My name is Amamira and I’m 28 years old now.

What I’m about to tell you happened on March 15th, 2018 when I was clinically dead for four minutes during childbirth.

But Jesus Christ brought me back to life and changed everything.

This is my testimony of how the God I never knew saved me from death and gave me true life.

I was born in a small village in rural Afghanistan to a family that lived and breathed Islam.

My father was a devout man who called us to prayer five times every single day.

And my mother made sure I memorized verses from the Quran before I could even read properly.

By the time I was 8 years old, I was already wearing the hijab and following every Islamic rule perfectly.

Allah was the center of everything in our home.

Or so I thought at the time.

My childhood was spent learning to be a good Muslim daughter.

I watched my mother submit to my father in everything, never questioning his decisions or speaking against his will.

This was the way of our faith, the way of our culture.

I believed with all my heart that this was how God wanted women to live.

Every morning I would wake up, perform my prayers, help my mother with household duties, and study the Quran with the village imam.

But when I turned 13, everything in our family began to fall apart.

My father’s small farming business started failing because of a terrible drought that lasted for months.

The crops died, the animals grew weak, and the debts began piling up like stones on our shoulders.

I watched my parents whisper late into the night, their faces full of worry and fear.

The local creditors came to our door more and more often, demanding payments that my father simply could not make.

Ask yourself this question.

What would you sacrifice to save your family from complete ruin? For my parents, the answer came in the form of their 14-year-old daughter.

One evening as I was helping my mother prepare dinner, my father called me into the main room of our small house.

His face was serious and I could see that my mother had been crying.

He told me that he had found a solution to our family’s financial problems.

A wealthy widowerower from the next village, a man of 45 years old, had offered a substantial bride price for my hand in marriage.

I felt the world stop spinning around me.

I was 14 years old, still playing with dolls when no one was watching, still dreaming of maybe going to school someday.

But my father explained that this marriage would save our entire family from poverty and shame.

The bride price would pay off all our debts and give my younger brothers a chance at a better life.

I begged and pleaded with them.

I cried until my eyes were swollen shut.

I promised to work harder, to help more, to do anything except marry this stranger.

But my father used the teachings of Islam to silence my protests.

He told me that this was Allah’s will for my life, that a good Muslim daughter obeys her father without question and that my resistance was actually sinful rebellion against God’s plan.

The community supported this arrangement completely.

The Imam praised my father for making such a wise decision.

And the other women told my mother how blessed she was to have such an obedient daughter.

I wasn’t their daughter anymore.

I was their salvation, their way out of financial destruction.

The wedding day arrived like a death sentence.

I smiled for everyone else while dying inside, going through the motions of a celebration that felt like my funeral.

Three months after my wedding, I discovered I was pregnant.

I was only 15 years old, and my body was still growing and changing.

When the village midwife confirmed what I already suspected, I felt terror like I had never experienced before.

My body was still that of a child.

How could it possibly sustain another life growing inside me? My husband was pleased with the news, as if I had finally proven my worth to him.

But I was terrified.

I had watched other young women in our village struggle with pregnancies and some had died during childbirth.

The nearest hospital was hours away over rough mountain roads and most families relied on the local midwife for everything related to birth and babies.

From the very beginning, nothing felt right about this pregnancy.

Instead of the healthy glow that some women talked about, I became sicker and weaker with each passing week.

The morning sickness that was supposed to last only a few months continued for my entire pregnancy.

I could barely keep food down and instead of gaining weight, I was actually losing it.

The village midwife, an older woman named Fatima, who had delivered hundreds of babies, started visiting me more frequently.

I could see the worry lines deepening on her face each time she checked on me.

My blood pressure was rising to dangerous levels and the baby seemed to be growing too slowly.

But in our remote village, there was little that could be done except pray and hope for the best.

I threw myself into Islamic prayers like never before.

I performed every ritual perfectly, recited every verse I had memorized, and begged Allah to help me through this pregnancy safely.

I read the Quran for hours each day, searching for comfort and peace that never seemed to come.

Every prayer felt like it it was bouncing off the ceiling and falling back down on me.

I followed every Islamic rule and tradition perfectly, but I felt more alone and abandoned than ever before in my life.

Other women in the village would tell me stories about difficult births, about young mothers who had died, about babies who never took their first breath.

These stories were meant to prepare me, but they only filled me with more dread.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine carrying that kind of fear for 9 months, knowing that each day could be your last.

When I was 8 months pregnant, the labor pains began.

They came suddenly and violently, accompanied by bleeding that frightened even the experienced midwife.

She sent my husband to call for help from the nearest medical clinic, but we all knew it would take hours for anyone to reach our remote village.

The bleeding would not stop.

Fatima tried everything she knew, every traditional remedy that had been passed down through generations of midwives, but nothing worked.

The baby was in distress and my life was slipping away with each passing minute.

My husband’s family gathered around me and I could hear them beginning to discuss funeral arrangements.

My final desperate prayers to Allah were met with nothing but silence and I knew I was going to die.

The bleeding became a river that nothing could stop.

I felt my strength leaving my body like water draining from a broken vessel.

and I knew that death was coming for me.

The midwife’s hands were covered in my blood as she desperately tried every technique she had learned over decades of delivering babies.

Her face had gone completely white, and I could see the panic in her eyes, even through my fading vision.

My husband paced back and forth in our small room, reciting Islamic prayers over and over again, his voice growing more frantic with each repetition.

His mother and sisters joined him, their voices rising in desperate pleas to Allah to spare my life and the life of the baby.

But with each prayer they offered, I felt myself slipping further away from this world.

The medical assistant who had finally arrived from the nearest clinic took one look at me and immediately began working to stop the massive hemorrhaging.

He had brought some basic medical equipment, but nothing that could handle a crisis of this magnitude.

I watched him shake his head as he checked my blood pressure and pulse.

The numbers were dropping so fast that even I could understand what they meant.

I felt my heartbeat becoming irregular, sometimes racing wildly and then nearly stopping completely.

My vision started to narrow, like I was looking through a tunnel that was getting smaller and smaller.

The voices of my family became distant and muffled, as if they were calling to me from far away.

Everything in the room began to fade to gray, then to black.

The last thing I remember hearing was the medical assistant shouting numbers that meant nothing to me, but I could tell from his voice that they were very bad numbers.

My husband’s mother began the high-pitched wailing that women in our culture do when someone is dying.

Even in my fading consciousness, I understood that they were mourning me while I was still barely alive.

Then my heart stopped beating completely.

The medical assistant later told my family that he could find no pulse, no blood pressure, no signs of life at all.

The monitor he had brought showed a flat line where my heartbeat should have been.

He officially pronounced me dead at 3:47 in the afternoon on March 15th, 2018.

For 4 minutes, I was clinically dead.

My spirit separated from my body, and I found myself in a place of complete darkness and isolation.

I was conscious and aware, but completely alone in a way that I never knew was possible.

There was no light, no sound, no comfort of any kind, just endless suffocating darkness that seemed to press in on me from every direction.

In that terrible place, I understood that I was lost forever.

All my years of faithful Islamic prayers, all my perfect obedience to religious laws, all my submission to Allah had led me to this place of eternal separation.

I realized that everything I had believed about God and salvation had been wrong.

And now it was too late to change anything.

In complete desperation, I cried out not to Allah, but to whoever might hear me.

If there is any God who really loves, please save me.

The moment I cried out those words, a brilliant light pierced through the suffocating darkness around me.

It was not like any earthly light I had ever seen.

This light was alive, warm, and filled with a love so powerful that it instantly drove away every trace of fear and despair from my spirit.

The oppressive darkness that had been crushing me simply vanished in the presence of this radiant glory.

Then I saw him walking toward me through the light.

I had never seen a picture of Jesus Christ in my life.

In our Islamic culture, images of any religious figures were forbidden.

And I had been taught that Jesus was just a minor prophet who came before Muhammad.

But the moment I saw this figure approaching me, I knew with absolute certainty who he was.

There was no question, no doubt, no confusion.

This was Jesus, the son of God, and he was coming to save me.

His appearance was both majestic and tender at the same time.

His face shone with a love that I had never experienced from any human being.

But what struck me most were his hands.

I could see the scars from the nails that had pierced them when he was crucified.

Those scars were not ugly or frightening.

They were beautiful because they represented the price he had paid for people like me.

When Jesus spoke to me, his voice went straight to my heart.

He did not speak with anger or judgment.

Even though I had spent my entire life following a religion that denied his true identity, instead his voice was filled with tenderness and compassion.

He said, “My daughter, I have heard your cry.

I have loved you since before you were born, and I have been waiting for this moment to rescue you.

” I began to weep, but these were not tears of fear or pain.

They were tears of relief and overwhelming joy.

For the first time in my life, I was experiencing what real love felt like.

Not the conditional love that demanded perfect obedience.

Not the fearful submission that I had shown to Allah, but pure unconditional love that accepted me exactly as I was.

Jesus reached out and placed his scarred hands on me.

And the moment he touched my spirit, everything changed.

I felt life and strength flowing into me like a river of healing power.

Every part of my being that had been broken and dying was instantly restored.

The bleeding stopped.

My heart began beating strongly again.

And the baby inside me responded with healthy movement.

But more than the physical healing, something even more miraculous happened to my soul.

Jesus said to me, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

This is the God your heart has been seeking all along.

I am sending you back now because I have work for you to do.

In that moment, I understood that everything I had believed about God was wrong.

Islam had kept me from knowing the true God who loved me enough to die for me.

So, I’m asking you just as someone who died would ask, “Who else but Jesus has power over death itself?” The next thing I knew, I was back in my physical body, gasping for air as my heart monitor suddenly showed a strong, steady rhythm.

When I opened my eyes back in the physical world, the medical assistant was staring at me in complete shock.

The monitor that had shown a flat line for 4 minutes was now displaying a strong, steady heartbeat.

the massive bleeding had stopped completely and within minutes my baby was delivered safely.

The medical team kept saying it was impossible that they had never seen anything like this before in their careers.

My husband and his family were celebrating and praising Allah for what they believed was his miraculous intervention.

They had no idea that it was actually Jesus Christ who had saved both me and my baby.

I lay there listening to their Islamic prayers of thanksgiving, knowing the truth, but unable to speak it.

How could I tell them that the God they were thanking had nothing to do with my resurrection? In the days that followed, I began living a double life.

Outwardly, I continued performing all the Islamic rituals expected of me.

I prayed the five daily prayers, wore my hijab, and followed every religious rule perfectly.

But inwardly everything had changed.

When I bowed down for Islamic prayers, I was secretly talking to Jesus instead of Allah.

The peace I felt during these hidden conversations was unlike anything I had ever experienced in 15 years of Islamic worship.

I became desperate to learn more about this Jesus who had saved my life.

In our remote village, finding Christian materials was extremely dangerous.

But I started asking careful questions to people who traveled to larger cities.

I pretended to be curious about other religions for academic reasons, never revealing my true purpose.

Slowly, I began to find pieces of information about Christianity and the Bible.

Every small piece of truth I discovered about Jesus made me realize how wrong everything I had been taught about God really was.

Islam had taught me that I had to earn God’s love through perfect obedience and good works.

But Jesus showed me that his love was freely given, not something I had to work for.

The Jesus who saved my life kept calling to my heart, drawing me closer to truth that I had never known existed.

Ask yourself this question.

Could all of these circumstances really be just coincidence? The more I learned about Christianity, the more I understood that my encounter with Jesus was not a one-time event.

He continued to speak to me through dreams and through the miraculous ways that Christian materials would appear in my life.

A traveling merchant might accidentally drop a page from a Bible.

A woman visiting from the city might mention something about Jesus that she had heard on a radio program.

Living this secret life was becoming increasingly difficult.

Every day was a battle between the truth I knew in my heart and the safety that came from keeping that truth hidden.

I was protecting not only myself but also my newborn baby who would suffer the consequences if my conversion was discovered.

The Jesus who had brought me back from death kept calling me to follow him completely.

But I was terrified of what that would cost me and my child.

After months of living this secret Christian life, I knew I could not continue the deception forever.

The conviction in my heart grew stronger every day that I needed to openly confess Jesus as my Lord and Savior regardless of the consequences.

One evening while my husband was reading the Quran, I gathered all my courage and told him that I had become a follower of Jesus Christ.

His reaction was more violent than I had even feared.

He began screaming that I had dishonored Allah and brought shame upon his entire family.

He called me an apostate and a traitor to our faith.

Within hours, his extended family had gathered in our home.

All of them shouting at me and demanding that I renounce this madness and return to Islam immediately.

They threatened to take my baby away from me and send me back to my father in disgrace.

But something amazing happened during their threats and anger.

I felt a supernatural peace that could only come from Jesus himself.

Even as they screamed and threatened violence, I was not afraid.

The same Jesus who had saved my life was now giving me strength to stand firm in my faith no matter what they did to me.

When it became clear that I would not change my mind, my husband and his family began planning more drastic measures.

They contacted the local imam and some of the village elders, discussing ways to force me back into Islamic submission.

I overheard them talking about taking me to a remote location where they could beat the Christianity out of me without interference from any authorities.

That night, as I held my baby and prayed to Jesus for protection, I heard his voice clearly telling me that it was time to leave.

He had made a way of escape, just as he had made a way to save my life during childbirth.

Through a series of miraculous circumstances, I connected with an underground network of Christians who helped people in situations like mine.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine having to flee your home in the middle of the night with only your baby and the clothes on your back.

That is exactly what I did, trusting completely in Jesus to provide for us and protect us.

The Christians who helped me risked their own lives to get us to safety in a larger city where there was a community of believers who could support us.

The first time I was able to worship Jesus openly in a church.

I wept for hours.

After a lifetime of religious fear and obligation, I was finally free to praise the God who truly loved me.

I learned what family really means when I was embraced by Christian brothers and sisters who cared for me and my child without asking for anything in return.

Jesus did not just save my life that day in March.

He gave me a completely new life with purpose and meaning.

Now I spend my time sharing this testimony with other Muslim women who are trapped in situations like mine was.

I help them understand that Jesus loves them and wants to set them free from spiritual and physical bondage.

This is why I can never be silent about what Jesus Christ did for me.

If he could reach into my darkest moment and bring me back from death itself, he can reach into your situation, too.

No matter how hopeless it seems,