My name is Fawad. I’m 34 years old. And on October 18th, 2017, al-Shabaab militants dragged me to my execution in the Somali desert. They forced me to kneel in the sand as their leader raised a machete above my head. The blade was inches from my neck when the impossible happened.

It all began 3 years earlier in 2014, during what I thought was just another ordinary prayer session in my small church office back home. I had been pastoring a comfortable congregation for 8 years. Settled into a routine that felt safe and predictable. My wife was content. My two young children were thriving. And ministry felt manageable.

But that Tuesday morning, as I knelt beside my desk with my Bible open to Isaiah, everything changed. The vision came without warning. Suddenly, I wasn’t in my office anymore. I found myself standing in what looked like a vast desert landscape, and before me stood hundreds of faces—men, women, children—all with dark skin and eyes filled with desperate hunger. Not physical hunger, but spiritual starvation. They were reaching towards me, their mouths moving in silent pleas. I somehow understood without hearing words. Behind them, I could see the outline of a war-torn city. Buildings scarred by conflict, and an overwhelming sense of danger that made my heart race even in the vision.

Then I heard the voice. Clear as if someone was standing right beside me. Yet I knew it came from heaven itself. Go to Somalia. My people are waiting.

When the vision ended, I was back in my office, trembling and covered in sweat despite the cool morning air. For weeks, I tried to convince myself it was just my imagination. Maybe something I ate, or stress from recent church challenges. But the vision returned night after night. Each time, those faces became more real, more urgent.

I began researching Somalia, and what I discovered terrified me. It was one of the most dangerous places on earth for Christians. Al-Shabaab militants controlled large territories and had made it their mission to eliminate any trace of Christianity from the region. Pastors who dared to minister there often disappeared. Their bodies found weeks later, bearing signs of torture.

The more I learned, the more I wrestled with God. During one particularly intense prayer session, I found myself arguing with the Almighty like Jacob wrestling with the angel. Surely you don’t mean Somalia, Lord. There are safer places that need pastors, too. What about my family? What about my congregation here who depends on me? But each time I tried to negotiate, the vision returned stronger, and those desperate faces haunted my sleep.

When I finally told my wife about the calling, her reaction was everything I had feared. She broke down in tears. Not the gentle weeping of someone touched by God’s call, but the desperate sobbing of a woman who realized her husband might be walking toward his death.

‘Fawad, please,’ she begged, gripping my hands so tightly her knuckles turned white. ‘We have babies. They need their father. I need my husband. Surely God wouldn’t ask you to abandon us for such a dangerous place.’

Her words cut deep, because part of me agreed with every syllable. When I looked at my 5-year-old daughter practicing her piano lessons, or watched my three-year-old son building towers with his blocks, the thought of leaving them felt like betrayal. How could I explain to them that daddy was going to a place where people kill Christians? How could I kiss them goodbye knowing I might never return to tuck them into bed again?

My mother’s reaction was even more intense. When I shared the vision with her, she actually became angry with God. ‘I didn’t raise my son to throw his life away on some religious fantasy,’ she declared during a family dinner that grew increasingly tense. ‘Somalia is a death sentence, Fawad. Those militants don’t just kill Christians. They torture them first. Make examples of them. You have responsibilities here. You have people who love you and need you alive.’

The family pressure was overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to the internal battle raging in my soul. Every logical part of my mind agreed with my family’s concerns. I wasn’t a young single man with nothing to lose. I had built a life, established relationships, created stability. The rational choice was to ignore the vision and continue serving God in the safety of familiar surroundings.

But the vision wouldn’t leave me alone. Have you ever felt God calling you to do something that absolutely terrified you? Something that made no sense to anyone around you, including yourself? That’s where I found myself for months—caught between human wisdom and divine calling, between family love and spiritual obedience, between safety and faith.

The breakthrough came during a missions conference where a speaker shared about Hudson Taylor’s call to China in the 1800s. He spoke about how Taylor’s family and friends had similar reactions, how the logical arguments against going were overwhelming, but how Taylor realized that disobedience to God’s clear calling was far more dangerous than any physical threat he might face in China. That night, I knew I couldn’t run from what God had shown me.

The final conversation with my wife was the hardest thing I had ever done. We sat on our back porch after the children were asleep, and I took her hands in mine. ‘I know this makes no sense,’ I whispered, my own voice breaking. ‘I know it looks like I’m choosing ministry over family. But I believe that if I don’t go, if I disobey what God has clearly called me to do, I’ll become a man you won’t respect and my children won’t be proud of. I’d rather die following Jesus than live safely disobeying him.’

Through her tears, she finally nodded. Not because she understood, but because she knew the man she married well enough to recognize when his mind was made up by heaven itself.

6 months after arriving in Somalia, I had established a routine that felt almost normal despite the constant undercurrent of danger. I had been working under the cover of being an aid worker for a small humanitarian organization, which gave me legitimate reasons to move around Mogadishu and build relationships in the community. The underground Christian network had welcomed me cautiously at first, but as trust grew, so did the opportunities for ministry.

By October 2017, we had three house churches meeting regularly with about 40 believers total scattered across the city. These weren’t the comfortable church buildings I was used to back home. We met in basements, back rooms, and sometimes even in abandoned buildings, always rotating locations to avoid detection. The believers were hungry for God’s word in a way that both humbled and inspired me. Many had converted from Islam at great personal cost, knowing that discovery could mean death not just for them but for their entire families.

October 18th started like any other ministry day. I woke at 5:00 in the morning in my small rented room, a sparse space with just a bed, a desk, and a window that I kept covered with heavy curtains. My morning routine had become sacred to me, perhaps because I knew each day could be my last. I started with 30 minutes of prayer, followed by reading from the Psalms. That morning, I read Psalm 23, and the words, ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me,’ seemed to leap off the page. At the time, I thought it was just encouragement for another day of risky ministry. I had no idea how prophetic those words would become.

After my devotions, I prepared for what we had planned to be our largest gathering yet. 12 believers were coming to the safe house for communion. Something we hadn’t been able to do together since my arrival. The location was a small residential compound owned by Brother Samuel, one of our most trusted local leaders. He was a former Muslim cleric who had converted three years earlier after having his own supernatural encounter with Jesus. His house provided good cover because neighbors knew him as a religious man, though they assumed he still practiced Islam.

I spent the morning preparing communion elements and going over my message from John 15 about remaining in the vine. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was teaching about staying connected to Jesus while surrounded by people who wanted to kill me for that very connection. But these believers needed to understand that their faith wasn’t just about personal salvation. It was about bearing fruit that would remain even through persecution.

Before leaving for the safe house, I sent what would become my final text message to my wife. It was simple: Pray for us today. Communion service with the family. We had developed a code language for our communications. ‘Family’ meant the church. ‘Visiting relatives’ meant evangelism. And ‘feeling sick’ meant there was danger. She would know that today was significant because communion services were rare and required everyone to take extra risks to attend.

The gathering itself was beautiful in a way that people in free countries might never understand. When you know that simply sharing bread and wine together could cost you your life, every element becomes precious. Brother Samuel’s wife had baked fresh bread despite the additional risk of unusual activity in their home. Another believer had somehow acquired grape juice, a minor miracle in a country where anything associated with alcohol was strictly forbidden.

As we sat in a circle on the floor sharing testimonies before communion, the presence of God felt tangible. Sister Fatima, a young mother who had lost her husband to al-Shabaab violence, spoke about how Jesus had become her husband and provider. Brother Ahmed, barely 18 years old, shared how reading the Bible had given him hope for Somalia’s future. The intimate details they shared about God’s provision and protection created an atmosphere of worship that I had rarely experienced even in the comfortable churches back home.

We had just broken bread together and were passing the cup when we heard the vehicles. Multiple engines moving fast, coming directly toward the compound. In Somalia, you learn to distinguish between normal traffic and the sound of trouble. This was definitely trouble. Brother Samuel immediately moved to the window, and his face went pale. ‘Military vehicles. Not police. This is al-Shabaab.’

The room erupted into controlled panic. Our emergency plan had been rehearsed, but executing it while armed militants surrounded the building was different from our practice sessions. The congregation scattered according to our predetermined escape routes. Sister Fatima and three others slipped out the back window into an alley that connected to the next compound. Brother Ahmed and two of the younger men attempted to blend in with a group of neighbors who had gathered to see what the commotion was about. Others simply ran in different directions, hoping speed and confusion would provide cover.

I should have run too. Every instinct and all my training told me to escape while there was still time. But as I watched these precious believers fleeing in terror, something inside me refused to abandon them. These were spiritual children I had nurtured, disciples I had trained, friends I had grown to love. The idea of saving myself while they faced potential capture seemed like the worst kind of cowardice.

Instead of running, I moved toward the front door. If al-Shabaab was conducting a raid based on intelligence about Christian activity, they would want the leader. By surrendering myself, I might give the others a better chance to escape. It was a calculated decision, but also an emotional one. In that moment, laying down my life for these believers felt like the most natural thing in the world.

When I opened the door with my hands raised, I found myself face-to-face with six heavily armed militants wearing the distinctive black clothing of al-Shabaab fighters. Their leader, a tall man with scars across his cheek, looked at me with a mixture of satisfaction and contempt. ‘Pastor Fawad,’ he said in accented English, ‘we have been looking for you for a very long time.’

The fact that he knew my name and my role sent chills through me. This wasn’t a random raid or a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had been hunting me specifically, which meant our security had been compromised somewhere along the line.

As they bound my hands with rough rope and pushed me towards their vehicle, I caught a glimpse of Brother Samuel being dragged from his house, blood streaming from his nose. The next two hours in the back of that military truck were the longest of my life. The militants said little during the journey, but their destination became clear as we moved away from the city into increasingly desolate terrain. They were taking me somewhere remote. Somewhere screams wouldn’t be heard and bodies wouldn’t be found quickly. As the city disappeared behind us and nothing but desert stretched ahead, I realized this might be my final earthly journey.

The truck finally stopped after what felt like hours of bone-jarring travel across rough desert terrain. When they dragged me from the vehicle, I found myself in a landscape that looked like the surface of another planet. Nothing but sand, rocks, and scrubby vegetation stretched to the horizon in every direction. The isolation was complete and intentional. Whatever they planned to do to me here, no one would witness it, and my body might never be found.

The militants had brought professional camera equipment, which told me everything I needed to know about their intentions. This wasn’t just an execution. It was going to be a propaganda film. They positioned me in front of their black flag while the cameraman adjusted his equipment, testing angles and lighting as if they were filming a movie. The casual professionalism of it was perhaps more terrifying than outright brutality would have been.

The leader, who I learned was called Commander Hassan, seemed to take personal pleasure in the psychological torture that preceded the physical violence. He walked circles around me as I knelt in the sand, my hands still bound behind my back, lecturing me about the foolishness of bringing Christianity to Islamic lands. His English was excellent, and I suspected he had been educated abroad before joining al-Shabaab.

‘Pastor Fawad,’ he said, drawing out my name mockingly, ‘do you understand how many good Muslim men you have led astray with your false gospel? Do you know that three of my own fighters came to me asking questions about Jesus because of your poison?’

The revelation that my ministry had reached even into al-Shabaab’s ranks was both encouraging and terrifying. God’s word never returns void. But sometimes the cost of that truth is higher than we expect to pay.

They gave me multiple opportunities to renounce my faith and convert to Islam. Each refusal resulted in escalating violence. First, they beat me with rifle butts until I could taste blood in my mouth. Then, they used a whip made from electrical cables, leaving welts across my back that burned like fire in the desert heat. When I still refused to deny Christ, they moved to more creative tortures—burning me with heated metal rods and forcing me to drink contaminated water until I vomited.

Through it all, I found myself reciting scripture, not as a performance for my captors, but as a lifeline for my soul. When they demanded I curse Jesus, I quoted John 3:16. When they threatened to send videos of my torture to my wife, I recited Romans 8:38, reminding myself that nothing could separate me from God’s love. The words of scripture had never felt more real or more necessary than they did under that blazing desert sun.

Commander Hassan grew increasingly frustrated with my refusal to break. ‘Your Jesus is not here to save you now,’ he taunted. ‘Where is your miracle-working God? Why doesn’t he rescue his faithful servant?’ I had been asking myself the same questions, but somehow my faith felt stronger rather than weaker under pressure. Perhaps this was what the early martyrs experienced—that supernatural peace that passes understanding even in the face of death.

As the sun began to set, they forced me to dig what would become my own grave. The desert sand was harder than it looked, and with my hands bound, the task was nearly impossible. They seemed to enjoy watching me struggle, occasionally kicking sand back into the hole when I made progress. The physical exhaustion combined with hours of torture had pushed my body beyond its limits. But my spirit felt strangely at peace.

When they were satisfied with the grave, they positioned me facing what they claimed was the direction of Mecca. A final insult designed to mock both my faith and their own religion. Commander Hassan announced that he would give me one final chance to convert and live. The alternative was death by beheading, and he wanted my decision recorded for their propaganda video.

‘Look into this camera,’ he commanded, ‘and tell your fellow Christians what happens to those who reject Islam.’

Instead, I found myself speaking directly to believers who might eventually see this video. ‘My brothers and sisters,’ I said, my voice stronger than I expected, ‘do not be afraid. Jesus is with us always, even to the end of the age. If you are watching this, know that I go to my death with joy, knowing that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.’

Commander Hassan’s face contorted with rage at my refusal to cooperate with their script. He drew a ceremonial sword, its blade gleaming in the setting sun, and positioned himself behind me. The other militants formed a semicircle, some filming, others watching with expressions ranging from excitement to uncertainty. I could hear one of the younger fighters muttering prayers under his breath, though whether for my soul or his own, I couldn’t tell.

As I knelt there in the sand, facing what I believed were my final moments on earth, my thoughts went to my family. I pictured my wife tucking our children into bed, probably wondering why daddy’s daily phone call hadn’t come. I thought about my church back home and whether they would understand that this wasn’t a waste of my life, but the completion of my calling. Most of all, I thought about the believers in Somalia who were counting on me to be strong, to show them that faith in Jesus was worth dying for.

Commander Hassan raised the sword above his head, and I could see its shadow falling across the sand in front of me. ‘Any last words, pastor?’ he asked, though his tone suggested he was done listening to anything I might say.

I closed my eyes and whispered the prayer that Jesus himself had prayed facing death. ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’

The sword began its descent toward my neck. I could hear the blade cutting through the air. Feel the displacement of wind as it approached the base of my skull. In that final split second, I surrendered completely to God’s will. Whether that meant death or deliverance.

That’s when the impossible began to happen.

First, there was light. Not the fading orange glow of sunset, but brilliant white light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Even with my eyes closed, the brightness was overwhelming—like staring directly into the sun, but without the pain. The temperature, which had been stifling despite the approaching evening, suddenly dropped so dramatically that I could see my breath forming clouds in the desert air.

Then came the voice.

The voice that spoke from the light was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It wasn’t just heard. It was felt in every cell of my body, resonating through my bones and penetrating my soul. What made it even more extraordinary was that it spoke in a perfect Somali, then Arabic, then English, as if the speaker wanted every person present to understand exactly what was being said.

‘Touch not my anointed servant,’ the voice declared with an authority that made the ground beneath us tremble. ‘Release him now, for he belongs to me.’

I opened my eyes to see Commander Hassan frozen mid-strike, the sword suspended in the air above my head, as if held by invisible hands. His face had gone completely white, his eyes wide with terror I had never seen in a hardened militant. The other fighters had fallen to the ground. Some face down in the sand, others curled up in fetal positions, all of them trembling uncontrollably.

The light seemed to be coming from a figure standing behind me. Though when I tried to turn my head to look, I found I couldn’t move. But I could feel a presence there, powerful and protective, radiating love and authority in equal measure.

The ropes that had bound my hands began to dissolve. Not cut or untied, but literally dissolving as if they were made of sugar in water. I felt my hands come free without any effort on my part.

The most remarkable transformation was happening to my body. The welts from the whip, the burns from the heated metal, the cuts and bruises from hours of beating—all of it was healing before my eyes. I watched the wounds on my arms close up, leaving not even scars behind. The pain that had racked my body for hours simply vanished, replaced by a strength and vitality that felt supernatural.

Commander Hassan tried to speak, but only stammering sounds came out. He attempted to lower the sword, but his hands were shaking so violently that he dropped it instead. When it hit the sand, the metal was so hot it sizzled and steamed. All of their weapons had become too hot to touch, and several militants were crying out in pain as they tried to release guns that were burning their hands.

One of the younger fighters, a boy who couldn’t have been more than 16, suddenly stood up and pointed directly at me. ‘The light,’ he whispered in Somali. ‘It’s surrounding him like a shield.’

I looked down at myself and realized he was right. There was a visible barrier of light encircling me, extending about 3 feet in every direction. When Commander Hassan tried to approach, he hit something invisible and was pushed back as if by a powerful wind.

For several minutes, complete silence filled the desert, except for the sound of grown men weeping. Even their camera equipment had failed. The expensive video gear they had brought to record my execution was now smoking and sparking in the sand. The irony wasn’t lost on me that they had planned to use technology to spread fear. But God had used supernatural power to render their plans useless.

When the voice spoke again, its effect on my captors was even more dramatic. ‘These men shall know that I am the Lord,’ it declared, ‘and some among them shall turn from darkness to light.’

At those words, three of the militants began crying out in Arabic, phrases I recognized as Islamic prayers for forgiveness and mercy. They had gone from being my executioners to being terrified men desperate for divine forgiveness.

Commander Hassan was the first to find his voice, though it came out as a strangled whisper. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, looking directly at me as if I were responsible for what was happening.

Before I could answer, the voice responded directly: ‘I am the one who was crucified and rose again. I am the one this servant proclaims. I am Jesus.’

The reaction was immediate and overwhelming. Two of the militants fainted outright. Others began beating their chests and wailing in a mixture of fear and what seemed like genuine repentance. Commander Hassan fell to his knees, not in worship, but in terror so complete that he seemed to forget I existed entirely.

That’s when I realized I could move again. I stood up slowly, testing my legs, amazed to find that the exhaustion and weakness from hours of torture had completely vanished. I felt stronger than I had in years, as if I could run a marathon or climb a mountain without breaking a sweat.

The presence behind me remained, and though I still couldn’t see it clearly, I felt its guidance as clearly as if someone were speaking instructions in my ear. The invisible voice directed me to walk toward the truck they had brought me in. And as I moved, the protective light moved with me. None of the militants tried to stop me, though several reached out as if they wanted to touch the light surrounding me. When their hands got close to the barrier, they jerked back as if they had touched an electric fence.

Commander Hassan called out to me as I reached the vehicle. ‘Pastor,’ he said, his voice broken and desperate. ‘What must I do to have this Jesus protect me as he protects you?’

The question came from a man who minutes earlier had been preparing to cut off my head, and it contained such genuine spiritual hunger that my heart immediately went out to him. I turned back to face him, and for the first time since the light appeared, I was able to see the figure standing behind me reflected in his eyes. Though the details were unclear, the outline was unmistakably that of a man with arms outstretched as if embracing the entire scene.

‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ,’ I told him, quoting the words of Acts 16:31, ‘and you shall be saved.’

Three of the militants, including the young boy who had first pointed out the protective light, immediately fell to their knees and began repeating after me as I led them in a prayer of salvation. Commander Hassan hesitated, looking around at his men, clearly torn between his position of leadership and his terror at what he had witnessed.

Now I ask you: what would it take for you to believe in miracles? These hardened killers, men who had devoted their lives to eliminating Christianity from their country, were kneeling in the desert sand, asking Jesus to save them. The same Jesus they had mocked and blasphemed was now the only hope they had for forgiveness and peace.

As the supernatural light began to fade and evening settled over the desert, I found myself standing free beside their disabled truck, surrounded by former enemies who had become my brothers in Christ, preparing for a journey that would change not just my life, but the entire spiritual landscape of Somalia.

The journey back to Mogadishu that night was unlike anything I could have imagined when they had dragged me out to that desert for execution. Commander Hassan, who hours earlier had raised a sword to behead me, was now driving carefully through the darkness while asking me questions about Jesus with the earnestness of a seminary student. In the back of the truck, his three men who had converted were sharing their testimonies with each other in hushed, amazed voices.

The young fighter named Ahmed, the 16-year-old who had first pointed out the protective light, kept touching his chest where he said he felt a burning sensation during his prayer of salvation. ‘Pastor Fawad,’ he whispered, ‘I can feel something different inside me. Is this normal when someone accepts Jesus?’ His question was so innocent and genuine that I found myself weeping with joy even as we bounced along the rough desert road.

Commander Hassan pulled over about halfway to the city and turned to face me. ‘I need to understand something,’ he said, his voice still carrying traces of the awe and terror from the desert. ‘My men and I, we have killed Christians before. We have burned churches and tortured pastors. How can this Jesus you serve forgive what we have done? How can he accept murderers like us?’

The raw honesty in his confession was heartbreaking, but it also revealed the depth of transformation that was already beginning in his heart. I shared with him the story of Saul of Tarsus—how the greatest persecutor of Christians became the greatest missionary the world has ever known. ‘Paul killed believers, too,’ I told him. ‘But Jesus didn’t just forgive him. He used him to plant churches across the Roman Empire. The same grace that saved Paul can save you, Hassan. The same power that transformed him can transform you.’ As I spoke, I watched this hardened militant leader weep openly, perhaps for the first time since childhood.

When we finally reached the outskirts of Mogadishu, Hassan made a decision that stunned me. Instead of dropping me off somewhere safe and disappearing, he asked if he could come with me to meet the other believers. ‘I need to ask forgiveness from every Christian I can find,’ he said. ‘And I need to learn how to follow this Jesus who saved my soul and my life tonight.’ The three men in the back immediately agreed, though they had no idea what this decision would cost them.

Brother Samuel’s compound was our first stop. And when I knocked on his door at nearly midnight, I could hear frantic whispers inside before he cautiously opened it. His face went through a series of expressions when he saw me: shock that I was alive, confusion about why I was unharmed, and then absolute amazement when I explained who my companions were.

‘These are the men who captured me,’ I told him. ‘And now they are our brothers in Christ.’

The emergency meeting that followed lasted until dawn. Word spread quickly through the underground Christian network. And by sunrise, nearly 20 believers had crowded into Samuel’s small living room to hear the testimony of what had happened in the desert. Many wept as Hassan and his men confessed their past crimes against Christians and shared their supernatural conversion experience. Others struggled to believe that such a dramatic transformation could be genuine.

Sister Fatima, the young widow whose husband had been killed by al-Shabaab, was particularly emotional when Hassan knelt before her and asked her forgiveness. ‘Your people killed my husband,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘How do I know this isn’t some trick to infiltrate our group and betray us all?’

Her question was valid and came from real pain. But Hassan’s response revealed the depth of his transformation. ‘Sister,’ he said, using the Christian term deliberately, ‘if this were a trick, would I have brought you the names and locations of 12 other al-Shabaab cells operating in this region? Would I have told Pastor Fawad about our weapons caches and our plans for future raids?’ He pulled out a notebook and handed it to Brother Samuel. ‘This contains everything I know about our operations. Use it to protect yourselves and warn other Christians. I am no longer Hassan the al-Shabaab commander. I am Hassan, the follower of Jesus.’

The notebook contained intelligence that probably saved dozens of Christian lives in the months that followed. More immediately, it allowed our network to understand how our security had been compromised and how my capture had been planned. One of Hassan’s informants had been a nominal Christian who attended our services but was actually reporting our activities for money. The betrayal stung, but the information helped us restructure our security procedures.

Within days of the desert miracle, the story began spreading beyond our immediate network. Hassan and his men couldn’t keep quiet about what they had experienced. And in a country where news travels primarily through word of mouth, their testimonies reached every corner of Mogadishu within a week. The details became more elaborate with each telling, but the core facts remained consistent: Jesus had supernaturally rescued his pastor from execution and converted his would-be executioners.

The response from the broader Muslim community was mixed and intense. Some Islamic clerics immediately declared the story to be Western propaganda designed to weaken their faith. The imam at the main mosque in our district preached an entire sermon about how Christians fabricate miracle stories to deceive Muslims. Government officials, already nervous about religious tensions in the city, began investigating what they termed ‘unusual militant activity’ in the desert region.

But for every voice trying to discredit the testimony, there seemed to be two more people seeking out Christians to hear the story firsthand. Hassan’s former comrades in al-Shabaab were particularly affected. Several approached him secretly, wanting to understand how their fearless commander had abandoned jihad for Christianity. His responses were always the same: ‘I met the real Jesus, and everything I thought I knew about God was wrong.’

The most dramatic early conversion came from Hassan’s own uncle, a respected Islamic scholar who had initially been furious about his nephew’s apostasy. When Hassan shared his testimony with extended family, his uncle listened quietly, asking detailed questions about the supernatural events. 3 days later, the elderly scholar showed up at our safe house asking to be baptized. ‘I have studied the Quran for 60 years,’ he told me, ‘but I have never heard Allah speak audibly as Jesus spoke in that desert. This miracle has convinced me that your Christ is the true God.’

By the end of October, just two weeks after my rescue, we had baptized 15 new believers, most of them connected in some way to Hassan’s testimony. Our house church network, which had consisted of three small groups meeting separately, was forced to reorganize into seven groups to accommodate the growth. More significantly, the nature of our ministry changed completely. We were no longer just maintaining a hidden Christian presence in Somalia. We were experiencing an actual revival movement that was transforming the spiritual landscape of our city.

The most remarkable change was in Hassan himself. This man who had been trained to kill Christians was now evangelizing his former associates with a passion that amazed even veteran believers. He understood the Islamic mindset in ways I never could, and he could answer questions about Christianity that stumped those of us who had grown up in the church. Within a month, he was leading his own house church, discipling other Muslim converts with an effectiveness that left me humbly grateful for God’s mysterious ways.

Seven years have passed since that October night in the desert. And as I write this testimony in 2024, the transformation of Somalia’s spiritual landscape continues to astound me. What began as a single miraculous intervention has grown into a movement that has touched every region of this war-torn country.

The underground church network that once consisted of three small house churches now encompasses 47 established congregations, with new groups forming monthly as the gospel continues to spread through family lines and tribal connections. The statistical growth tells only part of the story. More significant is the depth of transformation I have witnessed in individual lives.

Hassan, my former would-be executioner, has become one of the most effective evangelists I have ever known. His ministry has directly resulted in over 200 documented conversions, many of them from within al-Shabaab ranks. The irony is not lost on anyone that the man who once hunted Christians for a living now risks his life daily to share the gospel with his former comrades.

Last month, Hassan brought me to meet a group of 15 former al-Shabaab fighters who have secretly converted to Christianity. They still maintain their positions within the organization to protect their families and gather intelligence that helps protect other believers. But they have formed their own clandestine Bible study group. Watching these hardened militants worship Jesus with tears streaming down their faces, singing hymns in whispered voices, represents a level of spiritual transformation that defies human explanation.

The ripple effects have extended far beyond our immediate region. Reports have reached us from Garowe, Hargeisa, and even the far northern territories of former al-Shabaab commanders experiencing supernatural encounters similar to what happened in the desert. While I cannot verify every detail of these accounts, the pattern is consistent: hostile Muslim leaders encountering Jesus in dramatic circumstances, converting to Christianity, and then becoming powerful evangelists within their own communities.

The international Christian community began taking notice around 2019 when mission organizations started receiving reports of unexpected church growth in Somalia. Agencies that had written off the Horn of Africa as unreachable began sending resources and personnel to support what they termed ‘the Somalia revival.’ The attention has been both helpful and dangerous, as increased international involvement has also attracted more scrutiny from radical Islamic groups.

Perhaps the most significant development has been the emergence of indigenous church leadership. When I first arrived in Somalia, the assumption was that Western missionaries would always be necessary to sustain Christian ministry in the region. That assumption has been completely overturned. Men like Hassan and Brother Ahmed have developed into pastors and church planters who are far more effective than any foreign missionary could be. They understand the culture, speak the language fluently, and have credibility within communities that would never trust outsiders.

The theological education of these new leaders has required creative approaches. We have established three underground seminaries meeting in different locations each week to avoid detection. The curriculum focuses heavily on practical ministry skills, apologetics specifically designed for Muslim audiences, and security protocols that keep students and faculty safe. Graduation ceremonies are small, secret affairs, but they celebrate achievements that rival any traditional seminary program.

One of our most successful graduates is Sister Amina, Hassan’s cousin, who converted 18 months after his transformation. She has pioneered ministry among Somali women, a demographic that was virtually unreachable through traditional evangelistic methods. Her approach involves establishing sewing circles and literacy classes that provide cover for Bible study and evangelism. Through her ministry, over 60 women have come to faith, many of them from prominent Muslim families who would never have considered Christianity under other circumstances.

The children of these convert families represent perhaps the most promising aspect of the long-term impact. Unlike their parents who came to faith through dramatic conversion experiences, these young people are growing up with Christianity as their natural worldview. They attend our underground Sunday schools, memorize scripture in both Somali and Arabic, and display a boldness in their faith that sometimes concerns their more cautious parents. We now have 43 children and teenagers in our various programs, representing the first generation of Somali Christians who may live to see religious freedom in their homeland.

The persecution has intensified as our movement has grown, but so has our supernatural protection. I have survived six additional assassination attempts since 2017. Each one resulting in circumstances that can only be described as miraculous. Last year, a bomb planted in my residence failed to detonate despite being properly wired and armed. The explosive device was discovered three days later by Hassan, who has become my primary bodyguard and closest ministry partner.

These ongoing supernatural interventions have had a profound psychological effect on our persecutors. Word has spread throughout the Islamic militant community that Christians in Somalia are under special divine protection. Some fighters have admitted to their commanders that they refuse assignments targeting our churches because they fear encountering the same power that rescued me from execution. This reluctance has created a practical breathing space that has allowed our ministry to expand more rapidly than we ever imagined possible.

The broader political implications of our growth are complex and sometimes troubling. Government officials are caught between pressure from Islamic clerics to crack down on Christian activity and reports from their own intelligence services about the positive social effects of our ministry. Christian communities consistently show lower crime rates, better family stability, and more effective community organization than their Muslim counterparts. Some politicians have privately expressed interest in learning more about a faith that produces such dramatic personal transformation.

International Islamic organizations have taken notice as well. We intercepted communications last year indicating that al-Qaeda leadership views the Somalia revival as a serious threat to their regional influence. The fact that many converts come from their own ranks has prompted new recruitment strategies and more aggressive rhetoric against Christian activities. Ironically, their increased hostility has often created more interest in Christianity among ordinary Muslims who wonder why their leaders are so afraid of a religious minority.

The personal cost of this ministry continues to be high. I see my wife and children only twice a year during carefully planned family reunions in neighboring countries. The loneliness is sometimes overwhelming. But the knowledge that God is using this sacrifice to transform an entire nation provides purpose that sustains me through the darkest moments.

My health has been affected by years of stress, poor nutrition, and constant vigilance. Last month, a medical examination revealed damage to my heart that doctors attribute to prolonged exposure to extreme stress. The physician, a Christian brother working with an international aid organization, recommended that I consider stepping back from frontline ministry. His concern is genuine and medically sound. But I cannot imagine leaving Somalia while God is working so powerfully through our ministry.

The question that haunts me most is not whether I will survive this calling, but whether the church we are building will endure beyond my lifetime. Hassan and the other indigenous leaders have demonstrated remarkable maturity and effectiveness, but they lack the theological education and ministry experience that comes from years in established Christian environments. We are essentially building a church from scratch in one of the most hostile environments on earth, with new converts who have no Christian heritage to guide them.

Yet when I look at the transformation in individual lives, I am filled with hope rather than anxiety. Hassan’s wife, a former Islamic school teacher, now leads our women’s Bible study program. Brother Ahmed, the teenager who converted in the desert, has planted three house churches and is preparing for ordination as our youngest indigenous pastor. Sister Amina has developed evangelistic materials specifically designed for Muslim women that are being translated for use in other countries.

These believers understand the cost of following Jesus in ways that Christians in free countries cannot comprehend. They have counted the cost and chosen Christ anyway. Not because it was easy or comfortable, but because they have encountered the living God in ways that make every sacrifice worthwhile. Their faith has been tested by fire and proven genuine through persecution that would destroy superficial religious commitment.

So I’m asking you, just as a pastor who should be dead would ask: what are you willing to sacrifice for the gospel? What has God been calling you to do that you have been avoiding out of fear? The same Jesus who rescued me from execution in the Somali desert is available to work through your life in ways that will astound you. The miracle was not just my rescue. The miracle is what God wants to do through your obedience to his calling. No matter how impossible it might seem.

The story continues to unfold. And I believe the greatest chapters are yet to be written.