn’t find the one night love of their lives would have left in a cab, or be slumped in dark corners looking vacant or half unconscious in a pool of their own vomit.

Over the previous few months, the flashing lights I danced in that had once made me feel glamorous, now made me feel like a rabbit in the headlamps of a car. Trapped. The thudding base of Michael Jackson drowned out any conversation I yearned to have with others and that frustrated me. It was a place empty of humanity yet full of human beings. The leering drunks who once made me feel like I was beautiful, glamorous and sexy now made me feel like an object for lust: a Barbie doll.

One of the revellers I would go nightclubbing with was a Muslim.  She was a pretty girl in her late thirties: stuck since teen love in a terrible relationship with a married Pakistani man, who used her as a child would use a toy; plying her with expensive gifts and broken promises of marriage. In her bid to escape the constant heartache, she had developed an alcohol problem which she used to disguise with vodka in an ice deep glass of Coke. But she was my friend; and despite her challenges in life, had a heart of gold. When I was sick she would care for me in her plush, spotless flat.

 I still make du’a for Allah to reward her for what she did.

One day, while getting box of tissues from her bedroom, I noticed a heavy looking navy blue book, adorned with strange gold writing sitting on the window sill. Something drew me towards it. I gently picked it up, opened it and found pages and pages, columns and columns, full of the old fashioned English I had read in the Bible as a child and ornate Arabic writing. I was transfixed.

‘in the Name of Allah, The Most Beneficent, The Most Merciful’

A gentle hand touched my shoulder bringing me back into the room.

“It’s the Qur’an, the Muslim holy book.” She whispered. I hadn’t seen such relaxed love and tranquillity in her face before. “It’s a way of life. I turn to it and randomly open it sometimes to get messages and comfort from Allah.”  She perched on the bed beside me.

I wanted to know everything about this blue and gold book. I wanted my questions answered.

Was this Qur’an really the word of God? Could this strange foreign sounding faith prove to be the truth?

My mind was swarming. I had always believed in God having been brought up as a Christian, but had questioned my faith which I found had simply told me to blindly believe because I felt it in my heart. The Bible, which I  loved with its stories of the Prophets and kindness, was hard to believe. I mean It wasn’t even written at the time of Jesus (as) and that disturbed me. How could anyone possibly remember what hadn’t been written at the time when I couldn’t  even remember what I had for dinner two days ago!? It didn’t agree with science. It didn’t even agree with itself. So early on, I had decided that until something proved to be truth I would simply be a believer in God without any religion. So, as a teen, I would whisper silent prayers when I arrived home past my parents strict 1030pm curfew,  “Please God, don’t let me get grounded!”

Although my friend didn’t have the answers to my questions, there was someone who would hold the key for me. Her next door neighbour was a young English man who had converted to Islam a few years previously. I thought that he was a little strange with his fluffy ginger beard, pointy green hat, loose pyjama suit and soft voice (and yes, he was called Dawood). But he seemed nice enough and out of desperation to answer my now constant flow of questions about Islam,  my friend had knocked at his door and asked for help with the answers.

So, one evening, I found myself perching nervously on a soft dusky red sofa, surrounded by the thick aroma of incense sticks and the quiet chant of the Qur’an coming from a rickety old tape deck. Dawood calmly regarded me with my skin hugging jeans, black polo neck top, then looked at the floor. I threw a swarm of questions at him:

What was this Qur’an?

How could he prove it was really God’s word?

What about scientific facts?

I was astounded by the answers. All taken from the Qur’an, each question was neatly boxed and packed away in the context of science and spirituality combined. We sat long into the night exploring the scientific detail of embryonic development (23: 12 -14) described 1500 years earlier by an Illiterate man in far away deserts; the geological roots of the great mountains (78: 6-7); the expansion of the universe (51:47) …

However hard I tried, I just couldn’t deny that it was the truth. But the time wasn’t right for me to take the leap just yet. I needed that one last push; the push of spirituality.

Life went on, and a few weeks later the brother sent over a video – The Message. As we sat down to watch the flickering 1970’s picture with Anthony Quinn, I marvelled at the connection between my Christian roots and this foreign sounding Islam – ‘Allah is God and God is Allah.’ The crisp male voice said. My eyes widened in surprise. But the film was long; too long for an impatient eighteen year old to sit through. I would bounce in and out of the room as the scenes progressed. Finally I settled, leaning nonchalantly against the glossed kitchen door frame.

Then I experienced the sound that was to change my life completely – the sound of the call to prayer, entered my ears.

Every hair on my body stood up like a soldier on parade and what I can only describe as a warm tingle embraced and enveloped my very core with a feeling I had never experienced before. It was the sweet feeling of Imaan flooding my soul. It overwhelmed me.

The sweetness of Imaan is enough to melt the harshest of hearts in an instant. Many of the Sahaba who had previously strived to put an end to Islam and even murder the Prophet Muhammed (saw), on hearing the beauty of the Qur’an would love and embrace it. Following a strong du’a from Muhammed (saw), Umar Ibn al Khattab (ra), the fiercest man in the Quraish,  melted with Imaan on hearing Sura Ta Ha recited in his sister’s house. Then, after swallowing his cultural pride, he immediately went to the Prophet (saw) and took his Shahada.

I knew now that Allah was God and that He had guided me to this new faith; this Islam, and although I had no idea where life would take me, I now knew for sure in my heart that it would be as a Muslim.

“That’s it!” My throat tightened and tears pricked at the back of my eyes. “I want to be a Muslim now. A happy tear trickled down my cheek.