PART 2: I Killed 40+ Christians as a Doctor”: Muslim Doctor’s Secret Poisoning Christian Patients

It was a Tuesday evening in March. I was ending my shift when the admission came through: a 12-year-old girl with severe pneumonia, needing immediate treatment and monitoring. I took the case because the pediatric specialist had already gone home and someone needed to get the girl stabilized.

I walked into the examination room and saw her—small for her age, her dark skin glistening with fever sweat, her breathing labored and painful. Her mother sat beside her, holding her hand, whispering encouragement. The mother looked up when I entered, and I saw the fear and hope mixed in her eyes.

Her mother introduced herself as Rebecca Okonquo. She explained that they’d moved to Malaysia from Nigeria two years ago, after her husband had been killed by Islamic extremists. She told me that her husband had been a medical missionary who treated both Muslims and Christians without discrimination. She said that extremists had attacked the clinic where he worked, and he died trying to protect his patients and staff.

She told me all of this while tears ran down her cheeks. Then she looked at me with such trust and said that she was grateful her daughter had me as her doctor.

She told me that Grace wanted to become a nurse when she grew up. That before her father died, the two of them would play pretend at home—him wearing a doctor’s coat, Grace wearing a nurse’s uniform, both of them practicing how to save lives. Rebecca told me that Grace was everything she had left in this world. She said that she’d lost her husband to hatred and violence, and she couldn’t bear to lose her daughter too. She asked me to please take good care of Grace, to please help her baby girl get better.

I looked down at Grace. The girl’s eyes were half closed, but she managed a small smile when she saw me. She tried to speak, but couldn’t because of her labored breathing. Her mother told me that Grace had been asking about whether there would be kind doctors at the hospital, and now Rebecca could tell her yes.

I smiled at them both. I told Rebecca that her daughter was in good hands, that pneumonia was serious but treatable, that with proper antibiotics and monitoring, Grace should recover fully. I explained the treatment plan, told them we’d admit Grace for at least three days of observation, and reassured them that everything would be fine.

Rebecca thanked me over and over. She told me I was an answer to her prayers. She said that God had blessed her by bringing Grace to me.

I walked out of that room with my mind already made up. Another infidel child would not grow up. Another Christian family would learn the price of rejecting Islam. The fact that this woman’s husband had already been killed by my Muslim brothers only made my decision feel more justified. Clearly, this family was cursed by Allah for their rejection of true faith.

I admitted Grace to the ward, set up her IV, and began the standard pneumonia protocol. But that evening, after Rebecca had fallen asleep in the chair beside Grace’s bed, I prepared a different medication. I added it to Grace’s IV drip—a drug that would cause her organs to fail gradually over the next 24 hours. It was one of my preferred methods because it worked slowly enough that no one would suspect foul play. Grace would seem to improve initially as the antibiotics fought the pneumonia. Then, around 18 to 24 hours after admission, she would suddenly decline. Her kidneys would start to fail. Her liver enzymes would spike. By the time anyone realized something was wrong, it would be too late to save her. The death would be attributed to complications from the pneumonia, perhaps an undetected underlying condition. No one would question it.

I finished my shift and went home. I performed my evening prayers with particular devotion that night. I thanked Allah for another opportunity to serve him. I asked him to accept this Christian child’s death as a sacrifice for Islam. I went to bed feeling satisfied, peaceful, righteous. I fell asleep quickly. I dreamed about paradise, about the rewards waiting for me, about standing before Allah and hearing him tell me I’d been a faithful servant.

Then, at 2:47 in the morning, everything changed.

I woke suddenly. My bedroom was filled with light—not harsh like a lamp, but somehow penetrating, exposing, revealing. I tried to move, but found I couldn’t. My body was paralyzed.

A man stood at the foot of my bed. I knew immediately this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a hallucination. This was more real than anything I’d ever experienced. The presence of this man filled my room, filled my awareness, filled everything. I couldn’t look away from him.

He spoke my name. Just my name. “Fatima.”

Terror flooded through me. Not natural fear, but something deeper—the terror of a guilty person standing before a judge, of darkness suddenly exposed to light, of evil confronted by absolute goodness.

He asked me a question, and his voice carried such grief that it cut through my paralysis. He asked me why I was persecuting him. He asked why I was killing his body. He asked me, “Why, Fatima? Why?”

I didn’t understand the question. I managed to whisper my confusion, asking who he was. He told me. He said he was Jesus, the one I was persecuting. He explained that every time I killed one of his followers, I was killing him. Every time I poisoned a child who bore his name, I was poisoning him. Every time I celebrated their deaths, I was celebrating his crucifixion.

Then he showed me.

I saw them. All of them. Every single person I’d killed. But I didn’t see them the way I’d seen them before—as faceless infidels, as enemies, as obstacles to paradise. I saw them as he saw them: as beloved children, as precious creations, as people with families and dreams and futures.

I saw Sarah Tan, my first victim. But this time, I also saw her three children at her funeral. I saw her husband trying to explain to a five-year-old why mommy wasn’t coming home. I saw those children growing up without their mother, scarred by a loss they didn’t understand.

I saw Michael, the contractor. I saw his wife discovering his body in their bedroom. I saw his elderly parents at his funeral, broken by the loss of their son. I saw the mission trips he would never take, the people he would never help.

I saw Peter. I saw Ruth. I saw Thomas. I saw all of them—every single one.

And worse, I saw what Jesus showed me next. I saw myself in each death. I saw myself preparing the medications. I saw myself injecting poison into IV bags. I saw myself falsifying records. I saw myself at our group meetings, smiling, celebrating, planning more murders.

For the first time, I saw myself clearly. Not as a holy warrior. Not as a servant of God. But as what I truly was: a monster, a demon wearing a doctor’s coat, a murderer who’d twisted religion into justification for evil.

The pride I’d felt transformed instantly into horror. The satisfaction became unbearable shame. Every victim’s face was seared into my consciousness. Every death I’d caused played out in excruciating detail. I tried to look away, but couldn’t. I tried to close my eyes, but they wouldn’t close. I was being forced to witness the full weight of what I’d done.

I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to explain that I’d believed I was right, that I’d been taught this was righteous, that I’d thought I was serving God. But the words died before they could form. Because deep down, beneath all the religious language and justification, I’d known. I’d known that killing was wrong. I’d known that betraying patients who trusted me was evil. I’d known that murdering children was monstrous. I’d chosen to ignore that knowledge because hatred had been more comfortable than humanity.

Then Jesus showed me something else. He showed me Grace.

I saw her in her hospital bed at that very moment. I saw the poison I’d put in her IV spreading through her small body. I saw her organs beginning to fail. I saw Rebecca sleeping in the chair beside her—exhausted, trusting, believing her daughter was being healed when she was actually being murdered.

Jesus told me that Grace was dying right now because of me. He told me that a 12-year-old child who wanted to heal people was being killed by someone who’d taken an oath to do no harm. He told me that Grace’s father had already been murdered by Muslims, and now her Muslim doctor was murdering his daughter.

I broke. I began to sob—not quiet tears, but violent, body-shaking sobs. I heard sounds coming from my mouth that didn’t sound human—sounds of pure anguish and horror. I tried to speak, but could only gasp out fragments. “What have I done? What have I become? How did I become this? God, what have I done?”

Jesus spoke again, but this time his voice was tender. He told me that he came to save me. He said, “Even me.” Even after everything I’d done. He explained that he died for me, too. That his blood covered even my sins. That no one was beyond his reach.

But then he told me something that made my blood run cold. He said if I came to him, I would face persecution. He told me I would suffer for his sake, as his people had suffered for mine. He said I would lose everything—my family, my career, my reputation, my safety, perhaps even my life. But he promised that if I lost everything for him, I would gain him. And he promised that he would be enough.

Then he was gone. The light disappeared. I was alone in my dark bedroom, shaking, weeping, my mind screaming with the weight of what I’d done and what I’d seen.

Grace. Grace was dying right now because of me.

I threw myself out of bed. My legs barely worked. I was shaking so violently I could hardly stand. I pulled on clothes, grabbed my car keys, and ran out of my apartment. I drove to the hospital like a madwoman, running red lights, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the steering wheel. Tears blurred my vision. I kept seeing Grace’s face, kept seeing Rebecca’s trust, kept seeing all forty-plus victims whose lives I’d stolen.

I reached the hospital at 3:15 in the morning. I ran through the empty corridors to Grace’s ward. When I reached her room, I saw the monitors showing her vital signs deteriorating. My poison was working. Grace was pale, struggling to breathe. Her small body fighting a battle it couldn’t win.

I ran to the medication room and began preparing the antidote—medications that might counteract what I’d done. But my hands were shaking so badly I kept dropping things. Tears streamed down my face. I was making mistakes, having to start over. Precious seconds ticking away while Grace died.

I needed help. I found Dr. Hassan—the one who’d introduced me to the group, my mentor in murder. I grabbed his arm and begged him to help me save Grace.

He stared at me like I’d lost my mind. He told me to let the infidel die. He said, “This is what we do. This is our jihad. This is our purpose.” He asked me if I’d forgotten everything.

I screamed at him. I begged him. I told him we were wrong. That we weren’t holy warriors, but murderers. That we’d become the very evil we claimed to fight against. I pleaded with him to help me save this child.

He looked at me with disgust. He told me I’d become one of them, that I was a traitor to Islam. Then he walked away, leaving me alone with my desperate attempt to undo what I’d done.

I worked frantically, preparing medications, double-checking dosages even though my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I ran back to Grace’s room and began administering the antidote through her IV. I adjusted her oxygen. I monitored her vitals obsessively.

Rebecca woke up and saw me standing over Grace, saw my tears, saw my frantic activity. She asked what was happening, whether Grace was okay. I couldn’t answer. I could only cry as I worked, checking monitors, adjusting medications, praying to a God I’d never actually prayed to before. “Please, please, please.” I didn’t even know who I was begging, but I couldn’t stop.

Rebecca must have sensed something was desperately wrong, even if she didn’t understand what. She fell to her knees beside her daughter’s bed. She began to pray aloud, her voice breaking. “Jesus, Jesus, please save my daughter. I don’t understand what’s happening, but You do. Please, Lord, save Grace. Have mercy on us. Please don’t take her from me. Jesus, help us.”

I worked through the night and into the next day. I barely left Grace’s bedside. I didn’t eat. I didn’t drink. I didn’t rest. I just fought, hour after hour, to undo what I’d done.

Other doctors and nurses came and went during their shifts. They asked me why I was still there. Told me I should go home and rest. I made excuses. Told them I wanted to monitor this case personally because of the severity. They accepted my explanations, never suspecting the truth.

At one point, around noon, I was so exhausted and despairing that I went to my office, locked the door, and fell to my knees. For the first time in my life, I prayed to Jesus. My prayer was simple and desperate: “I don’t know how to pray to You. I don’t know if You’ll hear me after what I’ve done, but please, please don’t let Grace die. Punish me, but don’t let her die. Let this child live. Please.”

I went back to Grace’s room and continued my vigil. Rebecca never left either. She sat beside her daughter, holding her hand, praying constantly, singing worship songs in a tired, broken voice. Several times she thanked me for staying, for caring so much about Grace. Each word of gratitude was like a knife in my heart….


TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3