My name is Amamira.

I’m 34 years old.

And on November 2nd, 2020, I was supposed to die.

That morning, I stood in chains before hundreds of people in my Afghan village, condemned to execution for one crime.

Reading the Bible, the Taliban executioner raised his rifle.

The crowd demanded my blood.

And I prepared to meet my maker.

But Jesus Christ had other plans for my life.

What happened next defies every law of nature and changed me forever.

Let me tell you how I got there and how the God I had been taught to hate became the Savior who rescued me from death itself.

I was born into a world where Allah’s name echoed through our stonehouse five times every day.

My mother would wake me before dawn for fagure prayers and I would kneel beside her on our worn prayer rug.

my forehead touching the cold floor as we faced Mecca.

For 32 years, this was my life.

I was what you would call a model Muslim woman in our Taliban controlled village in northern Afghanistan.

My days were structured around Islamic devotion.

I memorized the entire chapters of the Quran in Arabic, though I barely understood the words I recited.

I fasted during Ramadan until my stomach cramped with hunger, believing each pang brought me closer to paradise.

I covered myself completely in black fabric, showing only my eyes to the world, and I dreamed of making the pilgrimage to Mecca before I died.

My father often praised me as his most righteous daughter, saying, “I brought honor to our family name.

” But in our region, Christianity meant death.

The Taliban had made this crystal clear through public executions I was forced to witness.

I had seen converts hung from cranes in the town square, their bodies left as warnings.

Christian missionaries were hunted like animals, and possessing a Bible carried the same penalty as murder.

We were taught that Christians were infidels who corrupted the pure message of Islam.

People who deserved Allah’s wrath in this life and eternal fire in the next.

Everything changed on a cold morning in August 2020.

American forces had bombed a Taliban weapons depot kilometers from our village and the explosion shattered windows throughout our neighborhood.

My younger brother Hamid and I went to collect salvageable materials from the rubble as our family desperately needed anything we could trade for food.

That’s where I found it buried beneath concrete chunks and twisted metal.

At first I thought it was just another burned book, but as I brushed away the dust, I could make out English words on the damaged cover.

Bible, it read.

Holy Bible.

My stomach lurched with disgust and fear.

I should have th thrown it back into the rubble immediately.

I should have spat on it and walked away.

Instead, something inside me whispered, “Just look at one page.

” I glanced around to make sure Hamid wasn’t watching, then opened the book to a random page.

The paper was water stained and torn, but I could read the English words clearly.

I had learned English in secret from my educated aunt before the Taliban banned women’s education.

My eyes fell on Matthew 5:44.

But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

Love your enemies.

The words hit me like a physical blow.

Everything I had been taught about Christianity painted it as a religion of violence and hatred toward Muslims.

Yet here was their holy book telling them to love their enemies, to pray for people who hurt them.

This was nothing like what I had been told about Christian beliefs.

That night I couldn’t sleep.

The words kept repeating in my mind.

Love your enemies.

I had been taught to hate Christians, to see them as enemies of Allah who deserve death.

But their book told them to love me, their supposed enemy.

The contradiction consumed my thoughts like a fever.

Three days later, I returned to the rubble site alone.

The Bible was still there, partially buried, but intact enough to read.

I tucked it inside my robes and carried it home like I was smuggling poison.

In a way, I was.

That book would prove more dangerous to my old life than any weapon.

I found a hiding place in our cellar behind old grain sacks that hadn’t been moved in years.

Every night after my family slept, I would sneak down there with a small oil lamp and read by its flickering light.

Page by page, the Bible revealed a completely different picture of Christianity than I had been taught.

Jesus spoke about mercy, forgiveness, and sacrificial love.

He healed enemies, fed hungry crowds, and welcomed outcasts.

When soldiers came to arrest him, he told his follower to put away his sword.

This wasn’t the violent, hateful religion I had been taught to fear.

The more I read, the more confused I became about everything I thought I knew.

For three months, I lived this double life.

During the day, I performed my Islamic prayers and recited Quranic verses with my family.

But at night I was reading about a man named Jesus who claimed to be the son of God who said he came to give eternal life to anyone who believed in him.

My heart felt things during those secret reading sessions that I had never experienced during years of Islamic prayers.

There was a warmth, a sense of peace and hope that seemed to grow stronger each night.

The questions began eating away at my certainty.

If Islam was the only true path to God, why did reading about Jesus fill me with such inexplicable joy? Why did his words about love and forgiveness resonate deeper in my soul than all the Quranic verses I had memorized? My heart began to feel like a battlefield between everything I had been taught and everything I was discovering.

Ask yourself this question.

Can you hide a heart transformation? I was about to learn the answer the hard way.

By September 2020, I had been secretly reading the Bible for three months, and the transformation happening inside my heart was becoming impossible to hide.

During my Islamic prayers, I found myself thinking about Jesus instead of focusing on the Arabic recitations.

When my family discussed jihad and the righteousness of fighting infidels, I remembered Jesus saying to turn the other cheek.

The disconnect between my outer religious performance and my inner spiritual reality was tearing me apart.

My prayer life was changing in ways I didn’t even realize at first.

I started talking to Jesus without consciously deciding to do it.

Instead of the formal ritualistic prayers I had recited in Arabic for decades, I began having conversations with God in my native Dari language.

I would whisper to Jesus while kneading bread, asking him questions about passages I had read the night before.

I found myself praying for my enemies, something completely foreign to my Islamic upbringing.

Yet it felt as natural as breathing.

The Bible had become my lifeline during those three months of secret study.

I had progressed from Matthew through most of the New Testament, reading about Jesus’s miracles, his death on the cross, and his resurrection.

The concept of God sacrificing himself for humanity’s sins was revolutionary to my Islamic worldview.

In Islam, I had been taught that salvation came through good works, through earning Allah’s favor through prayer, fasting, and righteous deeds.

But Jesus offered salvation as a free gift paid for by his own blood.

The more I read, the more this divine love captured my heart.

My family began noticing changes they couldn’t explain.

My mother commented that I seemed different during prayers, less focused, more distracted.

My father observed that I had grown quiet during our family discussions about religion and politics.

But it was my 19-year-old brother, Hamid, who became most suspicious.

He had always been the most radical member of our family, eager to prove his devotion to the Taliban’s interpretation of Islam.

The first real crack in my secret came during a family dinner in early October 2020.

We were discussing a recent Taliban execution of a suspected Christian convert, and my father was praising the righteousness of the punishment.

Without thinking, I responded.

But wouldn’t it be better to show mercy and try to guide him back to the right path? The words were barely out of my mouth when I realized my mistake.

The room fell silent.

My mother’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth.

My father’s eyes narrowed as he stared at me across our low wooden table.

But it was Hamid’s reaction that chilled me to the bone.

He leaned forward with the intensity of a predator sensing wounded prey.

Since when do you speak of mercy toward apostate sister? Hammed asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

The Quran is clear about the punishment for those who abandon Islam.

Are you questioning Allah’s wisdom? I tried to recover, stammering something about Allah being merciful and compassionate, but the damage was done.

I could see the suspicion forming in Hamid’s eyes, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

From that moment forward, I felt his gaze following me, constantly, watching for more signs of the change he sensed, but couldn’t yet identify.

Uh ask yourself this question.

Can you hide a heart transformation when your entire life revolves around the very belief system you’re beginning to question? I was about to discover that the answer was a devastating no.

Over the following weeks, Hamid’s surveillance of me intensified.

He would appear unexpectedly when I was doing household chores, testing me with religious questions.

He started asking me to recite specific Quranic verses, listening carefully to detect any lack of conviction in my voice.

I felt like a criminal in my own home, constantly aware that one wrong word or suspicious action could expose that my secret.

The pressure was becoming unbearable.

I was losing weight from stress, barely sleeping and jumping at every unexpected sound.

My mother expressed concern about my health.

But I couldn’t tell her that I was living in constant terror of discovery.

Every morning when I woke up, I wondered if this would be the day my secret was revealed.

On the evening of October 29th, 2020, I made my usual late night journey to the cellar to read my hidden Bible.

I had been studying the Gospel of John, captivated by Jesus’s words about being the way, the truth, and the life.

As I read by lamplight in my secret hiding place, I felt that familiar peace washing over me, temporarily relieving the anxiety that had become my constant companion.

What I didn’t know was that Hamid had been watching me for several nights, noting my pattern of leaving the house after everyone was asleep.

That night he followed me silently to the cellar positioning himself where he could observe without being seen.

I was completely absorbed in John chapter 14 where Jesus promises to prepare a place in heaven for his followers when I heard the sharp intake of breath behind me.

I spun around to find Hamid standing in the doorway, his face illuminated by my oil lamp.

His expression was a mixture of horror, rage, and something that looked almost like grief.

In my hands was the open Bible, the evidence of my betrayal clearly visible.

For a moment that seemed to last forever.

Brother and sister stared at each other across a chasm that had suddenly opened between us.

“You filthy apostate,” he whispered, his voice shaking with fury.

You’ve brought shame upon our family and blasphemed against Allah himself.

The look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.

My life as I had known it was over in our community.

There was only one punishment for leaving Islam and my own brother would be the one need to deliver me to it.

Within hours of Hamid’s discovery, our entire house was filled with Taliban religious council members.

The sound of their heavy boots on our wooden floors echoed through the night like death drums.

I sat in our main room, surrounded by bearded men and turbans who looked at me with the disgust they would reserve for a diseased animal.

The Bible that had brought me such peace now lay on the floor between us like evidence of the worst possible crime.

My father couldn’t even look at me.

He sat with his head in his hands, muttering prayers and occasionally crying out about the shame I had brought upon our family name.

My mother wept silently in the corner, her tears falling onto her prayer beads as she frantically recited verses from the Quran, as if her prayers could somehow undo what I had done.

But it was the cold satisfaction in Hamid’s eyes that hurt the most.

My own brother had become my executioner.

Moola Rahman, the senior Taliban judge in our district, picked up my Bible and spat on it before addressing me.

Amira, daughter of Ahmed Mad, you stand accused of the crime of apostasy, of abandoning the true faith of Islam for the corrupt beliefs of the infidel Christians.

This is not merely a sin against Allah, but an act of treason against the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan.

They demanded that I explain myself, that I confess my crimes and beg for Allah’s forgiveness.

Instead, I found myself speaking words that surprise even me.

I have found peace and truth in the teachings of Jesus Christ.

I cannot deny what my heart has discovered.

The room erupted in shouts of outrage.

Several men jumped to their feet, calling for immediate punishment.

But Mulla Raman raised his hand for silence.

“You have one opportunity to save your life and your soul,” he said, his voice deadly calm.

“Renounce this Christian heresy.

Burn this book of lies and return to the true faith of your fathers.

declare before Allah and these witnesses that Muhammad is his prophet and Islam is the only true religion.

I looked around the room at faces filled with hatred and disgust, then at my weeping parents and my triumphant brother.

Everything inside me wanted to give them the words they demanded.

I wanted to recant, to burn the Bible, to return to the safety of my old life.

But when I opened my mouth to speak the words that would save me, I couldn’t do it.

I cannot deny what my heart has found.

I repeated my voice stronger this time.

Jesus Christ has shown me a love and peace that I never knew existed.

I cannot go back to the darkness.

The trial was a formality that lasted less than an hour.

Under Taliban law, the penalty for apostasy was death with no possibility of appeal or reprieve.

Moola Raman pronounced the sentence with the same tone he might use to order tea.

Amira, daughter of Ahmad, you are guil guilty of apostasy and rejection of the true faith.

You are sentenced to death by firing squad.

The execution will take place at dawn on November the 2nd, 2020 in the public square so that all may witness the fate of those who abandon Islam.

They allowed me to remain in my family home under guard until my execution, though I was confined to a small storage room with stone walls and no windows.

The space was barely large enough for me to lie down, and the single small openings near the ceiling provided the only light and air.

For the next two days, this concrete tomb became my entire world.

My family was permitted to visit, and their attempts to change my mind were more torturous than my physical confinement.

My mother brought me my favorite foods and begged me between subs to reconsider.

Just say the words, she pleaded.

Even if you don’t mean them in your heart, just say the words and live.

Allah is merciful and forgiving.

My father’s visit was even more devastating.

This strong man who had never shown weakness in my presence fell to his knees before me.

tears streaming down his weathered face.

“You are my daughter, the light of my life,” he cried.

“How can you choose death over life? Choose a foreign god over the faith of your ancestors.

I am begging you, return to Islam and live.

” But it was Hamid’s final visit that nearly broke me.

Instead of the triumphant satisfaction I expected, he seemed genuinely confused and hurt.

I don’t understand, Amira, he said quietly.

We grew up together, learned the same prayers, heard the same teachings.

What did I miss that you found? Why wasn’t Islam enough for you? I tried to explain about the peace I had found in Jesus, about the love and forgiveness that had transformed my heart.

But he couldn’t understand.

In his world view, there was only one truth, one path to God, and I had chosen to abandon it for lies.

When he left my cell for the last time, I knew I had lost my brother forever, whether I lived or died.

As the hours ticked toward November 2nd, I was left alone with my thoughts and fears.

The guards had taken everything from me except the clothes I wore.

But somehow I had managed to tear out a small piece of the Bible before they burned it.

Hidden in the lining of my dress was a fragment containing John 3:16.

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine facing death for your faith.

Imagine choosing certain death over denying what you believe to be truth.

I had never felt so alone.

Yet somehow in that cold stone room, I didn’t feel abandoned.

There was a presence with me that I couldn’t explain.

A warmth that seemed to emanate from the very words hidden against my heart.

On the night of November the 1st, as I lay on the cold floor, knowing it was my last night on earth, I spoke my first real prayer to Jesus Christ.

Not the secret whispers I had been offering for months, but a desperate, honest conversation with the God I was about to die for.

Jesus, I whispered into the darkness.

If you are real, if you are truly the son of God, as your book claims, please help me.

I don’t know what happens next, but I trust you with my life and my death.

What happened next would change everything I thought I knew about the power of prayer and the reality of divine intervention.

The guards came for me at 400 a.

m.

on November 2nd, 2020.

Just as the call to morning prayer echoed across our village, I had not slept at all during my final night.

But strangely, I felt more alert and peaceful than I had in weeks.

The supernatural calm that had settled over me after my desperate prayer to Jesus remained, wrapping around me like invisible armor against the terror I should have been feeling.

They bound my hands behind my back with rough rope that cut into my wrists and placed a black hood over my head.

As they led me through the the streets of my village, I could hear doors opening and footsteps joining our procession.

Word had spread throughout the community that the apostate woman would be executed at dawn, and people were gathering to witness my death.

The sound of hundreds of sandled feet shuffling along the dusty road created a rhythm that reminded me of a funeral march.

When they removed the hood in the town square, I was nearly blinded by the torches and oil lamps that illuminated the pre-dawn darkness.

Hundreds of faces stared back at me with a mixture of curiosity, disgust, and bloodthirsty anticipation.

I recognized many of them, neighbors and shopkeepers who had known me since childhood, now looking at me as if I were a dangerous stranger who deserved to die.

The Taliban had constructed a simple wooden post in the center of the square, and they positioned me against it with my back to the crowd.

The executioner, a young Taliban fighter I didn’t recognize, stood 20 feet away with his Kalashnik of rifle ready.

Behind him, Moola Raman held a megaphone and began addressing the crowd about the righteousness of Islamic justice and the fate that awaited all apostates.

At exactly 6:00 a.

m.

, as the first hints of sunlight began to appear on the eastern horizon, Mola Raman called for silence and asked if I had any final words.

I turned to face the crowd, looking out over the sea of hostile faces and spoke the words that sealed my fate.

I forgive you all as Jesus Christ has forgiven me, I said, my voice carrying clearly across the silent square.

And I pray that one day you will know the love and peace that I have found in him.

The crowd erupted in angry shouts and curses.

Someone threw a stone that struck my shoulder and others began pushing forward as if they wanted to tear me apart with their bare hands.

But Moola Raman restored order with sharp commands, reminding them that Islamic law required a proper execution, not a mob killing.

The executioner raised his rifle and took aim at my heart.

I closed my eyes and whispered one final prayer.

Jesus, I’m coming home.

But as I waited for the shot that would end my life, something extraordinary began to happen.

At exactly 6:03 a.

m.

, 3 minutes after my scheduled execution time, the clear morning sky suddenly darkened.

What started as a gentle breeze quickly became a violent wind that sent dust and debris swirling through the square.

Within seconds, we were engulfed in the most intense sandstorm anyone in our region had ever experienced.

The wind howled like a living thing, and visibility dropped to zero in what had been a perfectly clear morning.

I heard the executioner’s rifle fire, but the shot went wild as he was blinded by the sudden storm.

Through the chaos and screaming of the panicked crowd, I heard something that made my heart leap with impossible hope.

A voice clear and strong despite the roaring wind spoke directly into my ear.

Do not be afraid, my daughter.

I am with you.

The voice was unlike anything I had ever heard, filled with such love and authority that I knew immediately was Jesus himself speaking to me.

In that moment, despite being surrounded by hundreds of people who wanted me dead, despite the storm raging around us, I felt completely safe and protected.

But the supernatural intervention was just beginning as the sandstorm continued to rage.

The ground beneath our feet began to tremble.

What started as gentle vibrations quickly became violent shaking that sent people stumbling and crying out in terror.

Later, international news reports would confirm that a magnitude 5.

2 2 earthquake had struck our region at exactly 6:05 a.

m.

But I knew this was no coincidence.

In the chaos of wind and earthquake, something impossible happened.

The heavy ropes that bound my hands to the wooden post began to loosen on their own.

I felt invisible hands working at the knots, untieing bonds that should have been impossible for me to escape.

Within moments, my hands were completely free, though no human being was anywhere near me.

In the blinding storm, through the dust and debris, I saw him.

Jesus Christ stood before me, his white robe somehow unaffected by the swirling sand, his face radiant with divine light that seemed to push back the darkness around us.

He extended his hand toward me with a smile that communicated more love than I had ever experienced in my entire life.

Come, he said, his voice cutting through the noise of wind and earthquake as clearly as if we were alone in a quiet room.

It is time to go.

I reached out and took his hand and immediately felt a power and peace flow through me that defied all description.

He led me through the chaotic crowd, past Taliban fighters who were stumbling blindly in the storm.

past neighbors who were crying out to Allah for protection from what they believed was his wrath.

None of them could see us as we walked calmly through the supernatural chaos.

Jesus led me through streets I had known my entire life.

But somehow we arrived at a house I had never noticed before.

A simple dwelling on the outskirts of town that seemed untouched by the storm raging just blocks away.

He brought me to the door and turned to look at me one final time.

This is not the end of your story, Amira, he said, his eyes full of compassion and purpose.

This is the beginning.

I have work for you to do.

When I knocked on the door, it opened immediately to reveal an elderly Afghan man whose face lit up with recognition, though I had never seen him before in my life.

Praise be to Jesus,” he whispered in perfect dairy.

“We have been expecting you.

” The elderly man who opened the door introduced himself as Pastor Dow, and within minutes of entering his home, I understood that Jesus had led me to Afghanistan’s secret Christian underground.

The house looked ordinary from the outside, but inside it was a sanctuary filled with hidden believers who had been following Christ in secret for years.

As I sat in their simple living room, still trembling from my miraculous escape, Pastor Dodd explained that they had been praying for my safety ever since word of my imprisonment reached their network.

God told us in prayer three days ago that he would deliver a new sister to us on November 2nd.

Pastor Dodd said his weathered hands holding mine as tears streamed down both our faces.

We have been waiting and watching, not knowing how or when you would arrive, but trusting that our Lord would make a way.

That very evening, as news of my disappearance during the supernatural storm spread throughout the region, I made the most important decision of my life.

Surrounded by these faithful believers who had risked everything to follow Jesus in one of the world’s most dangerous places for Christians.

I openly confessed my faith in Christ and asked to be baptized immediately.

Pastor Dod filled a large metal basin with water.

And as I knelt beside it in that humble living room, he placed his hands on my head and prayed in dar.

Amira, my sister, do you believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God? That he died for your sins and rose again on the third day? I believe, I whispered, my voice shaking with emotion.

I believe with all my heart.

As the water closed over my head, I felt the last remnants of my old life washing away.

The same day I was supposed to die for my faith.

I was being born again in Christ.

When I came up from that water, I was no longer the Muslim woman who had lived in fear and confusion.

I was a new creation, a daughter of the living God, saved by his miraculous intervention and sealed by his Holy Spirit.

The cost of my transformation became clear over the following days.

Through contacts in the village, we learned that my family had held a formal Islamic funeral for me, declaring me dead to them forever.

My mother had burned all my belongings and covered the the mirrors in our house as if mourning an actual death.

My father announced to the community that he had no daughter named Amira and my name was never to be spoken in his presence again.

The Taliban conducted house-to-house searches for a week, convinced that I must be hiding somewhere in the area.

They interrogated dozens of families, offering substantial rewards for information about my whereabouts.

But Pastor Dodd told me that every search party seemed to pass right by our street without noticing his house, as if God himself was blinding their eyes to our location.

This is how Jesus protects his children.

He explained during one of our daily Bible studies.

The same power that saved you from execution is the same power that hides us from those who would destroy us.

Living in that underground safe house network was like attending an intensive Bible college.

For six months, I spent every waking hour studying scripture with believers who had followed Christ in secret for decades.

I learned about the early church, about persecution and martyrdom, about the countless believers throughout history who had suffered for their faith.

My own experience began to make sense within the larger story of God’s people.

The other Christians in our network shared testimonies that rivaled my own miraculous rescue.

There was Fatima, a former Islamic teacher who had been healed from terminal cancer the night she accepted Christ.

Ahmad had been a Taliban fighter who encountered Jesus in a vision during battle and immediately defected to join the underground church.

Each story reinforced my growing understanding that the Jesus who had saved me from execution was actively working throughout Afghanistan, calling people to himself despite the deadly consequences.

During those months of intensive disciplehip, I felt God calling me to share my my testimony with the world.

Pastor Dud confirmed this calling through prayer and encouraged me to begin preparing for a larger ministry.

Sister Amira, he said, during one of our evening prayer meetings, God did not save you from death just so you could live quietly in hiding.

He has given you a powerful testimony that will reach people we could never touch.

We began making contact with Christian organizations that helped persecuted believers escape to safety.

The network was vast and unsophisticated with believers in government positions, border guards who followed Christ in secret and international ministries that specialized in rescuing converts from hostile countries.

Every connection seemed divinely orchestrated.

Another miracle in a chain of supernatural provision.

I’m asking you just as someone who has seen God’s miraculous power firsth hand.

Can you recognize his hand at work in impossible circumstances? During those six months in hiding, I witnessed provision that defied logic.

Food appeared when our supplies ran low.

Money came from unexpected sources.

And our safety was maintained despite constant Taliban patrols searching for Christian converts.

But perhaps the greatest miracle was the transformation happening in my own heart.

The fear and anxiety that had tormented me during my secret Bible reading was completely gone, replaced by an unshakable peace and joy that grew stronger each day.

I was learning to walk in the freedom that Christ had purchased for me with his blood.

And I understood that no earthly authority could touch the eternal life he had given me.

The underground church became my family, providing the love and acceptance that my biological family had withdrawn.

These believers showed me what it meant to be part of the body of Christ, to love one another sacrificially, and to bear each other’s burdens.

Every day with them was a preview of the eternal fellowship I would share with all believers in heaven.

In May 2021, after six months of careful planning and fervent prayer, the Christian underground underground network successfully smuggled me across three borders to reach safety in a western country that I cannot name for security reasons.

The journey itself was another series of miracles with border guards looking the other way at crucial moments and transportation appearing exactly when we needed it.

When I finally stepped off the plane and to freedom, carrying nothing but the clothes on my back and a small New Testament, I fell to my knees in the airport and wept for an hour.

The first time I walked into a Christian bookstore and openly purchased a Bible, I could barely contain my emotions.

To hold God’s word in my hands without fear.

To carry it openly down a public street.

To sit in a park and read it in broad daylight felt like the most incredible luxury imaginable.

I spent my first week of freedom doing nothing but reading scripture and crying tears of gratitude for the Jesus who had orchestrated my escape from certain death.

Within months of my arrival, God opened doors for me to begin sharing my testimony in churches across the country.

The first time I stood before a congregation and told them about my miraculous rescue, I was terrified.

But as I spoke about Jesus appearing in the sandstorm and leading me to safety, I watched faces transformed with wonder and faith.

After that first testimony, a line of people waited to speak with me.

Many of them weeping as they shared how my story had impacted their own relationship with Christ.

Word of my testimony spread quickly through Chris Christian networks and soon I was receiving invitations to speak at churches, conferences and Christian events around the world.

Every time I shared my story, I witnessed the same response.

Believers who had grown comfortable in their faith were suddenly awakened to the reality of God’s power.

and non-believers were confronted with evidence of Christ’s supernatural intervention that they could not easily dismiss.

The ministry that has grown from my testimony continues to astound me.

In the past three years since my escape, over 200 people have made decisions to follow Christ after hearing about my miraculous rescue.

I have received dozens of letters from secret Muslim converts around the world who tell me that my story gave them courage to continue following Jesus despite persecution.

Several have written to say that my testimony was the final confirmation they needed that Jesus Christ is indeed the son of God.

Working with international Christian organizations, I have been able to help establish safe houses and escape routes for other Muslim converts facing persecution.

My near execution became my greatest qualification to minister to believers living under the constant threat of death for their faith.

When I counsel someone facing martyrdom for following Christ, they know I understand their terror and their faith struggles because I have walked that same path.

The ongoing challenges in my new life are real and sometimes overwhelming.

I still receive death threats from radical Islamic groups who have discovered my location and ministry activities.

The loneliness of being permanently separated from my family creates an ache in my heart that never completely goes away.

There are nights when I dream about my mother’s cooking and my father’s laugh, knowing I will never experience those simple pleasures again in this life.

The trauma of nearly being executed has left lasting effects that I continue to work through with Christian counselors.

Sometimes I wake up in terror, reliving those final moments before the sandstorm began.

The sound of gunfire on television can send me into panic attacks that last for hours.

But Jesus gives me strength every single day to overcome these struggles and continue the ministry he has called me to.

My story has been featured in several international Christian publications.

And I have been interviewed on Christian television programs broadcast around the world.

Each media opportunity represents another chance to proclaim that the same Jesus who saved me from execution 2,000 years ago is still performing miracles today.

Every interview is a chance to declare that no situation is too hopeless for go God’s intervention.

Currently I am working on translating portions of the New Testament into Derry and Pashto, the languages spoken by millions of people in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

This translation work feels like a full circle completion of the journey that began when I first discovered the damaged English Bible in the rubble.

Now I am helping make God’s word accessible to people who speak my native language.

People who might be having the same spiritual questions I had during my secret reading sessions.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself this honest question.

If Jesus could intervene supernaturally to save someone facing execution for reading his word, what impossible situation in your life might he be preparing to transform? The same divine power that stopped Taliban bullets and created earthquakes is available to work in your circumstances today.

God took my death sentence and transformed it into a life sentence of service to his kingdom.

Every breath I have taken since November 2nd, 2020 belongs to Jesus Christ.

And I will spend the rest of my days proclaiming his miraculous saving power to anyone who will listen.

If Jesus could save someone like me, a Muslim woman facing execution in Taliban controlled Afghanistan, he can handle whatever challenges you are facing in your life right now.

Don’t wait until you are facing death to call on Jesus Christ.

He is ready to save you today, to transform your impossible situation, to give you eternal life and purpose beyond anything you can imagine.

November the 2nd, 2020 was supposed to be my execution day, but it became my salvation day instead.

He He didn’t just save my life that morning.

He He gave me his life.

And that life is available to you right now if you will simply believe in him and call on his name.

Every person who hears my testimony and accepts Christ as their savior proves that my near execution was not in vain, but was part of God’s perfect plan to reach the world with the gospel of Jesus device.