Video: My Journey To Islam – Lauren Booth (English, Urdu)

Audio / Podcast in English

Video Transcription in English

My name is Lauren Booth. I’m a journalist from Great Britain and a revert to Islam. I’d like to share with you today how I came to be sitting here in Malaysia, wearing a hijab, and identifying as a Muslimah. I have only been a Muslim for two years, since 2010. Before that, as a journalist, I worked for newspapers that regularly printed stories portraying Islam as a violent religion—a religion for oppressed women and aggressive men. However, Allah Subhana wa Ta’ala had a different plan for me.

I suppose we can look back to our childhood to see where things begin. I remember that when I was around seven years old, I always prayed at night before going to sleep. Although I was raised in a Christian household, I never prayed to the Trinity—I never understood the Trinity enough to pray to it. But I did know that there was one God, and I would pray to Him. My prayers were very simple, like “Dear God, please make my younger sister disappear for a little bit”—the kind of things we all say when we’re young.

But it’s not easy to stay religious or believe in God in the modern world. I think that applies to Malaysia today as well. It feels as if everything around us is designed to pull us away from the knowledge of Allah, from the certainty of the Hereafter, and from access to the unknown and the unseen. How can we hold onto faith when we are preoccupied with friends, appearances, shopping, or even something as trivial as our nails?

As I became a teenager, I stopped praying. I’m embarrassed to say that I really thought I was the center of the universe. The polytheism of today is not about worshiping idols—it is the arrogance of the individual. When I was a teenager, I was considered quite pretty and talented, so I believed that the world revolved around me. I remember my mother saying, “You really think the sun, the moon, and the stars go around you, don’t you?” And I said, “Yeah, I do.”

But when Allah has a plan for you, no matter what you think you’re going to do, it will always lead to His plan being fulfilled. People often ask reverts, “What was the first moment you became aware of Islam?” For me, it wasn’t just about Islam—it was about realizing that the universe wasn’t what I thought it was.

In the year 2000, I was watching television, and a picture appeared on the evening news. It was a photo of a young boy, around 15 years old, holding a rock in his right hand, ready to throw it. His back was turned to the camera, but there was something so strong, so confident, so powerful about him that it took my breath away. Just meters away from him was a tank, its gun pointed directly at him. Yet, he wasn’t afraid.

His name was Farris Odeh. He was from a place called the Gaza Strip, in a land I barely knew—Palestine. Ten days after that photo was taken, he was shot in the neck by an Israeli sniper and bled to death. He was only 15 years old. At the time, I didn’t know any of this. I just knew that something was wrong in the world, and I wanted to find out what it was.

In 2005, I was working at the Mail on Sunday newspaper in London, which was part of a group of newspapers not particularly sympathetic to Islam. I can’t really explain why, but one day in December, I walked into my editor’s office and said, “I’d like to go to Palestine.” The elections were happening in January 2005, and I wanted to cover them for the newspaper.

Amazingly, my editor handed me a check for expenses and told me to go for two weeks and find a story. So, in January 2005, I arrived in Palestine with only three phone numbers written on a scrap of paper—no other contacts, no idea what I would find. I had a knot of fear in my stomach. What if the Palestinians and Muslims really were terrorists? What if I wasn’t safe?

I called a taxi from Tel Aviv airport, and my driver was a Palestinian man named Jamal. “You can call me Jimmy,” he said. Jimmy drove me from Tel Aviv to Ramallah on my first day in Palestine. In that hour-and-a-half drive, he tried to teach me about 63 years of Israeli oppression. It was an intense conversation, to say the least.

At one point, I noticed a beautiful road on a hillside, completely empty. We were driving on a rough, rickety road in the valley. I asked Jimmy why we didn’t take the clear, well-paved road instead. He replied, “Because I’m Palestinian. That road is for Jews only. If we go on it, we’ll be shot dead in five minutes. Do you still want to go on that road?”

I said, “No.”

The word “apartheid” came to my mind and stayed with me throughout my visit. It was the best word to describe what was happening to the Palestinian people.

You might be wondering, “Why am I talking about Palestine when I’m supposed to be talking about how I came to Islam?” But you have to understand—before entering Islam, non-Muslims need their hearts to be softened. It’s not just about reading the Quran or learning about the Prophet (peace be upon him), though that is central. It’s also about understanding the world, understanding justice and injustice.

During my time in Palestine, I learned what injustice was. I also experienced the generosity of Muslims firsthand. I remember walking through the streets of Ramallah without a coat, and an elderly Palestinian woman took my hand. She pulled me into her home and, without asking any questions, opened her wardrobe, handed me a coat, and filled a small suitcase with clothes for me.

Then, she wrote her phone number on a piece of paper and ushered me back onto the street with the words Assalamu Alaikum. She didn’t know who I was or if she would ever see me again. But that act of generosity told me everything I needed to know about Islam.

It showed me that a Muslim woman would not allow a stranger to be cold on the street. The clothes weren’t important—what mattered was that she was taking care of another human being.

From those first trips to Palestine, I learned a lot about the nature of the Muslims—their generosity and kindness. I saw how the Palestinian people suffer under oppression, yet still, I heard a word over and over again: Alhamdulillah. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what it meant. I guessed it meant “Thanks be to God,” but I didn’t grasp the full weight of that gratitude—the interaction between servant and Allah that it signifies.

At the same time, when you are in the process of coming to Islam, you must receive da’wah from somewhere. Da’wah is an invitation to Islam, often accompanied by information. In 2005, 2006, and 2008, I didn’t think I was looking for Islam. I wasn’t seeking knowledge, yet knowledge kept finding me. One of the most surprising sources of da’wah came from Somali taxi drivers in London. The majority of taxi drivers in North London are Somali, and may Allah be pleased with them, for they are the secret army of Islam. Right now, somewhere in the world, a non-Muslim man or woman is stepping into a taxi, and a Somali driver is sharing a Hadith of the Prophet ﷺ, filling that person with curiosity—perhaps even love—for Islam.

Whenever I entered a taxi, I would say, “Salam alaykum,” because I had been to Palestine. The driver would always respond with interest: “You speak a bit of Arabic? You know a bit about Islam?” Then they would share wisdom: “As the Prophet ﷺ said to Aisha…,” and they would give me a Hadith or a Surah from the Quran. Eventually, I looked forward to these taxi rides, eager to learn more. My heart was being softened for Islam.

Of course, every Muslim must have a relationship with the Quran. I did open the Quran before embracing Islam—but only once. A young Palestinian man, whom I had never met before and would never see again, handed me a Quran in the streets of Al-Quds (Jerusalem). He said, “This is a gift to you from the people of Palestine. Don’t forget us when you leave.”

When I got home, I opened the Quran. I washed my hands—I didn’t know about wudu yet—but I opened the Quran with respect, thinking, “I like the Muslims. They’re good people. Let me see what their book says.” But Al-Fatiha seemed strange to me. I turned more pages, and the book felt full of shouted commands. The voice seemed rather threatening. I felt afraid—imagine being scared of the Quran! But Allah is Al-‘Alim (the All-Knowing) and Al-Hakim (the All-Wise). If you approach the Quran in disbelief, or if Allah has not prepared your heart, it will not open to you. At that moment, it was a closed book for me. I shut it, placed it on the top shelf out of respect, and never opened it again—until after I had said my shahada.

In 2008, I received an email that would change the course of my life. It contained just two sentences:

“Would you like to come to Gaza by boat? Call this number if you’d like to come to Gaza by boat.”

It was such a strange email. No boats had gone to Gaza for 44 years. The last attempt, in the 1970s, had ended when the Israelis blew up the boat and killed the organizers. But in 2008, a group of American women started the Free Gaza Movement, inviting people worldwide to break the cruel, illegal siege of Gaza.

Two boats set sail from Cyprus, and I was on one of them. I remember the 36-hour journey across the sea, sailing overnight. We had all written our wills. I had said goodbye to my children in a Skype message. On August 23, 2008, as dawn broke, Gaza rose out of the mist. It was the greatest day of my life. No one on those boats will ever forget it.

As we approached the shore, we saw dots in the distance—thousands of them. Those dots turned into people. Tens of thousands of Palestinians had gathered, shouting one thing:

“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”

At that moment, the people of Gaza believed the world actually cared about them. It was incredible to be part of that moment.

We were only supposed to stay for three days—spend time with the people of Palestine, then leave with the boats, returning safely to Cyprus. I had two young daughters waiting for me in France. But somehow, on the third day, I found myself on the dock, waving goodbye to the boats—my only certain way out of Gaza. I can’t explain why I did that. Only Allah knows.

It took me 30 days to leave Palestine. The Israelis wouldn’t let me cross through Erez, and Mubarak’s regime in Egypt blocked my exit through Rafah. I was trapped. I was trapped in Gaza, in Ramadan, under siege, with Muslims facing oppression. And what a lesson that would be. SubhanAllah.

I thank Allah every day for the opportunity to be with the greatest Muslims of our ummah—the people who can truly teach us the meaning of Alhamdulillah.

One night, I had iftar with a very poor family in a place I will never forget: Rafah refugee camp. The woman who welcomed me seemed so joyful. I couldn’t understand why. When I entered her home, I saw she lived in a hut.

I asked her, “Why do you fast in Ramadan? It makes no sense to me. Your God makes you hungry. Your God makes you thirsty. Why do you fast?”

She turned to me, her face glowing with noor, and said:

“I fast in Ramadan to remember the poor.”

I remember those words because she was so poor herself—yet she didn’t seem to realize it. She was simply grateful to Allah for whatever she had. At that moment, a key turned in my heart, and a thought came to me:

“If this is Islam, I’m in.”

But we are insan—forgetful by nature. The moment I left that refugee camp, I forgot the feeling. But here is the miracle: in the years that followed, Allah never forgot me.

Two years later, during Ramadan, I entered a mosque. I made a simple prayer. As I sat down, I was surrounded by such immense peace and joy that I knew—Islam was the truth. Seven days later, in London, I stepped into another mosque and said the words:

“Ashhadu an la ilaha illa Allah, wa ashhadu anna Muhammadur Rasulullah.”

And I became a Muslim.

Now, this is my second Ramadan. My daughters are fasting with me. Our lives are filled with completeness and gratitude—gratitude to Allah for guiding us to this beautiful faith, and gratitude to all of you, my brothers and sisters.

I make du’a that, like me, you will recognize the power of Alhamdulillah. Because you and I—we have freedom. We have children who are well. We have Islam.

So please, remember to thank Allah every minute of the day for the blessings He has given you.