My name is Abdel.

For 12 years, I made weapons designed to kill people.

I mixed chemicals that would tear bodies apart.

I assembled devices that would end lives in seconds.

I did this with my own hands and I believed I was doing the right thing.

I believed I was serving God.

Today, I sit in a small room in a place I cannot tell you about.

My life depends on staying hidden.

But I am alive to tell you what I saw when I died.

And I am alive to warn you about what is waiting for many people when their last breath comes.

This is my story.

Every word of it is true.

I need you to understand something before I begin.

I was not an evil man who enjoyed hurting people.

I was not a monster.

I was a man who loved his family.

I prayed five times every day.

I memorized long passages from the Quran.

I fasted during Ramadan.

I gave to the poor.

I believed with all my heart that I was on the right path.

That is what makes my story so important.

Cuz if I could be so wrong about something so serious, then maybe you need to examine what you believe too.

Let me take you back to the beginning.

Hello viewers from around the world.

Before Abdul continues his story, we’d love to know where you are watching from and we would love to pray for you and your city.

Thank you and may God bless you as you listen to this powerful testimony.

I grew up in Gaza City in a neighborhood called Alimal.

Our apartment building was old with cracks in the walls that grew wider every year.

My father sold vegetables from a cart.

My mother stayed home with us children.

We were not rich, but we had enough.

Gaza is not like other places.

War is part of normal life there.

You grow up with the sound of explosions in the distance.

You learn to recognize the different sounds.

The whistle of a rocket going out.

The boom of an Israeli air strike coming in.

The rattle of gunfire that could be close or far away.

When I was 7 years old, I was playing soccer with my friends in the street.

We used a ball made of rolled up plastic bags tied with string because we could not afford a real one.

We were laughing and shouting the way children do everywhere.

Then we heard the sound.

It was different from the usual background noise of war.

It was closer, louder, coming toward us.

My friend Mahmud looked up at the sky.

I remember his face.

His eyes went wide.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Then there was a flash of light and a noise so loud it felt like my head would split open.

When I could see again, Mahmud was on the ground.

There was blood everywhere.

Too much blood.

Other children were screaming and running.

Adults came rushing out of buildings.

Someone picked me up and carried me away.

But I kept looking back at Mahmud lying there in the street.

He died before they could get him to a hospital.

He was 8 years old.

That was my first real memory of death.

It would not be my last.

By the time I was 12, I had been to 17 funerals.

Most of them were for people younger than 30.

Some were for children.

You learn to recognize the sound of women wailing.

You learn to watch men cry quietly with their faces turned away.

You learn that death can come at any moment for any reason without warning.

You also learn to be angry.

I was angry at Israel.

I was angry at America for supporting Israel.

I was angry at the world for not caring about us.

I was angry at God.

Sometimes though I felt guilty for those thoughts and would pray extra to make up for them.

The anger grew inside me like a living thing.

It fed on every new death, every new destroyed building, every new family left homeless.

And there was always something new to feed it.

When I was 16, our building was hit.

We had warning.

Someone ran through shouting that we needed to evacuate.

Israeli jets had fired warning shots at the roof.

We had minutes to get out.

We ran down the stairs, my father carrying my youngest sister, my mother grabbing what she could.

We made it to the street just before the real missiles came.

I watched our home collapse into rubble and dust.

Everything we owned was inside.

my clothes, my school books, the photo albums with pictures of my grandparents, all of it gone in seconds.

We stayed with seconds relatives after that.

12 people crammed into three rooms.

My father tried to to start over, but his cart and all his vegetables had been in the storage room of our destroyed building.

He had nothing.

We had nothing.

That is when the men came to talk to me.

They were from Hamas.

They came to the mosque where I prayed.

They were always respectful.

They never pushed.

They just talked to me about dignity and resistance and faith.

They told me that Allah honored those who fought against oppression.

They told me that I could make a difference, that I could protect my people, that I could be more than just another victim.

I listened and slowly over months I began to believe them.

They started by giving me small tasks, delivering messages, standing watch, nothing dangerous at first.

They paid me a little money which I gave to my father.

They made me feel important like I mattered, like I was part of something bigger than myself.

By the time I was 18, I was fully committed.

I had been trained.

I had been taught and I had been given my specialty.

I was good with my hands.

I had always been good at taking things apart and putting them back together.

As a child, I used to fix broken radios and clocks for neighbors.

This skill, the men told me, could be used for the cause.

They taught me chemistry.

They taught me electronics.

They taught me how to build devices that would explode.

I became a bomb maker.

Looking back now, I can see how carefully they shaped my thinking, how they took my anger and my pain and my desire to matter and turned it into something they could use.

But at the time, I could not see it.

I thought I was choosing this path.

I thought I was serving God.

My workshop was beneath a residential building in the Shajaya neighborhood.

You reached it through a hidden entrance in a basement storage room.

The room below was small, maybe 4 m by 5 m.

It had a workbench, shelves with materials, and a ventilation system that brought in air from outside through hidden pipes.

I spent hours there, sometimes entire days.

The work required complete focus.

One wrong measurement, one careless moment, and I could blow myself up.

I lost two friends that way in the early years.

They made mistakes.

They died instantly.

I was careful.

I was precise.

I took my time and um I became known for my skill.

The devices I made were used in many operations.

I did not usually know the details.

Someone would give me specifications.

I would build what they asked for.

They would take it away.

Later I might hear about an explosion on the news, an Israeli checkpoint, a settlement, a military vehicle.

I would know that my work had been used.

I told myself that I was only targeting soldiers and settlers, combatants, people who had chosen to be part of the occupation.

I told myself this made it different, made it justified.

But I knew deep in a place I did not like to look that sometimes civilians died too.

Children sometimes I would feel a twinge of something uncomfortable when I heard about those deaths.

But I would push it away.

I would remind myself of Mahmud dying in the street, of my home being destroyed, of all the Palestinian children who had died.

I would tell myself that our cost was just and in war terrible things happen.

This is how you live with yourself.

When you do terrible things, you build walls in your mind.

You create justifications.

You stop thinking too deeply about certain questions.

I prayed five times a day.

I never missed a prayer.

Before I began work each day, I would pray and ask Allah to guide my hands.

I would recite verses from the Quran.

I believed completely that I was doing holy work.

On Fridays, I went to the mosque.

I listened to the sermons about jihad and paradise, about the rewards waiting for martyrs, about the evil of our enemies.

These sermons reinforced everything I believed.

They made me feel righteous.

I had respect in the community.

People knew I was involved in the resistance.

Though they did not know exactly what I did.

Men would nod to me in the street.

Older women would smile at me and call me a good Muslim boy.

Young men looked up to me.

I had purpose.

I had identity.

I had a place in the world.

When I was 23, I married Aliyah.

She was 19, beautiful with dark eyes and a gentle spirit.

She knew I was involved in the resistance.

Her brother was a fighter.

Her father had been killed in an is an an Israeli raid years before.

She understood the life.

We had a small wedding.

Everyone was happy despite the circumstances we lived under.

For one night, we forgot about the war and just celebrated.

Aliyah moved into the apartment I shared with my parents and siblings.

It was crowded, but we made it work.

A year later, our first child was born, a son.

We named him Tariq.

Then came our daughter, Leila, and then another son, Omar.

Those children were everything to me.

When I held my newborn son for the first time, I cried.

I promised him I would make the world better for him.

I promised I would fight so he could grow up free.

I loved being a father.

At home, I was not a fighter or a bumbo maker.

I was just Abu Tarik, the father who played with his children and made them laugh.

Tariq loved it when I would chase him around the apartment pretending to be a monster.

Ila would braid my short beard and giggle.

Little Omar would fall asleep on my chest while I read the Quran.

Aliyah was a good wife.

She made our crammed space feel like home.

She cooked good food with whatever we could afford.

She kept the children clean and well behaved.

She prayed constantly for my safety.

She worried about my work.

She knew it was dangerous.

Sometimes I would come home with burns on my hands from chemicals.

Once I was caught near an explosion when an Israeli strike hit nearby.

I came home covered in dust and blood that was not mine.

She cried and begged me to find other work.

But I would tell her this was my duty.

This was how I protected her and the children.

This was what Allah wanted from me.

She would nod and accept it.

But I could see the fear in her eyes every time I left.

I lived two lives.

At home, I was gentle and loving.

At work, I built machines of death.

I kept these two worlds completely separate in my mind.

I had to otherwise I do not think I could have continued.

The morning of the explosion started like any other morning.

I woke before dawn for fajar prayer.

The apartment was quiet except for Omar’s soft breathing.

He was sleeping between me and Aliyah.

I carefully moved him aside and got up.

I performed my ablutions in the small bathroom, washing my hands, face, arms, and feet.

The water was cold.

We rarely had hot water.

I did not mind.

I was used to it.

I prayed in the corner of the main room facing toward Mecca.

I recited the familiar words in Arabic, words I had said thousands of times before.

I asked Allah to protect my family, to give me strength, to accept my efforts, to grant me paradise.

After prayer, I sat and read from the Quran until the others began to wake.

Aliyah made breakfast, bread with olive oil and zatar, tea with too much sugar, the way I liked it.

The children ate quickly, excited about something that had happened at school a day before.

I was not really listening to their chatter.

I was thinking about the work ahead.

We had received materials for a new type of rocket.

It would fly farther and carry a larger payload than the ones we usually made.

The design was complex.

I had been studying the plans for days.

Today we would begin assembly.

Ila tugged on my sleeve.

She wanted me to look at a drawing she had made.

It was of our family, all stick figures holding hands.

She had drawn a big sun in the corner with a smiling face.

I told her it was beautiful.

I kissed her forehead.

She smelled like the cheap shampoo Aliyah used for the children’s hair.

I did not know that would be the last normal moment with my family.

When it was time to leave, I kissed each of my children.

Tar wanted me to stay and play.

Omar clung to my leg.

I had to peel him off gently.

Aliyah walked me to the door.

She looked at me with those worried eyes.

I touched her face and told her not to worry.

I told her I would be home for dinner.

I walked out into the street.

It was already hot.

Gaza is always hot in summer.

The air smelled like dust and the sea.

Though we were not close enough to see the water from our neighborhood.

I made my way through the streets toward the workshop.

I stopped at a small shop to buy cigarettes.

The owner asked about my family.

We talked for a few minutes about nothing important.

Then I continued on.

Two other men were already at the workshop when I arrived.

Hassan and Bilal.

Both were experienced fighters.

Hassan had been injured in a raid years before and walked with a limp.

Bilal was young, maybe 20, eager and sometimes too confident.

We greeted each other.

We joked a bit.

normal conversation.

Then we got to work.

The components were laid out on the workbench.

Metal tubes, wirings, circuit boards, containers of chemicals that had to be measured exactly.

We worked carefully and methodically.

This was not something you rushed.

I was focused on mixing the propellant compound.

This was the most dangerous part.

The chemicals had to be combined in a specific order at specific temperatures.

Too hot and they would ignite too fast and they would react unpredictably.

Hassan was working on the guidance system.

Bilal was preparing the warhead assembly.

We worked in silence, each concentrating on our tasks.

I was measuring out the second chemical when I felt something strange.

It is hard to explain.

A feeling in my chest, like a weight, like a pressure.

I paused and looked around.

Everything seemed normal.

Hassan and Bilal were working.

The ventilation fan was humming.

Nothing was wrong.

But the feeling did not go away.

I almost said something.

Almost suggested we take a break.

But I pushed the feeling aside.

We had work to finish.

I went back to my measurements.

I was pouring the chemical into the mixing container when Bilal spoke.

He said something about the wiring configuration.

Hassan answered him, “I was not paying attention to their words.

I was watching the chemical level in the container.

Then I saw the spark.

Just a tiny flash of light from Bilal’s workstation.

A small arc of electricity where there should not have been one.

I open my mouth to shout a warning, but the spark reached the primary charge before any sound left my throat.

The explosion was immediate and massive.

I remember light, blinding white light that filled everything.

I remember the sensation of being thrown backward.

I remember heat.

I remember the sound so loud it seemed to come from inside my own head rather than outside.

Then I remember hitting something hard.

The wall maybe or the floor.

Pain shot through my body.

Sharp intense pain everywhere at once.

I tried to breathe but could not.

There was dust and smoke and something burning.

I could not see, could not hear except for a highpitched ringing.

Could not move.

I thought this is it.

This is how I die.

I thought of Aliyah, of Tariq and Ila and Omar.

I thought they are waiting for me to come home for dinner.

I will not come home.

The pain started to fade.

Everything started to fade.

The heat, the smoke, the ringing, the light, all of it was fading away into darkness.

I felt myself letting go, sinking, falling into the darkness.

My last conscious thought was strange.

It was not about my family or my work or Allah or anything I expected.

It was just a simple observation almost curious.

So this is what dying feels like.

Then there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

Just darkness and silence and the sensation of falling forever into an empty void.

I was dead.

But I was not gone.

Not completely.

I became aware again.

But it was different from any awareness I had ever experienced.

I could think, but I had no body.

I could sense, but not with eyes or ears or any physical organ.

I existed but in a way I cannot properly explain in words.

The darkness was absolute, not like closing your eyes in a dark room.

Not like a moonless night.

This was darkness that seemed to have substance that seemed to press in from all sides that seemed alive somehow.

I tried to understand what was happening.

Was this death? Was this the transition? The Quran spoke about the time between death and resurrection.

I waited for something.

Angels perhaps, Monkar and Nakir, who were supposed to come and question the dead.

I waited for light or voices or anything that matched what I had been taught to expect.

Instead, I felt myself moving, being pulled downward, always downward.

The movement accelerated.

I was falling though I had nothing to fall with.

The sensation was sickening, terrifying.

I tried to stop it, to resist it, but I had no way to do that.

I had nobody to brace with, no hands to grab onto anything, no voice to cry out with.

The darkness changed.

It somehow became darker.

I did not think that was possible, but it did.

And with the deeper darkness came a smell.

Sulfur, rot, burning, all mixed together into something so foul it would have made me vomit if I still had a stomach.

And then I heard the screaming.

At first it was distant, like something carried on wind from far away.

But it grew louder as I fell.

Many voices, hundreds, thousands, all screaming, wailing, crying out in agony.

The sound was worse than the smell.

It was the sound of pure suffering, of hopeless, endless pain, of despair so complete there were no words adequate to describe it.

I wanted to cover my ears.

I wanted to shut it out, but I could not.

The screaming filled everything, filled me, became the only thing that existed beside the darkness and the falling.

Then the falling stopped.

I was somewhere.

I had arrived.

But where? Slowly something like vision returned to me.

I could see though I do not know how or with what.

The darkness receded just enough that I could make out shapes.

landscape, other figures.

What I saw froze something inside me.

I was standing on cracked, barren ground that seemed to stretch forever in all directions.

The earth, if you could call it that, was black and broken.

Cracks ran through it like wounds, and from these cracks came orange and red light.

Fire.

Everything was lit by fire, burning beneath the surface.

The heat was unbearable.

I felt like I was inside an oven surrounded by flames, but somehow not burning, just suffering the heat without end.

And everywhere in every direction were people, thousands upon thousands of people, maybe millions, all in various states of torment.

Some were wandering aimlessly, their faces twisted in anguish.

Some were on the ground writhing.

Some were reaching upward, crying out for help that did not come.

Some were completely still, frozen in expressions of horror.

I wanted to deny what I was seeing.

I wanted it to be a dream, a hallucination from the explosion, anything but reality.

But I knew deep in whatever I was now, I knew exactly where I was.

This was hell.

Not the metaphorical hell that some modern scholars talked about.

Not a temporary state of purification.

This was the real hell.

The hell that the prophets warned about.

The hell that I had heard about since childhood but never really believed was literal.

And I was there.

The realization hit me like a physical blow.

Terror flooded through me.

pure absolute terror unlike anything I had ever felt in life because I understood what this meant.

This was forever.

This was eternity.

This was where I would stay in this heat and darkness and suffering for all time with no end.

I tried to scream but I could not make a sound come out.

I tried to run but I could not move.

I was frozen there, surrounded by countless others in the same state.

Then I started to recognize faces.

Not far from me, I saw Khaled.

He had been a fighter in Hamas, killed in an Israeli air strike three years before.

We had held a big funeral for him.

The Imam had spoken about him being a martyr, about him being in paradise with the other righteous ones.

We had all believed it.

But he was here, not in paradise.

Here in this place of torment.

His face was twisted in agony.

He was crying out, but no sound reached me.

He looked at me and our eyes met.

The recognition in his eyes was clear.

And there was something else there.

Desperation.

He was trying to tell me something.

I moved toward him.

I do not know how.

I simply moved and the distance between us closed.

When I was near him, I could hear his voice.

It was horsearo and broken like he had been screaming forever.

He said, “We were deceived.

All of us.

We were all deceived.

” I tried to ask him what he meant, but he continued as if he could not hear me.

As if he was simply repeating words he had said countless times before.

He said, “There are no rewards here.

No rivers, no gardens, no virgins, nothing we were promised.

Only this, only suffering, only fire and darkness, and no hope of it ever ending.

” He reached toward me, but could not touch me.

His hand passed through where I was as if I was not solid.

He said, “Tell them.

” You have to tell them.

Tell everyone it’s not too late for them but it is too late for us.

Tell them about Jesus.

Only Jesus.

We were wrong about everything.

I did not understand Jesus.

Why was he talking about Jesus? Jesus was a prophet, a good man, but not the way to salvation.

That was what I had always been taught.

But before I could form a question, Khaled was pulled away.

Something dragged him backward into the darkness, still crying outwards, I could no longer hear, I looked around frantically.

Everywhere I looked, I saw people I recognized, fellow fighters, men I had prayed beside in the mosque, people who had died as martyrs for the cause.

And they were all here, all suffering, all in torment.

I saw Muhammad who had blown himself up at a checkpoint taking three Israeli soldiers with him.

I saw Rashid who had been shot during a raid on a settlement.

I saw Farukq who had spent his whole adult life fighting for Palestinian liberation and died of his wounds in a safe house.

All martyrs, all believers, all here.

I saw clerics too.

Religious men I had respected, shakes who had taught me about Islam, imams who had led prayers and given sermons, men who had spent their lives studying the Quran and hadith.

They were here too.

One of them saw me and rushed toward me with a speed that was unnatural.

It was Sheik Hassan, a man who had been famous throughout Gaza for his knowledge and piety.

He had died two years before I did.

I had attended his funeral.

Thousands had mourned him.

His face was different from the others.

Not just anguish, but something else.

Guilt.

Overwhelming guilt that seemed to radiate from him.

When he reached me, he grabbed at me with hands that passed through my form.

He spoke in a rush, words stumbling over each other in desperate haste.

He said, “I taught thousands.

Thousands.

They listened to me.

They believed me.

And I taught them lies.

Not intentionally.

I believed it too.

But I was wrong.

And now they will all come here because of what I taught them.

” As I see them arriving day after day.

people I taught, people who trusted me and they end up here because of my words.

He was weeping.

Tears ran down his face and evaporated in the heat before they could fall.

He said, “Tell them I was wrong.

Tell them to ignore everything.

” I said, “Tell them about Jesus.

He is the only way, the only truth, the only life.

” We were wrong about him.

So wrong.

Tell them please.

You have to tell them.

Then he too was pulled away.

Still crying out.

I tried to process what I was hearing.

These men, these righteous fighters and scholars, they were all saying the same thing.

They were all talking about Jesus.

They were all saying we had been wrong.

But how could we have been wrong? Islam was the final revelation.

Muhammad was the final prophet.

The Quran was the perfect word of God.

I had built my entire life on these truths.

More souls crowded around me, not touching but near, all trying to speak to me, all trying to give me the same message.

A woman I did not recognize pushed forward.

She was crying hysterically.

She said, “I died last year.

I was devout my whole life.

I prayed, I fasted, I gave charity, I covered myself, I did everything right, everything I was taught.

And I woke up here, here.

And no, no one will tell me why.

No one will explain.

There is just the fire and the screaming and no hope.

No hope at all.

A young man, barely 20, grabbed at me with hands that could not grip.

He said, “I was a suicide boomer.

They told me I would go straight to paradise.

They showed me verses from the Quran.

They promised me everything.

I believed them.

I blew myself up and killed 17 people.

And I open my eyes here.

Not not in paradise.

Here.

And the faces of those 17 people, I see them constantly.

They haunt me.

And there is no forgiveness here.

No second chance, no mercy.

An old man pushed through the crowd.

He said, “I studied religion for 60 years.

” 60 years.

I memorized the entire Quran.

I could recite all the major hadith collections.

I taught at the university.

I wrote books about Islamic Jewish prudence.

And I died and came here and realized I had wasted my entire life.

Worse than wasted it.

I led others astray.

And now they are here too because of me.

The voices over overlapped.

A cacophony of suffering and regret and desperate warnings.

All saying the same thing in different ways.

We were wrong.

We were deceived.

Only Jazz is is the truth.

Tell the living.

Warn them.

It’s not too late for them, but it’s too late for us.

I wanted to shut it out.

I wanted to deny it, but I could not.

because I could see it.

I could see the truth of it in their faces, in their voices, in the very reality of where we were.

I had believed I was serving God by making bombs.

I had believed I would be rewarded for fighting.

I had believed that my devotion and my sacrifices would earn me paradise.

But I was here in hell just like all these others who had believed the same things.

And if we were here, if all our devotion and fighting and religious observance meant nothing, then everything I had believed was a lie.

The weight of that realization crushed me.

I felt myself sinking, being pulled down into the cracked ground beneath my feet.

Chains appeared around me, though I could not see them.

I could only feel them, heavy, tight, binding me.

I understood then this was my place.

This was where I belonged.

I had made bombs that killed people.

I had caused suffering and death.

I had taken lives.

Children had died because of devices I built with my own hands.

And this was my judgment.

This was my eternity.

The heat intensified.

The screaming grew louder.

The darkness pressed in closer and I felt something else.

Memories.

Every bomb I had ever made.

Every operation I had supplied, every death that resulted from my work.

I saw their faces.

Civilians caught in explosions.

children, women, old men, people who were just going about their lives when the devices I created tore them apart.

I saw a little girl, maybe 6 years old, killed when a rocket hit near a bus stop.

I saw a young mother, pregnant, caught in an explosion at a checkpoint.

I saw an elderly couple killed in their home when a wall collapsed from a blast.

And I realized something horrible.

I had told myself I was only targeting soldiers, but that had been a lie.

I told myself to sleep at night.

I knew civilians died.

I had always known.

And I had continued anyway.

The guilt was worse than the heat, worse than the darkness, worse than the chains and the screaming and everything else.

The guilt was a living thing that ate at me from the inside.

I cried out, not words, just a wordless cry of anguish and despair.

I cried out for mercy, for forgiveness, for anything.

But there was no answer, just more heat, more darkness, more suffering.

I thought this is forever.

There is no escape, no relief, no end.

Just this always this for eternity.

And that realization was the worst torture of all.

I do not know how long I stayed like that.

Time had no meaning in that place.

It could have been minutes or years or centuries.

There was just the eternal now of suffering.

But then something changed.

A light appeared in the distance.

Small at first, just a pinpoint in the darkness.

But it grew.

It moved closer.

And as it approached, the heat lessened.

The screaming faded.

The darkness receded.

The light was different from the red and orange glow of the fires beneath the ground.

This light was white, pure, clean.

It hurt to look at, but in a different way than the darkness hurt.

This was the pain of seeing something too beautiful, too perfect for eyes accustomed to hell.

The other souls around me scattered.

They moved away from the light as if it burned them worse than the fire.

They fled into the darkness, crying out, but I could not move.

I was frozen there as the light approached.

And then I saw him, a figure in the light, a man, but more than a man.

He radiated power and authority and something else.

Love, overwhelming, incomprehensible love that poured out from him in waves.

I knew who he was immediately without being told, without any doubt.

It was Jesus, not the prophet Jesus I had learned about in Islam.

This was different.

This was God himself in human form.

I could feel it, could sense it in every part of whatever I was.

He walked toward me through that place of torment and everywhere he stepped, the fire went out.

The ground became solid and whole.

The darkness fled.

He stopped in front of me and he looked at me.

His eyes were kind but also full of sorrow.

He looked at me the way a father looks at a son who has made terrible choices.

disappointed, sad, but still loving.

I wanted to speak, to explain, to defend myself, to ask for mercy, but no words would come.

I just stood there or whatever.

Past for standing in that place and looked back at him.

Then he spoke.

His voice was quiet, but it seemed to fill everything.

It was the most beautiful and the most terrible sound I had ever heard.

He said, “It is not yet your time.

” I did not understand.

What did that mean? He raised his hand and I saw the scars there, scars from nails driven through his flesh.

And I saw the same scars on his feet.

And I knew that he had died too, that he had suffered too.

But he had done it willingly.

done it for people like me.

The understanding flooded into me.

This was God who had become human and died to pay for human sins, to pay for my sins.

And I had rejected him.

I had called him just a prophet.

I had denied his sacrifice.

And that denial had brought me here.

Jesus looked at me with those sad loving eyes and said, “You must choose.

Your time to choose is not yet finished, but it will finish soon.

And then your choice will be final.

Images flashed through my mind.

My life, every moment, every choice, every thought and deed and word.

I saw it all from his perspective.

I saw the times he had tried to reach me.

Dreams I had dismissed.

Encounters with Christians I had ignored.

Moments of doubt I had pushed away.

He had been pursuing me my entire life and I had run from him.

I saw the deaths I had caused through a different lens.

Not as casualties of war or collateral damage.

As people, individuals, each one loved by him.

each one a soul he had died for.

And I had cut short their lives without giving them a chance to find him.

The weight of it broke me.

Whatever I was in that place, it broke.

I collapsed though I had no knees to collapse on.

I cried out though I had no voice to cry with.

I wept though I had no eyes to produce tears.

And I begged.

I begged for forgiveness.

I begged for mercy.

I begged for another chance.

Jesus reached down and touched me.

The moment his hand made contact, everything changed.

The pain stopped.

The guilt lifted.

The darkness vanished.

I was surrounded by light and love and peace.

He said, “I died for you.

I died for all, even for you.

My blood covers every sin for those who truly repent, for those who believe, for those who accept.

He showed me more.

He showed me the truth about everything, about creation, about humanity, about God’s plan, about what was coming, about the urgency of the time we were living in.

He said, “Time is short.

My return is near.

Tell them.

Tell all of them.

Muslims, Jews, atheists, everyone.

Tell them that I am the way and the truth and the life.

Tell them that no one comes to the father except through me.

Tell them that religion cannot save them.

Works cannot save them.

Only faith in my sacrifice can save them.

He showed me people I knew, my family, my friends, other fighters.

All of them walking toward the same place I had been.

All of them deceived just as I had been deceived.

All of them thinking they were righteous when they were lost.

The grief overwhelmed me.

I thought of Aliyah, of Tariq and Leila and Omar.

They were on the same path I had been on.

They would end up here too if nothing changed.

I asked him though not with words what I should do, how I could help them, how I could save them.

He said, “You will return.

You will tell them what you have seen.

Many will not believe.

They will call you a liar.

They will threaten you.

They will hate you.

But some will believe.

And for those who believe, it will be worth everything you suffer.

” He told me more about how to find him.

About how simple it really was.

Not complex religious rules and requirements, just faith, just believing that he was who he said he was and that his death paid for sins and that he rose from the dead and was alive.

He said, “I do not want your religious rituals.

I want your heart.

I want relationship.

I want you to know me and love me and follow me.

That is all.

That is everything.

Then he looked at me with such love that I thought I would shatter from the force of it.

He said, “I am giving you mercy.

I am sending you back.

Do not waste this gift.

Do not waste this second chance.

Go and tell them.

Tell them all.

Time is running out.

The light intensified.

It became so bright I could not see anything else.

I felt myself being lifted, being pulled upward.

The opposite of the falling I had experienced before.

Everything spun and swirled.

I heard sounds muffled and distant at first, then growing clearer.

Voices, machines crying.

I felt pain again.

physical pain different from the pain in hell but still pain.

My chest hurt, my head hurt, everything hurt.

But it was the pain of life.

The pain of having a body again.

I became aware of weight, of lying on something, of air moving in and out of lungs, of a heart beating in my chest.

I tried to open my eyes.

The lids were so heavy, but I forced them open.

Bright lights, white ceiling, faces looking down at me.

A man in a white coat shouting in Arabic, nurses rushing around, machines beeping.

I was in a hospital.

I was alive.

Someone was crying.

A woman.

She grabbed my hand.

Aliyah, my wife, she was saying, “You’re awake.

Thank Allah.

You’re awake.

We thought you were dead.

You were dead.

” No pulse, nothing for several minutes.

But you’re alive.

You’re alive.

But I was not thinking about being alive.

I was thinking about what I had seen, about where I had been, about what Jesus had told me.

I was alive, but everything had changed.

Everything.

The hospital room was small and crowded.

Doctors and nurses moved around me, checking machines, taking my pulse, shining lights in my eyes.

They spoke in rapid Arabic.

Their voices filled with confusion and amazement.

I could not focus on them.

My mind was still in that other place, still seeing the faces of the damned, still hearing Jesus’s voice, still feeling the weight of what I had been shown.

Aliyah held my hand tightly.

She was crying and laughing at the same time.

Relief and joy and disbelief all mixed together on her face.

Behind her, I could see other people in the doorway.

My parents, my brothers, all staring at me like I was a ghost.

The doctor, an older man with gray in his beard, kept shaking his head.

He spoke to another doctor in low tones, but I could hear him.

He said, “There is no medical explanation.

He should be dead.

His companions are dead.

The explosion should have killed him instantly.

Even if it didn’t, he had no pulse for at least 4 minutes.

Brain damage should be severe.

” But look at him.

He’s conscious.

He’s alert.

His vitals are strong.

It’s impossible.

But I knew it was not impossible.

It was a miracle.

Jesus had sent me back just as he said he would.

The doctors eventually cleared most people out of the room.

They wanted to run tests.

They said they needed to understand what had happened.

Aliyah refused to leave.

She sat in a chair beside my bed, still holding my hand, still crying softly.

I looked at her, really looked at her, and I saw her differently now.

I saw her as Jesus saw her, a precious soul, a woman he loved and died for, a woman who was following the wrong path and did not know it.

I wanted to tell her everything right then about hell, about Jesus, about the truth.

But something stopped me.

Maybe it was wisdom from God.

Maybe it was fear.

Maybe both.

The words would not come.

Not yet.

A nurse came and gave me something for pain.

My body was starting to register the injuries.

Burns on my arms and chest, a deep cut on my forehead, bruised ribs, but nothing serious.

Nothing that would take long to heal.

Another miracle.

The medicine made me drowsy.

I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw hell again, saw the faces, heard the screaming, and I saw Jesus bathed in light, looking at me with those eyes full of love and sorrow.

Over the next few days, I became a wonder in the hospital.

Doctors came from other departments to examine me.

They could not explain my survival.

They could not explain my rapid recovery.

Some said it was luck.

Others said it was the will of Allah.

None of them knew the real reason.

Visitors came constantly.

Hamas commanders, fellow fighters, friends from the mosque.

They all wanted to see the man who had survived the impossible.

They all had the same interpretation.

Allah had spared me for a reason.

I was meant to continue the fight.

I was blessed.

I was protected.

I said little.

I nodded.

I thanked them for their concern.

But inside I was in turmoil.

I knew the truth.

Allah had not saved me.

Jesus had.

But how could I tell them that? How could I explain what I had seen? They would think I was crazy.

They would think the explosion had damaged my brain.

or worse they would think I had become an apostate and apostasy in Islam carries a death sentence.

So I stayed quiet.

I smiled when I was supposed to smile.

I said the right words when visitors came.

I prayed the five daily prayers when people could see me.

But it all felt empty now.

Like going through motions that had no meaning.

At night when I was alone, I would weep.

Silent tears that soaked my pillow.

I wept for the truth I now knew.

I wept for all the people in hell.

I wept for my family who did not know they were on the wrong path.

I wept for myself and the years I had wasted.

I wept for the people I had killed.

The guilt was overwhelming.

in hell.

I had seen some of the people who died because of my bombs.

But Jesus had shown me more.

He had shown me all of them.

Every single person.

And I carried that knowledge.

Now I was responsible for ending lives, for cutting short their chances to find Jesus, for sending them into eternity unprepared.

How do you live with that knowledge? How do you carry that weight? I learned later that Hassan and Bilal, the two men working with me in the workshop, had both died instantly in the explosion.

Their bodies had been torn apart.

They had funerals.

They were called martyrs.

People mourned them and praised their sacrifice.

But I knew where they were.

They were in that place, that place of fire and screaming and endless suffering.

And they would be there forever.

The thought made me sick.

I would lie in my hospital bed and think about them, about how they had believed they were serving God just as I had believed it.

And now they were paying for that belief for all eternity.

I wanted to do something to fix it to go back and warn them.

But I could not.

It was too late for them.

Just as it was too late for all those souls I had seen in hell.

But it was not too late for the living.

That is what Jesus had told me.

That is why he sent me back.

After 5 days, they released me from the hospital.

I was physically well enough to go home.

The doctors were still baffled, but they could find no reason to keep me.

They gave me pain medication and instructions to rest.

They scheduled follow-up appointments.

Then they sent me home.

Home to my cramped apartment, to my wife and children, to my life.

But I was not the same person who had left that apartment 5 days before.

Everything looked the same.

The same cracked walls, the same worn furniture, the same sounds and smells.

But I saw it all differently now.

My children ran to me when I walked in the door.

Tariq hugged my legs.

Leila grabbed my hand.

Little Omar jumped up and down with excitement.

They were so happy to see me, so innocent, so unaware of the danger they were in.

I looked at them and saw souls heading toward hell.

Not because they were bad children.

They were good children, sweet and loving and obedient.

But they were being raised in Islam.

They were being taught the same things I had been taught.

And those teachings led to the place I had been.

The thought was unbearable.

I picked up Omar and held him tight.

I kissed his head and breathed in his child’s smell, and I promised myself that I would find a way to save them somehow.

That night, after the children were asleep, Aliyah came and sat beside me.

We had not had a chance to really talk since the explosion.

She had been at the hospital every day, but always with other people around.

Now, it was just us.

She looked at me with concern in her eyes.

She said I seemed different, distant.

She asked if I was in pain, if I was traumatized by the explosion, if I needed to talk to someone.

I wanted to tell her everything.

The words were right there.

But fear held me back.

Fear of what she would think.

Fear of what she would do.

Fear of losing her and the children.

So I lied.

I said I was fine, just tired, just adjusting.

I would be back to normal soon.

But she did not look convinced.

She knew me too well.

She knew something had changed.

She just did not know what.

The next few weeks were the hardest of my life.

Harder than growing up in a war zone.

harder than making bombs in a dangerous workshop.

Harder than anything I had experienced before.

I was living a double life again.

But it was different from before.

Before I had been a loving father at home and a weapons maker at work.

Now I was pretending to be a devout Muslim while knowing in my heart that Islam was a lie.

I went through the motions.

I prayed five times a day when people could see me.

I went to the mosque on Fridays.

I fasted.

I read the Quran with my children.

I said the right words and made the right sounds.

But it was all hollow, empty, meaningless inside.

I was screaming.

I was dying.

I was suffocating under the weight of what I knew and could not say.

Hamas commanders came to visit me.

They wanted to know when I would return to work.

They needed my skills.

There were operations, planned, materials waiting.

I was valuable to them.

I made excuses.

I said I needed more time to recover.

That I was still having headaches.

That the doctors wanted me to rest.

They were patient at first.

They said to take my time, but I could see the patients wearing thin.

They expected loyalty, commitment, and they were not seeing it from me.

At night, when everyone else was asleep, I would take my phone and hide in the bathroom.

I would search the internet for information about Jesus, about Christianity, about the claims he had made.

I read testimonies from other Muslims who had converted.

I read their stories of visions and dreams and encounters.

I read about the differences between Islam and Christianity.

I read about grace and salvation and redemption.

Everything I read confirmed what I had experienced.

Jesus was who he said he was, the son of God, the savior, the only way to heaven.

But how could I accept this? How could I turn my back on everything I had believed on my family, my community, my entire identity? Yet, how could I not accept it? I had been to hell.

I had seen the truth.

I knew what was waiting for those who rejected Jesus.

How could I stay quiet knowing that? I was torn in half.

Part of me wanted to shout the truth from the rooftops to tell everyone, to warn them, to beg them to listen.

But another part of me was terrified because I knew what happened to apostates in Gaza.

I knew what happened to Muslims who converted to Christianity.

They were killed sometimes by their own families.

It was not just possible.

It was expected.

It was required by Islamic law.

If I came out as a Christian, I would be signing my death warrant and probably alias and the children’s too because families were held responsible for apostates.

They were shamed, dishonored, sometimes attacked.

I could not do that to them.

I could not put them in danger.

But I could not keep pretending either.

The internal conflict was tearing me apart.

Then something happened that changed everything.

I was at the hospital for a followup appointment.

The doctor examined me and declared that I was healing remarkably well.

He said it was truly amazing.

Then he left to get some paperwork.

I was alone in the examination room waiting.

I looked around idly at the medical posters on the walls, the anatomy charts, the health warnings.

Then I noticed the nurse who was preparing to take my blood pressure.

She was young, maybe 25.

She wore a headscarf like most women in Gaza.

She was efficient and professional.

Nothing about her stood out.

But as she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my arm, I noticed something.

A small bracelet on her wrist.

Just a thin chain with a tiny pendant.

The pendant was shaped like a fish.

My heart started beating faster.

I knew what that symbol meant.

I had read about it in my secret searches.

The fish was an ancient Christian symbol, one of the first symbols believers used to identify each other during times of persecution.

Was it possible? Could this woman be a Christian here in Gaza? She pumped the cuff and watched the gauge.

She wrote down the numbers on a chart.

She started to unwrap the cuff.

I spoke quietly, barely above a whisper.

I said, “That symbol you wear, I know what it means.

” She froze.

Her eyes went wide.

For a moment, she looked terrified.

Then she glanced at the door to make sure no one was there.

She leaned close and spoke in a voice so low I could barely hear her.

She said, “Be careful, brother.

Walls have ears.

” I said, “I need to talk to someone.

I need help, please.

” She studied my face for a long moment.

Whatever she saw there must have convinced her.

She nodded slightly.

Then she wrote something on a small piece of paper and pressed it into my hand.

As she finished removing the cuff, she said in a normal voice, “Your blood pressure is good.

The doctor will be back soon.

” Then she left.

I looked at the paper in my hand.

It had a phone number on it.

Nothing else, just a number.

My hands were shaking as I put the paper in my pocket.

That night, I waited until everyone was asleep.

Then I went into the bathroom again with my phone.

I entered the number into an encrypted messaging app I had downloaded for this purpose.

I typed a simple message.

I need to meet believers.

I need to know the truth.

Please help me.

I stared at the message for a long time before I hit send.

Once I did this, there was no going back.

This was real.

This was dangerous.

This was choosing a path that could end with my death.

But I thought about hell, about the faces there, about Jesus’s command to tell others, about my children being led down the same path I had been on.

I had send for several minutes.

Nothing happened.

I thought maybe it was a wrong number.

Maybe the nurse had made a mistake.

Maybe I had misunderstood the situation.

Then a message came back.

Who are you? How did you get this number? I typed.

A nurse at the hospital gave it to me.

I saw her bracelet.

I need to talk to believers.

I’m serious.

Another long pause.

Then you could be anyone.

You could be Hamas trying to find us.

Why should we trust you? I thought about what to say.

Then I typed, I am the bomb maker who survived the explosion in Shajaya two weeks ago.

You probably heard about it.

Two died, one lived.

That was me.

I lived because Jesus sent me back.

I saw hell.

I saw him.

I need to know more.

I need help.

This pause was even longer.

I waited, barely breathing.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it would wake someone.

Finally, tomorrow, 3 p.

m.

, there is a market near Alsha Hospital.

Go to the fruit stand in the northeast corner.

Buy apples.

Someone will approach you.

I typed back.

How will I know them? The response.

They will know you.

Come alone.

Tell no one.

If you are not alone, they will not show.

If you bring danger, may God forgive you.

I typed I understand.

I will be alone.

Thank you.

One more message came.

If you are a genuine brother, welcome.

We have been praying for you.

Then the conversation ended.

I sat there in the bathroom for a long time staring at my phone.

This was really happening.

I was going to meet other believers, people who knew the truth, people who could help me.

But I was also terrified.

What if it was a trap? What if Hamas had already discovered me and this was their way of confirming my apostasy? What if I was walking into my death? Then I remembered Jesus’s words.

Many will not believe.

They will threaten you.

They will hate you, but some will believe.

And for those who believe, it will be worth everything you suffer.

I had to trust.

I had to have faith.

Jesus had sent me back for a reason.

He would not abandon me now.

The next day moved slowly.

I went through my routine in a days.

I ate breakfast with my family.

I played with my children.

I pretended everything was normal.

But inside, I was counting down the hours until 300 p.

m.

When it was time, I told Aliyah I needed to go buy some things at the market.

She offered to come with me.

I said, “No, I would be quick.

She should stay with the children.

” She looked at me oddly, but agreed.

I walked it through the streets of Gaza toward Alshifa Hospital.

The city looked different to me now.

I saw people rushing about their daily lives and I knew that most of them were heading toward hell just like I had been.

Just like I would have been if not for Jesus’s mercy.

The market near the hospital was crowded and noisy.

Vendors called out their wares.

Women haggled over prices.

Children ran between the stalls.

Normal life in a place that was anything but normal.

I found the fruit stand in the northeast corner.

An old man sat behind piles of apples and oranges and dates.

I approached and began examining the apples, picking them up and putting them down like I was looking for the best ones.

I waited 5 minutes, 10 minutes.

I started to think no one would come.

That maybe it had been a test and I had failed it somehow.

Then a man appeared beside me.

He was maybe 40 years old, dressed in ordinary clothes.

He picked up an apple and examined it carefully.

Without looking at me, he spoke quietly.

He said, “These are good apples, fresh, sweet, worth the price.

I did not know what to say.

Was this the person or just another customer?” Then he said, “Sometimes the best fruit is hidden.

You have to know where to look.

You have to be willing to dig beneath the surface.

I realized this was the code.

I said feeling foolish, “Yes, I am looking for something beneath the surface, something real.

” He finally looked at me.

His eyes were kind but cautious.

He studied my face for a moment.

Then he nodded slightly.

He said, “Buy your apples, then follow me.

” Not closely.

Stay back about 10 meters.

If I stop suddenly, keep walking past me and go home.

Do you understand? I said, I understand.

He said, “What is your name?” I hesitated.

Names were dangerous.

Then I said, “Abd,” he said, “I am Yousef, but that is not my real name.

You will understand why soon.

” He walked away.

I quickly paid for a bag of apples, my hands shaking slightly.

Then I followed him.

keeping the distance he specified.

We walked through the market, then down several side streets.

Ysef was careful.

He doubled back twice.

He led me through a building and out another entrance.

He was checking to make sure we were not being followed.

Finally, after about 15 minutes of walking, he turned into an alley and opened a door that looked like it led to a storage room.

He glanced around once, then gestured for me to come quickly.

I followed him inside.

The door closed behind us.

We were in a small room with concrete walls.

There was a table and some chairs.

A single light bulb hung from the ceiling.

Nothing else.

Yousef turned to face me.

His expression was serious but not unfriendly.

He said, “You told my contact that you are the bomb maker from Shajaya, that you survived, that you saw Jesus.

” I said, “Yes, all of that is true.

” He said, “Tell me what happened.

Everything.

Do not leave anything out.

” So I told him, I told him about the explosion, about dying, about hell, about seeing the multitudes there, about the fighters and clerics, about their desperate warnings, about Jesus appearing in light and glory, about his scars and his eyes and his words, about him sending me back, about the message I was supposed to share.

I told him everything while Yousef listened in silence.

When I finished, there were tears on my face.

Yousef was quiet for a long moment.

Then he spoke.

He said, “I believe you, Abdul.

Not just uh because of your words, but because I have heard similar stories before.

Jesus is revealing himself to many Muslims in these days.

through dreams and visions and encounters like yours.

He’s calling his people out of Islam and into truth.

Relief flooded through me.

He believed me.

I was not crazy.

This was real.

I said, “What do I do now? I cannot go back to my old life.

But I cannot tell my family.

They would not understand.

They would turn me in.

What do I do?” Yousef sat down and gestured for me to do the same.

I said, “First, you need to understand clearly what it means to follow Jesus.

This is not another religion.

This is not about replacing Islamic rules with Christian rules.

This is about relationship with God through faith in Jesus’s sacrifice.

” He explained it carefully how Jesus was fully God and fully man.

How he lived a perfect life.

How he died on the cross to pay the penalty for human sin.

How he rose from the dead on the third day.

How anyone who believes in him and accepts his sacrifice is saved.

Not by works, not by religious observance, simply by faith.

He said, “Have you believed this? Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” I said, “Yes, I saw him.

I know he is real.

I know he is the only way.

I believe.

Yousef smiled.

Then a real smile full of joy.

He said, “Then you are my brother.

You are saved.

You are a child of God.

Welcome to the family.

” He prayed with me.

A simple prayer.

I declared my faith in Jesus.

I acknowledged my sins and my need for a savior.

I thanked to Jesus for dying for me and for saving me from hell.

I committed my life to following him.

When we said amen, I felt something, a piece that I cannot fully describe, like a burden being lifted, like chains falling off, like coming home after being lost for a very long time.

Yousef said, “You should be baptized.

It is an important step, a public declaration of faith.

But public is dangerous here, so we do it in secret.

with witnesses from the underground church.

Underground church.

I had not realized there were enough believers in Gaza to call it a church.

But Yousef explained that there were several dozen secret believers, maybe more.

They met in small groups.

They were very careful.

They had to be.

He said, “We will arrange your baptism, but first you need to understand the danger.

You have left Islam.

That makes you an apostate.

If your identity as a believer is discovered, you will be killed.

Not maybe you will be killed.

Your family might be killed too or at minimum they will be shamed and persecuted.

Do you understand this? I said I understand.

I am already in danger because I refuse to return to bomb making.

They are getting suspicious.

How long before they force the issue? Ysef nodded grimly.

He said, “You will need to disappear eventually.

We can help with that.

We have ways of relocating believers who are in danger.

But first, let us make sure you are grounded in your faith.

Let us teach you.

Let us baptize you.

Then we will plan your next steps.

” Over the next two weeks, I met with Yousef and other believers several times, always carefully, always in secret locations, never the same place twice.

They taught me about the Bible, about the differences between Islam and Christianity, about grace and law and faith.

They answered my questions.

They prayed with me.

They became my family.

There were more believers than I had imagined.

I met a doctor, a teacher, a shop owner, a university student, even a former imam who had converted years before.

All of them living double lives.

All of them risking everything.

They told me about other converts throughout the Muslim world, about underground churches in Saudi Arabia and Iran and Afghanistan, about satellite TV channels and secret websites and encrypted apps that were spreading the gospel in places where it had been banned for centuries.

They said that more Muslims had come to Christ in the last 20 years than in the previous thousand years combined.

That Jesus was moving powerfully in the Islamic world despite the persecution.

That the blood of martyrs was producing a harvest.

I met other converts who had similar experiences to mine.

One man had seen Jesus in a dream.

A woman had been healed supernaturally after praying in Jesus’s name.

A young man had been saved from a violent death by an intervention he could only explain as angelic.

Each story strengthened my faith.

I was not alone.

This was real.

This was happening everywhere.

My baptism was held in the middle of the night in a hidden basement room.

About 15 believers were there.

They sang hymns quietly in Arabic.

They read from the Bible.

Then Ysef baptized me in a large container of water.

He said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Buried with Christ in death, raised with him in new life.

He lowered me under the water.

For a second, I was back in that moment of dying, back in the darkness.

But then I came up out of the water and there was only light and joy and the faces of my brothers and sisters in Christ smiling at me.

They hugged me.

They welcomed me.

They called me brother.

I cried.

I had not felt belonging like this since before the explosion.

Maybe I had never felt belonging like this at all.

One older woman, maybe 60 years old, said to me, “You have been given a great gift.

Jesus revealed himself to you in a powerful way.

That gift comes with responsibility.

You must share what you have seen.

You must warn others.

This is your calling now.

I knew she was right.

” I thought about the souls in hell begging me to tell people.

I thought about Jesus commanding me to share the message.

I thought about my family still on the wrong path.

I said, “How? How do I share safely? How do I reach people without being killed immediately?” Yousef said, “The internet, social media, blogs, videos, all anonymous.

You can reach millions without revealing your identity.

Others have done it.

You can too.

” The idea terrified me, but it also excited me.

I could fulfill Jesus’s command.

I could warn people.

I could tell the truth about hell and about Jesus and about salvation.

I said, “I will do it.

Teach me how.

” They taught me about VPNs and encryption, about anonymous accounts and secure communication, about how to speak the truth while protecting my identity.

It took time, but I learned.

Meanwhile, the pressure from Hamas was increasing.

They were no longer patient.

They were demanding that I return to work.

They were sending people to check on me.

They were watching my family.

Yousef said, “You need to leave Gaza soon.

We are working on arrangements.

It will take a few weeks.

Can you hold on that long? I said, I have to.

I have no choice.

But it was getting harder.

Aliyah knew something was very wrong.

She asked me constantly what was going on, why I was acting so strange, why I refused to work, why I spent so much time on my phone.

One night, she found me reading something on my phone.

Before I could hide it, she saw it was a website about Jesus, about Christianity, about conversion from Islam.

Her face went white.

She looked at me with horror and disbelief.

She said, “What is that? Why are you reading that?” I said, “Aaliyah, please let me explain.

” She said, “Explain what? Explain why you are reading about Christianity.

explain why you have turned your back on Islam.

She was crying now, loud enough that she might wake the children or alert the neighbors.

I said, “Please keep your voice down.

Let me tell you what happened to me.

” But she would not listen.

She was hysterical.

She said I had gone crazy, that the explosion had damaged my brain, that I needed help, that I was putting us all in danger.

I tried to tell her about my experience, about hell, about Jesus.

But she put her hands over her ears like a child refusing to hear something.

Finally, she said, “I cannot live with an apostate.

Do you understand what you are doing? They will kill you.

They will kill all of us.

How can you do this to your family? I said, I am trying to save you.

You are on the wrong path.

You are heading to hell.

All of you, I have seen it.

I have been there.

Jesus is the only way.

She slapped me hard across the face.

Then she ran into the bedroom and locked the door.

I stood there in the darkness, my cheeks stinging, my heart breaking.

I had lost her.

I had lost my wife and probably my children, too.

This was the cost.

This was what Jesus had warned me about.

I would lose everything.

But it was worth it if even some would be saved.

I contacted Yousef that night.

I said, “I need to leave now.

Today, it’s not safe anymore.

” He said, “Give us 2 days.

We are almost ready.

two days and we can get you out.

Those were the longest two days of my life.

Aliyah would not speak to me.

She kept the children away from me.

She was talking to her family, to my family, to people at the mosque.

She was telling them something was wrong with me.

I knew it was only a matter of time before Hamas came.

On the second night, Yousef sent a message.

Tonight, midnight, be ready.

Bring nothing.

Come to the location I send you.

Do not be followed.

I looked at my sleeping children one last time.

TK with his mouth open, breathing softly.

Ila curled up with her favorite doll.

Omar with his thumb in his mouth even though he was getting too old for that.

I wanted to wake them, to hold them, to tell them I loved them, but I could not risk it.

They might cry out.

They might alert Aliyah.

So I just kissed their foreheads while they slept.

I whispered that I loved them, that I was doing this for them, that someday they would understand.

Then I left.

I walked out of my home and my old life forever.

At midnight, I met believers who had arranged my escape.

They smuggled me out of Gaza through tunnels and safe houses and bribes and risks I did not fully understand.

They passed me from one contact to another like a relay race.

After 3 days of traveling, I arrived in a small town far from Gaza.

A place where no one knew me, where I could start over.

They set me up in a safe house, a single room with a bed and a table and a computer.

Everything I needed to begin my mission.

I created accounts, multiple platforms, all anonymous, all secure.

I began to write my story to share my testimony to warn people about hell and tell them about Jesus.

The first blog post was the hardest.

I wrote it and deleted it a dozen times.

I was terrified.

But finally I hit publish.

The title was simple.

I was a Hamas bomb maker.

Jesus saved me from hell.

Within hours the responses started coming in.

Hundreds then thousands.

Some were death threats.

Some called me a liar and a traitor and a tool of the West.

But some were different.

Some said, “Is this true? Tell me more.

I need to know.

” And I knew then that Jesus was working, that my story was reaching people, that some would believe, and that made everything worth it.

The first few months in hiding were the hardest time of my life.

Not because of physical danger, though that was always present.

Not because of the conditions of the safe house, though they were basic and lonely.

The hardest part was the separation from my family.

Every night I would lie awake thinking about my children, wondering what they were doing, if they missed me, if they understood why I had left.

If Aliyah had told them I was dead or just gone, if they hated me now.

I had photos of them on my phone.

Hundreds of photos.

I would look at them in the dark and cry silently.

Tariq at his seventh birthday party, smiling with cake on his face.

Leila dancing in the living room to music from my phone.

Omar taking his first steps while we all cheered.

I had left them to save them, but the cost of that choice was almost more than I could bear.

The safe house was in a town I cannot name.

The room was on the third floor of a building that housed several refugee families.

My cover story was that I was a refugee from Aleppo, displaced by the Syrian civil war.

No one questioned it.

There were thousands of Syrian refugees scattered throughout the region.

One more made no difference.

The room was small, maybe three meters by four meters.

a single bed, a small table with a chair, a hot plate for cooking, a bathroom down the hall that I shared with three other families.

The walls were thin.

I could hear conversations and arguments and children crying through them at all hours.

But I had a computer, an old laptop that the believers had provided and I had internet access through a secure connection.

That was all I needed.

I spent hours every day writing blog posts, articles, testimonies.

I wrote about my experience in hell with as much detail as I could remember.

I wrote about seeing Jesus.

I wrote about the message he gave me.

I wrote about salvation and grace and the urgency of choosing Christ before death comes.

I wrote in Arabic.

My people needed to hear this message in their own language.

But I also had friends translate my posts into English and other languages.

The message needed to go everywhere.

The response was overwhelming.

Within weeks, my blog had thousands of followers, then tens of thousands.

My story was being shared across social media platforms.

People were discussing it, debating it.

Some believed it, many did not.

The death threats came immediately.

Detailed messages describing exactly how they would kill me if they found me.

graphic descriptions of torture, promises to hurt my family.

I learned to expect them.

I learned to not let them frighten me into silence.

But mixed in with the threats were other messages.

Messages that made everything worthwhile.

A young man in Saudi Arabia wrote, “I have been having dreams about Jesus for months.

Your story confirms what I have been feeling.

I prayed the prayer of salvation today.

Thank you.

A woman in Iran wrote, “I am a secret believer.

I thought I was alone.

Your testimony gives me courage.

There are more of us than we know.

” A former ISIS fighter wrote, “I have done terrible things.

I thought I was serving Allah.

Your story about hell terrified me.

But your message about Jesus’s mercy gives me hope.

Can someone like me be forgiven? I responded to as many messages as I could.

I prayed for people I would never meet.

I pointed them to resources.

I connected them with other believers in their regions when I could do so safely.

I realized I was part of something much bigger than myself.

Jesus was moving throughout the Muslim world in ways that had never happened before through dreams and visions and testimonies like mine.

He was calling people out of Islam and into relationship with him.

My contact with other believers was limited but vital.

Yousef checked on me regularly through encrypted messages.

He sent me encouraging words and warnings when there was news of threats.

He connected me with other converts who could provide advice and support.

I learned that there were thousands of us, secret believers scattered throughout the Middle East and North Africa, most living double lives, most unable to be open about their faith, some in real danger every single day.

I heard stories that broke my heart.

A young woman in Afghanistan who had converted after a vision of Jesus.

Her family discovered her Bible.

They killed her for apostasy.

She was 19 years old.

A pastor in Algeria who had been running an underground church for years.

He was arrested.

He refused to recant his faith.

He died in prison under suspicious circumstances.

a family in Iraq who had all come to Christ together.

ISIS fighters found out.

They gave the family a choice.

Deny Jesus or die.

The parents and their teenage son chose death rather than deny their Lord.

The two younger children, both under 10, watched their family die before Isis took them away.

No one knows what happened to those children.

These stories should have discouraged me, should have made me want to hide and stay silent.

But instead, they did the opposite.

They strengthened my resolve.

These brothers and sisters had given everything for Jesus.

How could I do any less? I increased my output.

I began making videos, though I never showed my face, just my voice speaking over images and text.

I talked about hell, about heaven, about Jesus, about the lies of Islam and the truth of the gospel.

The videos reached even more people than the written posts.

Something about hearing a human voice telling this story made it more real, more urgent, more believable.

One video went especially viral.

It was titled What I Saw in Hell: A Warning to All Muslims.

In it, I described in detail the souls I had seen, the fighters and clerics, the suffering, the hopelessness, the desperate warnings they gave me.

That video was viewed over a million times in three months.

It was shared on Facebook and Twitter and WhatsApp and Telegram.

It was translated into multiple languages.

It reached people in countries I had never heard of.

And with its spread came both blessing and danger.

More people were reading and believing and accepting Jesus.

But more people were also hunting for me, trying to identify me, trying to track me down.

I had to be extremely careful.

I never used the same internet connection twice.

I never showed identifying details in videos.

I never mentioned specific locations or names.

I used VPNs and encryption and every security measure the techsavvy believers had taught me.

But I knew that no security was perfect.

Hamas had cyber capabilities.

So did other Islamic groups.

It was only a matter of time before someone got close to finding me.

About 6 months after I left Gaza, I got word through Yousef.

Hamas had been to my family’s apartment.

They had questioned Aliyah.

They wanted to know where I was, what I was doing, why I had disappeared.

Aliyah told them she did not know that I had left without explanation.

that she had not heard from me.

This was true.

I had not contacted her.

It was too dangerous for both of us.

But Hamas did not believe her.

They came back multiple times.

They threatened her.

They said she would be held responsible if I was working against them.

They watched the apartment.

They followed her when she went out.

My family was suffering because of my choices.

My children were being harassed.

My wife was being interrogated.

My parents were being shamed in the community.

People whispered about them in the streets and at the mosque.

The guilt was crushing.

I had saved my own soul.

But at what cost? To the people I loved most.

I wanted to contact them to explain, to apologize, to tell them why I had done what I did, but I could not.

Any contact would put them in more danger, would confirm that they knew where I was or what I was doing.

So, I suffered in silence.

I prayed for them daily.

I begged God to protect them, to provide for them, to eventually open their eyes to the truth.

and I continued my work because their suffering would be meaningless if I gave up now.

The only way to honor their sacrifice was to press forward, to reach more people, to save more souls.

I began to receive invitations to speak.

Christian organizations wanted to interview me.

Churches wanted my testimony.

News outlets wanted my story.

I said no to most of them.

The exposure was too dangerous.

But I did a few carefully arranged phone interviews where my voice was disguised and my identity protected.

I wanted the message to spread, but I needed to stay hidden.

One interview was with the Christian satellite TV channel that broadcast throughout the Middle East.

The interviewer asked me if I was afraid, if I regretted leaving everything behind, if I thought it was worth it.

I told him, “Every day I’m afraid.

Every day I miss my family.

But I have seen hell.

I have seen Jesus.

I know what is true.

How can I stay silent knowing what I know? How can I let others walk into eternal suffering without warning them? My life is not my own anymore.

I gave it to Jesus the moment he sent me back.

Whether I live or die, I will use whatever time I have to tell people the truth.

The interview aired and was viewed by millions, more messages flooded in, more death threats, more people accepting Christ, both in equal measure.

Then came the close calls.

Twice in the first year, I had to relocate suddenly.

Once because someone recognized my voice from a video and reported the general area I was in.

The believers moved me in the middle of the night to a new safe house in a different town.

The second time was worse.

Hamas operatives actually came to the building where I was staying.

They were going door to door, asking questions, looking for suspicious people.

I hid in a closet while they searched the apartment below mine.

The family who lived there told them nothing, but I knew I had been seconds away from discovery.

After that, I moved every few months, whether there was a specific threat or not.

I never stayed in one place long enough to feel comfortable.

Never made friends with neighbors, never established patterns that could be tracked.

I lived like a ghost, always watching over my shoulder, always ready to run, always aware that today could be the day they found me.

But I also lived with purpose.

Every morning I woke up knowing that my life had meaning.

That I was doing exactly what God had called me to do.

That whatever suffering I endured was producing fruit that would last for eternity.

In the second year, something unexpected happened.

I received a message through the encrypted network.

It was from Aliyah.

My heart nearly stopped when I saw her name.

For a long moment, I could not bring myself to open the message.

What would she say? More anger, curses, a demand that I come back or leave them alone forever.

I finally opened it.

The message was short.

It said, “Abd, I know you are alive.

I know you are hiding.

I do not understand what happened to you, but Ila asks about you every day.

She cries for her father.

The children need to know you are alive.

They need to know you did not abandon them.

Please just tell me you are alive and safe.

I will not tell anyone.

I promise.

I just need to know for the children.

I read the message 10 times.

I wept.

I wanted so badly to respond.

To tell her yes, I was alive.

To tell her I loved her and the children.

to explain everything.

But I was afraid.

What if it was a trick? What if Hamas had forced her to send the message to draw me out? What if responding would put her in more danger? I agonized over it for days.

I prayed constantly.

I asked Yousef for advice.

He said, “It was my choice, but I needed to be very careful.

” Finally, I decided to respond.

I wrote, “I am alive.

I am safe.

” Tell the children I love them more than anything.

Tell them I did not abandon them.

Tell them I had to leave to protect them.

Someday they will understand.

I cannot say more.

It is not safe.

I am sorry for everything.

Please forgive me.

I sent the message and then waited in agony.

Would she respond? Had I just made a terrible mistake? 3 days later a reply came.

It said, “Thank you.

I will tell them.

They will be happy to know.

I still do not understand.

I still think you have gone crazy, but I know you loved them.

I know you loved us.

That is enough for now.

” I cried when I read that.

Not tears of sadness, but of relief.

She did not understand, but she knew I had not abandoned them by choice.

That was something.

After that, we exchanged a few messages every few months.

Nothing detailed, nothing that could compromise anyone’s security, just small updates.

The children were healthy.

They were doing well in school.

They missed me, but they were coping.

These messages became lifelines for me.

They kept me connected to the family I had lost.

They reminded me why I was doing this.

They gave me strength to continue when I wanted to give up.

By the third year, my reach had grown beyond anything I could have imagined.

My blog had hundreds of thousands of followers.

My videos had been viewed millions of times.

I was receiving messages from people in over 50 countries.

And the testimonies kept coming, people accepting Christ because of my story, underground churches growing, believers being encouraged and strengthened.

A man in Pakistan wrote, “I was a Taliban fighter.

I was prepared to die as a martyr.

Then I saw your video about hell.

It shook me to my core.

I started investigating.

I found Jesus.

My whole life has changed.

” A woman in Egypt wrote, “I am from a very conservative Muslim family.

I was taught that Christians were infidels, but your testimony made me question everything.

I started reading the Bible in secret.

Now I believe.

I have not told my family yet.

I am afraid.

But I know the truth now.

” A doctor in Turkey wrote, “I considered myself a secular Muslim.

I did not take religion seriously, but your description of hell terrified me.

I realized I needed to know what happens after death.

Your message pointed me to Jesus.

I am now a secret believer in a country where that is very difficult.

These messages kept me going through the hard days, through the loneliness and fear and constant danger because I could see that Jesus was using my story to reach people I could never reach on my own.

I was just a bomb maker from Gaza.

I had no theological education.

I had no special skills or talents, but I had a testimony.

I had a message.

And Jesus was using it to save souls.

I also began connecting with other converts who had similar missions.

We formed a lose network.

We encouraged each other.

We shared resources and strategies.

We prayed for each other.

There was a former Iranian intelligence officer who had converted after seeing Jesus in a vision.

He was now running a secret ministry to reach other intelligence and military personnel.

There was a woman from Somalia who had been uh raised in an extremist family.

She had escaped and converted and was now running a safe house for other female converts fleeing persecution.

There was a man from Morocco who had been a successful businessman.

He had left everything to start an underground publishing operation that distributed Bibles and Christian materials throughout North Africa.

Meeting these people, even if only virtually, showed me that I was part of a movement, a great awakening happening across the Muslim world.

Jesus was calling his people home from every nation and tribe and tongue.

We were all taking enormous risks.

We were all sacrificing greatly.

But we were seeing fruit that made it worth everything.

In the fourth year, I received the message I had been both hoping for and dreading.

Yousef wrote, “Your wife has been asking questions, real questions.

She has been reading Christian materials in secret.

She has been searching the internet.

She is starting to see the truth.

We need to be ready to help her when she is ready.

My heart soared.

Was it possible? Could Aaliyah be coming to faith? Could my prayers for her salvation be answered? I wanted to reach out to her immediately to help her, to guide her.

But Yousef advised caution.

She needed to come to faith on her own.

Any pressure from me might drive her away or put her in danger.

So I waited and I prayed more fervently than ever.

I begged Jesus to reveal himself to her just as he had revealed himself to me.

I pleaded for her soul, for my children’s souls.

Months passed.

Then Yousef sent another message.

She has accepted Jesus.

She prayed the prayer of salvation with one of our sisters.

She wants to be baptized and she wants to talk to you.

Are you ready? I could not believe it.

After 4 years of separation, after all the pain and misunderstanding, Aliyah had found Jesus.

I wrote back immediately, “Yes, yes, I am ready.

Arrange it, please.

” The call was set up through multiple security layers, voice disguisers, encrypted connections, no video, only audio.

Yousef was on the call, too, just in case there were problems.

When I heard her voice, even distorted by the security measures, I nearly broke down.

It had been so long, so very long.

She spoke first.

Her voice was shaking.

She said, “Abd, is it really you?” I said, “Yes, my love.

It is really me.

” She started crying then, deep sobbing cries that tore at my heart.

When she could speak again, she said, “I understand now.

I understand why you left.

I thought you were crazy.

I thought you had abandoned us.

But you were trying to save us.

You are trying to tell me the truth, and I would not listen.

” I said, “You were not ready then, but you are ready now.

That is all that matters.

” She said, “I saw him Abdel Jesus.

I had a dream.

He came to me and showed me his hands with the scars.

He told me he loved me, that he died for me.

I woke up knowing it was true.

Knowing everything you tried to tell me was true.

And I have been searching ever since, learning, reading, and now I believe, I really believe.

We talked for an hour.

We cried together.

We prayed together.

We praised Jesus together for his mercy and patience with us both.

Before we ended the call, I asked about the children.

She said they were well, growing so much.

Tariq was 12 now.

Leila was 10.

Omar was seven and they still asked about me, still missed me.

I said, “Will you tell them about Jesus?” She said, “I want to, but I am afraid.

They are in school.

They have friends.

They could say something without realizing it is dangerous.

What do I do?” I said, “Pray.

Ask God to show you the right time.

He will guide you.

He brought you to the truth.

he will bring them too.

We agreed to stay in contact carefully infrequently but to encourage each other.

When the call ended, I sat in my small room and wept with joy.

My wife was saved.

My prayers had been answered.

There was hope now that my children would be saved, too.

That my whole family might be together in eternity, even if we could not be together on earth.

Now 5 years after the explosion that changed everything, I continue this work.

I am still in hiding, still moving from place to place, still living under a false identity, still unable to see my family or hold my children.

But I am not alone.

I have brothers and sisters in Christ scattered throughout the world.

I have a purpose that gives meaning to every day.

I have hope that transcends my circumstances.

My blog continues to reach millions.

My videos continue to spread.

My testimony continues to lead people to Jesus.

Not because I am anyone special, but because the message is special.

Because Jesus is special.

Because truth has power that no lie can overcome.

I receive messages every single day from people who have accepted Christ, from people who have had their own encounters with Jesus, from people who have left Islam and found freedom in the gospel.

And I think about hell.

I think about it every day.

I think about the souls still going there, still being deceived, still following the wrong path.

That memory drives me.

It will not let me rest.

It will not let me stay silent.

It will not let me give up no matter how tired I am or how dangerous things become.

Because I have seen what awaits those who die without Jesus.

I have seen the torment, the suffering, the hopelessness.

And I cannot let people go there without warning them.

I cannot.

The room where I sit now is similar to all the other rooms I have lived in over the past five years.

Small, basic, temporary.

The walls are white and bare except for a small wooden cross hanging above my bed.

The furniture consists of a narrow bed, a desk with my laptop, and a single chair.

My clothes hang on hooks on the back of the door.

I own almost nothing.

But I am rich.

Rich in ways I never was when I had a home and family and community because I have Jesus and I have purpose and I have the joy of knowing that every day I am helping to rescue souls from hell.

It is early morning now.

The call to prayer echoes from a nearby mosque.

A sound that once called me to devotion, but now reminds me of the deception I escaped.

I do not resent the Muslims who pray.

I was one of them.

I understand them.

I love them.

That is why I do what I do.

I open my laptop and check my messages.

Overnight, while I slept, my blog and videos reach thousands more people.

The numbers are staggering.

Over 15 million views total now.

Messages from over 100 countries.

Lives changed in ways I will never fully know until I reach heaven.

Today’s messages include the usual mix.

Death threats from angry Muslims who consider me a traitor and apostate.

I have gotten used to these.

I barely read them anymore.

They all say similar things.

They all promise similar ends for me.

I pray for the people who send them, then delete them and move on.

But there are other messages too.

These are the ones I read carefully, the ones I treasure.

A teenager in Bangladesh writes, “I am 15 years old.

I have been having dreams about Jesus for 6 months.

My parents are very strict Muslims.

They would kill me if they knew I was questioning Islam.

But your videos have helped me understand what Jesus is trying to to tell me.

I prayed the prayer you shared.

I accepted Jesus last night.

I am so scared but also so happy.

Please pray for me.

I write back immediately.

Brother, I am praying for you right now as I read your message.

Jesus sees you.

He loves you.

He will protect you and guide you.

Be very careful.

Tell no one until you are in a safe situation.

Connect with the secret believers in Bangladesh.

I will send you encrypted contact information.

You are not alone.

An older man in Indonesia writes, “I was an Islamic scholar for 40 years.

I taught thousands of his students about Islam.

I thought I knew the truth.

But last month, I had a heart attack.

While I was clinically dead, I saw a place of fire and darkness.

I saw people I knew who had died as faithful Muslims.

They were in torment.

They were screaming about Jesus.

I did not understand.

But then I was revived and I started searching.

I found your testimony.

It matches exactly what I saw.

Everything I thought was wrong.

Everything I believed was wrong.

I am 72 years old and I am just now learning the truth.

I want to accept Jesus but I am afraid.

What will happen to me? What is What about the students I misled? My hands shake as I type a response.

Dear brother, I understand your fear and your grief.

I too carry guilt for the harm I caused when I was deceived.

But Jesus’s blood is powerful enough to cover everything.

Every sin, every false teaching, every person misled.

When you accept his sacrifice, all of it is washed clean.

The students you taught are responsible for their own choices.

But now you can teach the truth to others.

Now you can undo some of the damage by pointing people to Jesus.

You are not too old.

Your life is not over.

This is your new beginning.

Pray with me now.

I walk him through the prayer of salvation via messages.

When he confirms that he has prayed and accepted Jesus, I weep.

Another soul saved.

Another scholar brought out of darkness.

Another voice that will now speak truth instead of lies.

This is my life now.

This is my daily routine.

Messages and prayers and encouragement, connecting converts with believers in their regions, sharing resources, answering questions about the Bible and salvation, pointing people to Jesus again and again and again.

I have learned so much in these five years of hiding.

I have learned that the underground church is much larger than most people realize.

There are believers in every Muslim majority nation.

Secret churches meeting in homes and basements and hidden rooms.

Christians worshiping in whispers because loud praise could mean death.

In Saudi Arabia, there are thousands of believers.

They cannot build churches or meet publicly, but they gather in small groups in private homes.

They share the Bible through encrypted apps.

They baptize new believers in bathtubs and swimming pools in the middle of the night.

In Iran, the underground church is growing so fast that the government cannot keep up.

They arrest pastors and raid house churches.

But three new believers spring up for every one day in prison.

Women are leading churches.

Young people are evangelizing through social media.

The gospel is spreading like fire despite intense persecution.

In Afghanistan, where the Taliban has returned to power, believers meet in secret at great risk.

They have memorized large portions of scripture because owning a Bible could mean execution.

They pray silently with their eyes open.

They share Jesus encoded language.

Yet the church survives and even grows.

I have contacts in all these places now.

other converts other people with testimonies of Jesus revealing himself through dreams and visions and supernatural encounters.

We form a network of light in dark places.

We encourage each other.

We pray for each other.

We mourn when one of us is martyed and rejoice when new believers join us.

The work has expanded beyond what I imagined in those early days.

I no longer just share my testimony.

I have become a teacher and encourager for other converts who are trying to navigate their new faith while living in hostile environments.

I created a series of videos teaching basic Christian doctrines in simple Arabic.

What is the trinity? What does it mean to be saved by grace? How do you pray? How do you read the Bible? What is the church? These videos have been viewed millions of times by new believers who have no access to churches or pastors or Bible studies.

I started a weekly live chat session where converts can ask questions anonymously.

Hundreds of people join each week.

The questions range from theological to practical.

How do I explain the Trinity to my Muslim friends without getting into an argument? Is it okay to pretend to pray the Islamic prayers to protect my safety? What do I do about my family’s expectation that I will marry a Muslim? How do I celebrate Christmas secretly when my family is all around me? Can I be saved if I die before I have a chance to be baptized? I answer as best I can, drawing on my own experience and the wisdom of more mature believers who help me prepare.

Sometimes I do not know the answer and I admit it.

But I always point people back to Jesus and to scripture.

Everything must be rooted there or it means nothing.

The personal cost of this work remains high.

I I have not seen my family in 5 years.

I have only spoken to aliyah a handful of times through carefully arranged calls.

I have never spoken to my children.

They know I am alive now, but I am still just an absence in their lives.

A father who left and never came back.

Aliyah is raising them alone.

She works cleaning houses to support them.

She cannot tell anyone she’s a Christian.

So she carries that burden secretly.

She teaches the children about Jesus quietly when they are alone at home.

She prays over them while they sleep.

Last year Tariq asked to be baptized.

He was 13.

He said he believed in Jesus and wanted to follow him.

Aliyah contacted me in tears, not knowing what to do.

baptizing him would put him at risk.

What if he told someone at school? What if someone saw? But how could we deny him? How could we tell him to wait when we do not know what tomorrow holds? So, it was arranged in a secret in the middle of the night in a believer’s home.

My 13-year-old son was baptized.

I was not there.

I could not be there.

But I watched her through a video call with my camera off.

I saw him go under the water and come up with joy on his face.

I saw him declare his faith in Jesus.

And I wept.

I wept because I was proud.

I wept because I was missing his life.

I wept because I knew the danger he now faced as a young Christian in Gaza.

I wept because I could not protect him.

I wept because only Jesus could protect him.

Now Leila is still young, still learning.

But Aliyah says she asks good questions.

She wants to understand why Jesus is different from Muhammad, why the Bible is different from the Quran.

She is thinking deeply about these things.

I pray every day that she will come to faith soon.

Omar is only 10.

He mostly just misses his father.

He does not understand the religious complexity of everything.

He just knows that daddy left and did not come back.

Aliyah says he cries sometimes that he asks when I will come home that he thinks he did something wrong to make me leave.

That knowledge breaks my heart over and over.

But I cannot go back.

If I go back, I will be killed.

and my death would not help my children.

My life and my testimony and my continued work reaching thousands of others is worth more than returning to be a present father who can say nothing about the truth.

I tell myself this, I believe it, but it does not make the pain any less.

There have been close calls, so many close calls.

Three times Hamas operatives have come within meters of finding me.

Once they actually knocked on the door of the apartment where I was staying.

I hid in a crawl space in the ceiling while they searched below me.

I could hear their voices, hear them describing me, hear them promising rewards to anyone who gave information about my location.

I held my breath for what felt like hours.

I prayed silently, desperately, and somehow they left without finding me.

Believers moved me that same night to a new location two cities away.

Another time, someone recognized my voice from a video.

They traced the general region where the video’s IP address originated from before my VPN fully kicked in.

Hamas sent people to sweep the area.

I had to flee with only my laptop and the clothes on my back.

Everything else was left behind.

They ransacked the apartment looking for clues.

They questioned neighbors.

They showed my picture around, but I was already gone.

Hidden in a safe house 300 kilometers away, protected by believers who risked their own lives to shelter me.

I have moved 17 times in five years.

17 different rooms in 17 different cities.

I own nothing anymore except my laptop, a change of clothes, my Bible, and the cross on my wall.

Everything else is temporary.

Everything else can be abandoned in seconds if I need to run.

This is the cost.

This is what it means to follow Jesus.

When you come from a place where following him is illegal, where it is punishable by death, where your own family might be the ones to kill you, but I do not regret it.

Not for one second because I know the alternative.

I have been to hell.

I have seen what awaits those who reject Jesus.

And compared to that, every earthly suffering is nothing.

Every sacrifice is worth it.

Every cost is acceptable.

My message has remained consistent over these five years.

I share my testimony.

I warn about hell.

I point to Jesus as the only way of salvation.

I explain the gospel simply, clearly, repeatedly.

But I have learned to speak to different audiences in different ways.

When I speak to Muslims, I am gentle but firm.

I tell them I understand their devotion.

I respect their sincerity.

I was just like them.

But sincerity in the wrong direction does not save anyone.

Truth matters.

Reality matters.

And the reality is that Muhammad cannot save anyone from hell.

The Quran cannot open the gates of heaven.

Good works cannot pay for sins.

Only Jesus’s blood can do that.

I tell them about the dreams and visions that are happening all over the Muslim world.

About the millions who are encountering Jesus supernaturally.

About the growth of the underground church in places where Christianity was supposed to be dead.

These are signs.

I tell them signs that we are in the last days.

signs that Jesus is is calling his people home before time runs out.

When I speak to Christians, I challenge them.

I ask them if they really believe hell is real.

If they really believe people are going there because if they believe it, how can they stay silent? How can they not share the gospel with urgency and boldness? I tell them about the secret believers in Muslim lands, about the risks we take, about the prices we pay.

And I ask, if we are willing to give up everything to share Jesus in the most dangerous places, what excuse do Christians in free countries have for staying silent? I tell them to pray, to give, to support ministries, reaching Muslims, to not be afraid of Muslims, but to love them enough to tell them the truth.

To see Muslims not as enemies, but as souls that Jesus died for, souls who are deceived, souls who are heading to hell unless someone tells them about Jesus.

When I speak to atheists and secularists, I simply tell them what I saw.

I do not argue philosophy or debate evolution or discuss the problem of evil.

I just tell them I died.

I saw hell.

It is real.

You can choose to believe me or not.

But one day you will find out for yourself.

And in that day it will be too late to change your choice.

I tell them that Jesus offers a relationship not a religion.

That he is not asking them to follow rules or do rituals.

He is asking them to trust him to accept his sacrifice to believe that he is who he says he is.

That is all.

And in return he offers forgiveness, purpose and eternal life.

The work continues.

Every single day I wake up and I do this work.

I write.

I record.

I message.

I pray.

I encourage.

I teach.

I warn.

I point to Jesus.

Some days are harder than others.

Some days the loneliness is crushing.

The fear is overwhelming.

The weariness makes me want to quit.

On those days, I remember hell.

I close my eyes and I see it again.

the fire, the darkness, the faces, the suffering, the hopelessness, the screaming that never stops, the torment that has no end.

And I remember the souls there begging me to warn others, the fighters who thought they were serving God.

The clerics who thought they knew the truth.

All of them deceived.

All of them suffering.

All of them desperate for others to not make the same mistake they made.

I remember Jesus standing in that place surrounded by light in the midst of darkness.

His scarred hands, his loving eyes, his words tell them time is running out.

And then I get back to work because I cannot stop because too many people still do not know because time is running out.

I want to speak directly now to you who are reading or hearing this testimony.

I want to make sure you understand what I am telling you.

This is not entertainment.

This is not a creative story.

This is not religious propaganda.

This is truth.

This is my life.

This is what I saw.

Hell is real.

It exists.

It is not metaphorical or symbolic or temporary.

It is a literal place of conscious eternal torment.

And many people are going there.

Good people, religious people, sincere people, people who thought they were on the right path but were deceived.

I was one of those people.

I was religious.

I was devout.

I prayed.

I fasted.

I gave to charity.

I memorized scripture.

I believed.

I was serving God.

And I was headed straight to hell.

If Jesus had not shown me mercy, if he had not sent me back, I would be there now forever.

And nothing I could say or do would change that.

That is the reality I am trying to help you understand.

Your good intentions do not save you.

Your religious observance does not save you.

Your charitable works do not save you.

Only Jesus saves you.

Only his blood shed on the cross can pay for your sins.

Only his resurrection proves that he has power over death and hell.

If you are a Muslim, please listen to me.

I know what you believe.

I believed it, too.

I know you think Jesus was just a prophet.

I thought that, too.

I know you think the Quran is God’s perfect word and Muhammad is the final messenger.

I thought that too, but I was wrong.

And if you believe those things, you are wrong, too.

I do not say this to insult you.

I say this because I love you.

I say this because I do not want you to end up in the place I saw.

I say this because Jesus loves you and died for you and is calling you to come to him.

The dreams and visions happening all over the Muslim world are real.

Jesus is revealing himself because he loves Muslims and wants to save them.

But he will not force anyone.

You must choose and time is running out.

If you are a Christian, I have a message for you too.

Do not take your salvation for granted.

Do not live a comfortable lukewarm faith while the world burns around you.

You have the truth.

You know the way.

You know what awaits those who do not know Jesus.

What are you doing about it? Are you sharing the gospel? Are you making disciples? Are you supporting missionaries and ministries that reach the unreached? Or are you just going to church on Sunday and living for yourself the rest of the week? I gave up everything for Jesus, my family, my home, my identity, my safety.

I did this because I know the stakes.

I know what is real.

What will you give up? What will you sacrifice? What does your faith cost you? If it cost you nothing, it might be worth nothing.

If you are an atheist or agnostic or follow any other religion, I want you to know that Jesus died for you too.

He loves you.

He wants a relationship with you.

He offers you forgiveness and eternal life.

You can choose to dismiss my testimony.

You can say I hallucinated or I am lying or I am mentally ill.

That is your choice.

But one day you will die and on that day you will discover whether I am telling the truth or not.

And if I am telling the truth, it will be too late for you to change your choice.

Why wait? Why risk it? Why not investigate now while you still have time? Ask Jesus to reveal himself to you.

Read the Bible.

Talk to Christians.

Seek truth with an open heart.

What do you have to lose? I do not know how much time I have left.

Hamas is still hunting me.

Other Islamic groups are hunting me.

Someone will find me eventually.

Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe years from now, but eventually they will find me.

And when they do, they will kill me.

I have accepted this.

I am not afraid of death anymore.

I have died once already.

I know what comes after and I know that when I die again, I will not go to hell.

I will go to heaven.

I will see Jesus face to face.

I will be re reunited with brothers and sisters who were martyed for their faith.

I will be home.

So death holds no terror for me.

My only concern is finishing my mission, reaching as many people as possible before my time ends.

Every day I have is a gift and I will use every single day to share the message Jesus gave me to tell Muslims that Islam cannot save them.

To tell Christians to wake up and engage.

To tell everyone that hell is real and Jesus is the only way to avoid it.

That is my mission.

That is my calling.

That is what I was sent back to do.

I want to close with a prayer.

If you have read or heard this entire testimony and you want to accept Jesus, you can do it right now.

You do not need a priest or a pastor or a church building.

You just need a sincere heart and simple faith.

Pray this prayer with me.

Jesus, I am a sinner.

I have done wrong things.

I cannot save myself.

I believe that you are the son of God.

I believe that you died on the cross to pay for my sins.

I believe that you rose from the dead.

I accept your sacrifice.

I ask you to forgive me.

I ask you to save me.

I give you my life.

Be my Lord.

Be my savior.

Thank you for your mercy.

Thank you for your love.

Amen.

If you prayed that prayer and meant it, you are saved right now at this moment.

You are forgiven.

You are a child of God.

You are no longer headed to hell.

You are headed to heaven.

Welcome to the family.

My brother or sister, welcome home.

Now you need to tell someone.

Find other believers.

Get baptized.

Read the Bible.

Pray.

Grow.

and share your testimony with others just as I have shared mine with you.

If you are in a dangerous situation where being a Christian could get you killed, be wise.

Be careful.

Connect with underground believers in your area.

I can help with that if you contact me through the encrypted methods listed with this testimony.

But do not stay silent forever.

Jesus did not stay silent.

He spoke truth even though it cost him his life.

We must do the same.

This is my story.

This is my testimony.

This is the message Jesus gave me to share.

I was a bomb maker for Hamas.

I died in an explosion.

I went to hell.

I saw the terrible reality of that place.

I saw Muslims there who thought they were serving God.

I saw that Islam is a lie.

that leads to destruction.

Jesus appeared to me in hell.

He showed me the truth.

He showed me his love.

He sent me back to warn others to tell them that he is the only way that time is short that they need to choose him before it is too late.

I left everything to follow him.

I gave up my family, my home, my identity, my safety.

I live in hiding.

I am hunted every day.

But I do not regret any of it because I know the truth and I would rather die knowing truth than live believing lies.

This is real.

Hell is real.

Heaven is real.

Jesus is real.

And the choice you make about him determines where you will spend eternity.

Choose wisely.

Choose soon.

Choose Jesus because time is running out.