A Married Muslim Woman’s Passion for a Zionist Boyfriend and Israel: Caught Between Worlds

This is an a personal essay from "Sam," a Pakistani Muslim wife who is defying everything she grew up with. Find her accounts here.

I’m a 29-year-old Pakistani Muslim wife and a mother living in downtown Toronto, and my life is a tangle of duty and desire.

Bound to a pro-Palestinian husband in an arranged marriage, I was transformed by an Israeli-Canadian Zionist whose love set my body and soul ablaze. My journey—from a silent wife to an unapologetic OnlyFans creator and Israel defender—is a raw quest for truth and the courage to claim my heart in a world that demands loyalty.

I grew up in Islamabad, Pakistan, in a neighborhood where hate was a familiar guest. My childhood was steeped in antisemitic slurs and venomous sermons against Israel, the West, and anyone deemed “other.” Neighbors and uncles spoke of Jews as enemies, their words dripping with bigotry I absorbed like air. My dreams of studying art were dismissed—good girls obeyed, not questioned. I never once showed skin or wore clothes that were considered remotely western.

Yet, my family’s hypocrisy stung. They condemned the West but schemed to marry me off to “a pious man” in Canada, a ticket to escape Pakistan’s chaos and their own contradictions. At 15, I overheard my mother say, “She’ll be safer there,” as if love or choice mattered less than a visa. I learned early that truth was a luxury in a world of masks.

Seven years ago, I arrived in Canada as a 22-year-old bride, my life scripted by my Pakistani family. My husband, chosen for his piety, was a man I respected but never loved. In our condo, we raised a child, their laughter a fleeting warmth in a home defined by silence. His fervent pro-Palestinian activism, laced with the antisemitic undertones of my upbringing, shaped our world. Israel was a word spat with disdain, a belief I echoed without question. I cooked, prayed, and buried my desires, invisible even to myself in Toronto’s vibrant sprawl.

In spring 2023, I met D at a Toronto café. An Israeli-Canadian Zionist with dark eyes and a wicked grin, he saw me—not just a wife or mom, but Sam. Our talks over coffee and waterfront walks became a slow burn, awakening a hunger I’d suppressed. By October, our love had consumed all boundaries. On October 7, 2023, we lay tangled in his bed, our bodies spent and glistening after hours of fevered lovemaking. The sheets clung to our skin, twisted from a night where his hands claimed me with fierce hunger, each kiss a greedy rebellion, each thrust a defiance of the life I’d been chained to. We moved in a rhythm that felt eternal, my fingers clawing at his back, as if I could etch this freedom into my soul.

As we lay there, catching our breath, hearts still racing, his phone buzzed with news of Hamas’s attack on Israel. D’s face darkened, his eyes—usually so alive—clouded with pain and fury as he read the reports of violence against his homeland. His body tensed beside me, his breath uneven, as he whispered, “My people… my home.”

I pulled him close, my arms wrapping around him, my lips brushing his temple. “I’m here, D,” I murmured, my voice steady despite the chaos unfolding on the screen. “I’ll stand by you—by Israel—forever.” In that moment, my heart shifted, my old beliefs crumbling as I vowed to support him and his country, our love a bridge across worlds I’d been taught to see as enemies. The weight of the news hung in the air, but in his embrace, I felt no shame—only alive, my body and heart aligned in a truth I’d never known.

That winter, I thought I carried his child, a wild hope that raced my heart until a negative test left a hollow ache, a grief for a future I craved. D’s touch was a spark that burned down my lies. His stories—of his family’s resilience, their ties to a land I’d been taught to hate—challenged me. In Pakistan, antisemitism was woven into conversations and sermons, but D urged me to question. I read histories, memoirs, and narratives from Jewish and Arab (so called Palestinian) voices, seeing Israel as a nation with a right to exist, not a villain.

This shift was seismic. My husband’s venomous rhetoric became a chasm I couldn’t bridge. I couldn’t share my awakening, not in our condo where his beliefs ruled, nor in our community where questioning was taboo.

On X, as “Sam the Hotwife (my OF name denoting my sexual adventures with my bf),” I defended Israel, sparking backlash—friends ghosted me, family sent sharp texts, strangers sent death threats and called me a traitor. Yet some said my words made them think.

D dared me to start an OnlyFans (since exhibitionism is his thing), a challenge I met with a video of us—our bodies a raw dance of defiance, his grip a possessive heat, my gasps a rebellion.

OnlyFans became my sanctuary, where I was sensual, fierce, and free. Subscribers stayed for my story: a Muslim woman breaking chains. Last summer, I slipped away to meet D at a secluded cabin by Lake Ontario, a stolen weekend where I felt truly free. We laughed under the stars, his arms around me like a shield against the world. As we skinny-dipped in the moonlight, the cold water kissing my skin, I felt protected, liberated—my soul unshackled. He whispered, “You’re safe with me, Sam,” and for those hours, the threats from my community, the weight of my marriage, vanished. I was just a woman in love, alive in my truth, dreaming of a future where I could be this free always. In 2024, D was called to Israel to serve in the conflict. I watched him go, torn between fear and pride. In Toronto, I live a double life, bound to my husband, who’s oblivious to my affair, staying for my kid. D’s rare messages from the war zone are lifelines. The ache of that lost pregnancy lingers, a dream of a life we might’ve built. I carry no guilt—our love is my truth, not a sin. My soul feels liberated, but threats loom—if my truth is uncovered, my life could be at risk.

I am a Muslim(almost), a mother, a Pakistani-Canadian, and an Israel defender—not because I’ve forsaken my roots but because I’ve questioned them. My husband’s beliefs are a relic of a life I’ve outgrown. D’s love is not a rejection of my faith but an expansion, proof that truth transcends borders. Toronto is my refuge and reckoning, where I live as Sam, unapologetic. I don’t know if D will return or how I’ll navigate my marriage, but I’m no longer the silent bride of seven years ago.

I am Sam, a woman who chose passion, truth, and courage. My story is a beginning—a heart that dares to burn. In the future, I dream of a life with D, his wild spirit leading us to adventures by the Gaza border or West Bank, our bodies entwined in defiant love. I hope for his child, maybe a conversion to embrace his world fully, and one day, a divorce to claim my freedom—until then, I live fiercely, despite the shadows of threats.

Have a story to pitch?
Email Mazelit Airaksinen, the opinion editor: tonimaeairaksinen@gmail.com