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Today’s experience was shared with us by a brother from Syria. What he is about to share is a story you won’t want to miss. Please watch until the end to fully understand his experience. Trust me, this is a story you don’t want to miss.

My name is Khaled Hassan, and I’m 42 years old. I was born in the ancient city of Aleppo, Syria. My childhood was spent amidst the narrow, bustling streets of the old city, surrounded by the call to prayer echoing from the minarets.

For as long as I can remember, Islam has been the center of my life. I was the eldest son in a devout Muslim family. My father, a scholar of the Quran, instilled in me a deep reverence for the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad at an early age. I memorized the Quran and developed a passion for studying the Hadith.

By the time I was 20, I was leading prayers in my local mosque, something that brought my family immense pride. But life in Syria was not easy. Over the years, the growing unrest and war turned our once peaceful home into a place of fear and chaos.

In 2016, after losing many loved ones to the violence, I made the difficult decision to leave with my wife and two young children. I fled to the United Kingdom, hoping to find safety and rebuild our lives.

Settling in Birmingham was a challenge. Everything was new: the language, the culture, even the cold weather. Yet my faith gave me strength. I became the imam of a small mosque, guiding fellow immigrants like me who had also been uprooted from their homeland.

My days were filled with teaching, leading prayers, and offering counsel to those struggling with their new reality. To everyone who knew me, I was a pillar of faith and certainty. I taught that Islam was the true path to salvation, and I believed it with all my heart.

But little did I know that my convictions were about to be tested in ways I could never imagine.

It was a cold, rainy evening in Birmingham. I had just finished leading the evening prayer at the mosque and was on my way home. The roads were slick with rain, and visibility was poor. My mind was preoccupied with the sermon I had planned for Friday, reflecting on how I could inspire the congregation to deepen their faith.

As I turned onto a busy street, a car came speeding from the opposite direction. Before I could react, the vehicle skidded, lost control, and collided with mine head-on. The sound of the crash was deafening. My body was thrown forward violently, and everything went black.

When I regained a faint sense of awareness, I could hear muffled voices and feel a sharp pain radiating through my body. Paramedics were working frantically to get me out of the wreckage. I heard someone say, “He’s critical. We need to get him to the hospital immediately.”

In the ambulance, I drifted in and out of consciousness. I could feel my life slipping away, but I clung to the words of the Shahada, repeating them in my heart: “There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is His messenger.”

By the time we reached the hospital, I was barely holding on. The doctors rushed me into the ICU, and my family was informed that my chances of survival were slim. I had multiple fractures, internal bleeding, and a severe head injury. Machines beeped around me, and tubes were inserted to help me breathe.

As the days passed, my condition remained critical. The doctors told my wife that all they could do was wait and pray. My body lay lifeless on the hospital bed, but something extraordinary was happening within me—something I could never have imagined.

One night, as my family prayed fervently by my bedside, I felt my spirit detach from my body. It was as though I was floating above the room, looking down at myself, lifeless and pale, surrounded by machines. I could see the anguish on my wife’s face and the tears streaming down my children’s cheeks. I wanted to reach out to them, to tell them I was still there, but I couldn’t.

A strange force was pulling me away, drawing me into a tunnel of darkness. Fear gripped me as I realized I was heading into the unknown. That was the beginning of a journey that would change my life forever.

As I moved through the tunnel, an overwhelming darkness surrounded me. The air felt heavy, and I could hear faint whispers that grew louder with each passing moment. These voices were not comforting; they were filled with sorrow, pain, and despair. My heart pounded, and I tried to cry out, but no sound came from my mouth.

Suddenly, the tunnel opened into a vast, desolate landscape. The ground was scorched, and the air reeked of burning sulfur. Shadows moved in the distance, and I could hear screams that chilled me to my core. I realized I was no longer in the world I knew.

My Islamic faith had taught me about life after death—paradise for the righteous and hell for the sinners—but what I was seeing now was beyond anything I had ever imagined.

As I stood there trembling, I noticed figures approaching me. At first, they were unrecognizable, but as they drew closer, I recognized their faces. They were men I had revered my entire life—great Islamic scholars and leaders, men whose teachings had shaped my faith.

They looked tormented, their faces twisted in agony. One of them stepped forward and spoke, his voice trembling: “Khaled, you must listen carefully. We are here to warn you.”

I was shocked. “Warn me about what? Why are you here in this place of torment? You were men of great faith.”

The scholar lowered his head in shame. “We were wrong,” he said. “We followed teachings that blinded us to the truth. We thought our deeds and rituals would save us, but we were mistaken. There is only one way to salvation, and it is not what we preached.”