They told me I couldn’t survive 12 bullets to the face.

But they were wrong.

What the doctors found in that CT scan defied every law of medicine, every probability, every logical explanation.

This is the testimony of the night.

I died in a courtyard and the voice that called me back.

If you’re searching for proof that he still intervenes, that he still preserves, that he still knows your name, you’re about to see it.

My name is Zana, though that’s not the name I carry anymore.

I was born in the shadow of the mountains.

In a village where honor is currency and silence is survival, where a woman’s worth is measured by her obedience, her modesty, her ability to disappear into the background of her husband’s life.

I was a good wife, a devout Muslim, a mother who prayed five times a day, covered myself from head to toe, and never questioned the path laid before me.

Rashid was my husband chosen by my father when I was 17.

He was a good man by our standards.

He provided.

He didn’t beat me often.

He allowed me to visit my mother once a month.

That was love in our world.

But something was stirring.

Something I couldn’t name, couldn’t silence, couldn’t pray away.

It started with dreams.

A man in white calling me by a name I didn’t recognize.

Then it became a book, small and red, hidden in the folds of my dubeta.

And then it became a choice.

The night Rashid found that book, he made a choice, too.

12 bullets, 12 chances for my story to end.

But I’m still here.

And what I’m about to share with you isn’t just about survival.

It’s about the one who decides when a story ends and when it’s only beginning.

If you’ve ever felt like your faith might cost you everything.

Stay with me because what happened in that courtyard, what the doctors found, what heaven revealed, it’s proof that he doesn’t abandon his own.

Our home was small.

mud walls, a tin roof that rattled in the wind, a courtyard with a well in the center.

That well, I’ll come back to that well.

Rashid worked in the city, 3 hours away by bus.

He came home every Friday for Juma prayer, stayed through the weekend, then left again Monday morning.

Those three days were the longest of my life.

Not because he was cruel, but because I had learned to breathe differently when he was gone.

In our culture, a wife doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

She doesn’t laugh too loud, doesn’t walk too fast, doesn’t look a man in the eye, even her own husband.

Respect, they called it.

I called it survival.

I had two children.

Amir, 7 years old, serious like his father, and Hina, four, with eyes that still held wonder.

I loved them the way a woman loves in secret, fiercely, desperately, in the stolen moments when no one is watching.

Every morning I woke before dawn, washed, prayed, prepared tea.

Rashid expected it hot and ready when he stirred.

I never failed.

But inside, something was unraveling.

It started 6 months before the night everything changed.

I was at the well drawing water when I heard it.

Not a voice, more like a whisper beneath my thoughts.

A question I had never dared to ask.

What if you were made for more than this? I shook it off.

Dangerous thoughts, my mother would have said.

The kind that lead women astray.

But the question wouldn’t leave.

I began to dream.

Always the same man, dressed in white, standing in a light so bright I couldn’t see his face.

He would call my name, but not Zanab.

A different name, one I didn’t recognize, but somehow it felt like mine.

I told no one.

Not my mother, not my neighbor Amina.

Certainly not Rashid.

A woman who dreams of strange men is a woman asking for trouble.

Then I met Sister Raala.

It was a Tuesday.

I had taken Hina to the clinic in town.

She had a fever that wouldn’t break.

The doctor was out, so we waited.

A woman sat beside me, older, her dupata loose around her shoulders in a way that would have scandalized the elders.

She smiled at Hina, offered her a sweet from her bag.

“Your daughter is beautiful,” she said.

I nodded, kept my eyes down.

“You are too,” she added.

“Though you don’t believe it.

” I looked up then.

Her eyes were kind, but there was something else.

a knowing like she could see past the fabric, past the silence, past the years of learning to shrink.

Do you ever feel? She hesitated, choosing her words carefully, like you’re living someone else’s life.

I should have stood up.

Should have taken Hina and left, but I didn’t.

Every day, I whispered.

She reached into her bag and pulled out something small.

A book, red cover, no bigger than my palm.

She pressed it into my hand, closed my fingers around it.

“Read it when you’re alone,” she said.

“And if you want to talk, I’m at the well behind the old mosque every Thursday after mak prayer.

” Then she was gone.

I stared at the book.

The cover was worn, the pages thin.

I opened it, saw the script, uh and at the top of the first page, a name, Injil Sharif, the gospel.

My heart stopped.

I knew what this was, what it meant to be caught with it.

My hands trembled as I shoved it deep into my dupata beneath the folds against my skin.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Rashid was in the city.

The children were asleep.

I lit a small lamp, pulled the book from its hiding place, and began to read.

In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.

I didn’t understand all of it, but I felt it.

Every line, every verse.

It was like water on a tongue that had forgotten what it meant to drink.

I read until my eyes burned.

And when I finally closed the book, I whispered a prayer I had never prayed before.

If you are real, if this is true, show me.

That’s when the dreams changed.

The man in white began to speak.

Not in riddles, not in whispers.

He called my name, the one I didn’t know, and he said, “I have always known you.

I have always seen you.

You are mine.

” I woke with tears on my face.

The next Thursday, I went to the well.

Sister Raela was there waiting.

She didn’t ask questions.

She just smiled, took my hand, and said, “Welcome home.

” For 3 months, I met her there.

Every Thursday after Makib, when the village was at prayer and the streets were empty, she taught me about Isa, Jesus, about grace, about freedom, about a love that didn’t demand silence.

And one night, beneath the stars, beside that, well, I prayed a prayer that would cost me everything.

Issa, I am yours.

I didn’t know it then, but Rasheed had been watching.

He had seen me slip out, seen me return with light in my eyes, seen the way I held something close to my chest when I thought no one was looking.

And one Friday night when he came home early, he found it.

The red book.

It was late.

The children were asleep.

I had just finished washing the dishes when I heard his voice.

Zam.

Not loud, not angry, just cold.

I turned.

Rashid was standing in the doorway, the red book in his hand.

My blood turned to eyes.

“What is this?” he asked.

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

He stepped closer, his eyes locked on mine.

“I asked you a question.

” “It’s It’s just a book,” I whispered.

“Just a book.

” He repeated the words slowly like he was tasting them.

Then he opened it, read the first line aloud.

In the beginning was the word.

He stopped, looked at me, and I saw it the exact moment his face changed.

This is the Injil, he said.

The Christian book.

I didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t.

How long? His voice was shaking now.

Not with sadness, with rage.

Rashid, please.

How long have you had this filth in my house? It’s not filth, I said.

And the moment the words left my mouth, I knew I had made a mistake.

His hand moved so fast I didn’t see it coming.

The slack knocked me to the ground, my head ringing, my cheek on fire.

You dare? He hissed.

You dare defend this this betrayal? I tasted blood.

My lip had split.

He crouched down, grabbed my face, forced me to look at him.

Tell me you haven’t read it.

Tell me you haven’t believed it.

I could have lied.

should have lied.

But something in me, something that had been sleeping for 24 years woke up.

I have read it, I said, and I believe it.

The silence that followed was worse than the slap.

Rashid stood slowly, stared at me like I was something he didn’t recognize.

Then he turned, walked to the corner of the room, and opened the wooden chest where he kept his things.

When he turned back, he was holding a gun.

I had seen it before.

He kept it for protection, he said.

The roads between the village and the city were dangerous, but I had never seen him hold it like this, like he meant to use it.

Rashil, my voice was barely a whisper.

You have shamed me, he said.

You have shamed our children.

You have shamed Allah.

Please think of Amir.

Think of Hina.

I am thinking of them.

His voice was steady now.

Calm.

And that terrified me more than the anger.

They will grow up knowing their mother was a traitor.

Or they will grow up knowing their mother died with honor.

There is no honor in this.

I said he raised the gun.

Arshed, please.

You should have stayed silent, he said.

You should have obeyed.

I thought of running, thought of screaming, but my body wouldn’t move.

And then I heard it.

That voice, the one from my dreams.

Do not be afraid.

I am with you.

I closed my eyes.

Look at me, Rashid said.

I opened them.

Say it, he demanded.

Say you renounce this lie.

Say you are still Muslim.

Say it and I will let you live.

I thought of the red book.

thought of Sister Raela.

Thought of the man in white who had called me by a name I was only beginning to understand.

And I thought of Issa who had faced his own death and did not run.

I cannot, I whispered.

Rashid’s jaw tightened.

Then you have chosen, he motioned toward the door.

Outside, I will not do this in front of the children.

I stood on shaking legs, walked through the doorway into the courtyard.

The night air was cold, the stars were bright, and in the center of the courtyard, the well, the place where I had met Sister Raa, the place where I had prayed, the place where everything had changed.

Rashid followed me out, the gun still in his hand.

Kneel, he said.

I knelt.

He stood behind me.

I could hear his breathing, heavy, unsteady.

You were a good wife once, he said quietly.

I don’t know what happened to you.

I was found, I said.

And then I heard the click, the safety released.

I closed my eyes and I prayed.

Not to Allah, not to the God I had known all my life.

To Issa, if this is the end, let it be for you.

And if it is not, let them see you in me.

I heard the Rashid whisper something, a prayer maybe, or a curse.

And then the first shot, I should have felt pain.

I should have felt the impact, the tearing, the fire of metal ripping through flesh.

But I didn’t.

Instead, light brighter than the sun, warmer than any fire.

And in that light, I was no longer kneeling in the dirt.

I was standing.

I looked down.

My hands were clean.

No blood, no dust.

I touched my face whole untouched.

I turned.

Rashid was gone.

The courtyard was gone.

The well, the house, the mountains, all of it gone.

I was standing in a place I cannot describe.

Not heaven, not earth.

Somewhere between the ground beneath my feet was solid, but I couldn’t see it.

The air around me was thick with presence, like I was breathing in something alive.

And then I saw him, the man from my dreams.

He was standing a few feet away, dressed in white, his face no longer hidden.

I could see him now fully, clearly.

His eyes were deep, endless, like they held every moment of my life and every moment yet to come.

He smiled.

Zanab, he said.

His voice, I can’t explain it.

It wasn’t loud, but it filled everything.

It wasn’t harsh, but it undid me.

I fell to my knees.

“No,” he said gently.

“Stand,” I stood, trembling.

“Do you know me?” I whispered.

“I have always known you,” he said.

And then he spoke the name.

The one from my dreams.

The one I had never heard in waking life.

Mariam.

The moment he said it, I knew that was my name.

My real name.

The one written before I was born, before I was given to Rashid, before I learned to disappear.

Mariam, he said again.

Beloved, seen mine.

Tears poured down my face.

Am I dead? I asked.

You are dying, he said.

But you are not gone.

I looked around confused.

Then where am I? You are in the place where every soul must choose, he said.

To return or to remain.

I don’t understand.

He stepped closer.

And when he did, I saw it.

His hands scarred, pierced.

You know me, he said.

Issa.

I breathed.

He nodded.

I read about you.

I said in the red book.

You died for us.

I did.

And you, Rose.

I did.

I stared at him at the scars, at the face that held no anger, no judgment, only love.

Why? I whispered.

Why would you do that? Because I know your name, he said.

And I will not lose you.

I broke every wall I had built, every silence I had swallowed, every year of learning to be small.

It all shattered.

I wept, not quietly, not politely.

I wept the way a person weeps when they realize they have been seen, truly seen, for the first time in their life.

He let me.

And when I finally looked up, he was still there waiting.

What happens now? I asked.

That is your choice? He said.

My choice? He gestured and suddenly I could see not with my eyes but with something deeper.

I saw Rashid standing over my body in the courtyard, the guns still smoking.

I saw my children asleep inside, unaware.

I saw Sister Rahula praying in her small room, tears on her face.

I saw my mother, my father, my neighbors, and I saw the future.

Two, two paths.

In one, I stayed.

I remained in this place of light, of peace, of rest, no more pain, no more fear, no more hiding.

In the other, I returned and I saw what that would cost.

I saw the hospital, the surgeries, the scars that would never fade.

I saw my children taken from me.

I saw the rejection, the isolation, the whispers.

I saw the years of struggle, of rebuilding, of carrying a face that would make people turn away.

But I also saw the women, women like me, hidden, silenced, searching.

I saw them finding the red book.

I saw them hearing my story.

I saw them whispering the name of Issa in the dark in the secret places in the moments when no one was watching.

I saw them come alive.

If I go back, I said slowly, will it matter? Every soul matters, he said, but yes, your return will carry weight.

Will I see my children again? His face grew tender.

Not the way you hope, not for a long time, but they will know the truth.

And one day they will seek me because of you.

My heart broke.

And Rashid, he will live with what he has done, Issa said.

And I will pursue him as I pursued you.

I looked at the two paths again.

One was easy, one was agony.

Why would you ask me to go back? I whispered.

I am not asking, he said.

I am offering.

The choice is yours.

I thought of the well, of sister Raela, of the red book still tucked in my dupata, soaked in my blood.

I thought of the women who would never hear, never know, never see unless someone showed them.

If I go back, I said, will you be with me? He smiled.

I have never left.

I took a breath.

Or maybe I didn’t.

I’m not sure.

breath exists in that place.

Then I will go back, I said.

He stepped forward, placed his hand on my face.

His touch was warm, solid, real.

You will carry my name in your face, he said.

Every scar will be a testimony.

Every glance will be a question.

And when they ask, you will tell them of me.

I will.

I promised.

Then go Mariam, he said, and do not be afraid.

I am with you.

The light grew brighter.

And then pain, I gasped.

Air rushed into my lungs like fire.

My body convulsed and I felt it.

All of it.

The blood, the dirt, the weight of my own flesh.

I was back.

I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn’t.

Something was wrong.

my face.

I couldn’t feel my face.

I heard screaming, distant, muffled.

I tried to move, but my body wouldn’t obey.

My hands twitched, my fingers scraped against the ground.

And then I felt it.

The red book still there, still tucked in my dupata, pressed against my chest.

I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but it was there.

I heard footsteps running voices shouting in Pashto.

She’s alive.

She’s moving.

How is that possible? Get help.

Someone get help.

I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t form words.

Only a low moan escaped.

Hands touched me, gentle, shaking.

Zanab, Zanab, can you hear me? I knew that voice.

Sister Raela.

I tried to nod, but pain shot through my skull.

Don’t move, she said, her voice breaking.

Don’t move, sister.

Help is coming.

I felt her hands on my face, on my neck, checking for I don’t know, life maybe.

How? She whispered, “How are you still breathing?” I wanted to tell her, wanted to say his name, but all I could do was breathe.

In, out, in, out.

Each breath a miracle.

I heard more voices.

Men, neighbors.

Someone said Rashid’s name.

Someone else said the word gun.

Where is he? A man asked.

Gone? Another answered.

He ran.

I felt Sister Aela’s hand slip into mine.

Squeeze.

Stay with me, she whispered.

Stay with me, Zanab.

is not finished with you yet.

And in that moment, I heard it again.

That voice, you will carry my name in your face.

I understood now.

This wasn’t the end.

This was the beginning.

The ambulance came.

I don’t remember the ride.

I don’t remember the lights, the sirens, the medics shouting over me.

I only remember the pain and the presence.

He was there in the ambulance in the chaos in the space between consciousness and collapse.

I am with you.

When I woke again, I was in a hospital bed.

The room was wide, sterile, quiet.

I tried to sit up, but my body screamed in protest.

A man appeared beside me.

Older, gray beard, white coat.

Don’t move, he said gently.

You’ve been through well.

You shouldn’t be alive.

I stared at him.

I’m Dr.

Farukq, he said.

I’ve been overseeing your care.

I tried to speak.

My voice came out raspy, broken.

How long? 3 days, he said.

You’ve been in and out of consciousness.

We’ve done two surgeries so far.

There will be more.

My face.

He hesitated.

It’s damaged severely, but you’re alive and that frankly is a miracle.

12, I whispered.

What? 12 bullets? His face went pale.

How did you? He told me, I said.

Dr.

Faruk frowned.

Who told you? Isa.

The doctor’s eyes widened.

He glanced toward the door, then back at me.

You need to be careful what you say, he said quietly.

There are people asking questions about what happened, about why.

Where is Rashid? I asked.

I don’t know, he said.

The police came, but there are complications, tribal matters, family matters.

It’s complicated.

I understood Rashid would not be punished.

Not by men anyway.

My children, Dr.

The Farooq’s face softened.

They’re with your husband’s family.

I’m sorry.

I closed my eyes.

Gone.

My babies gone.

But I had known Issa had shown me.

There’s something else, Dr.

Faruk said.

He reached into his coat, pulled out a small stained object.

The red book.

This was found on you, he said.

Soaked in blood, but still intact.

The nurses wanted to throw it away, but I He paused.

I kept it.

He placed it in my hand.

I stared at it.

The cover was dark with dried blood.

The pages were warped, stiff, but the words the words were still there.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Dr.

Farooq nodded.

Then he leaned closer, his voice barely audible.

“I don’t know what you believe,” he said.

But whatever it is, it saved you.

I’ve been a surgeon for 30 years.

I’ve seen gunshot wounds.

I’ve seen miracles, but I’ve never seen anything like this.

What do you mean? Uh, 12 bullets, he said.

Point blank range.

11 of them missed every major artery, every vital structure.

One passed clean through soft tissue without hitting bone.

It’s impossible.

Not impossible.

I said just him.

Dr.

Farooq stared at me for a long moment.

Then he stood, adjusted his coat.

Rest, he said.

You have a long road ahead.

He turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“What did you say his name was?” he asked.

“Isa,” I said.

He nodded slowly.

And then he was gone.

I lay there, the red book in my hand, and I wept.

Not from pain, not from loss, from gratitude.

Because I was alive.

And I knew.

I knew.

With every broken breath, every shattered bone, every scar that would never fade, he had kept his promise.

If you’ve ever wondered whether he still moves, whether he still intervenes in the impossible moments, stay with me.

Because what the doctors found, what the scans revealed, it’s proof that he doesn’t just save souls, he saves lives.

The days blurred together.

Surgery, pain, sleep, repeat.

They rebuilt my face piece by piece.

Bone grafts, skin grafts, stitches that felt like fire.

I couldn’t look in a mirror.

The nurses wouldn’t let me.

Not yet, they said.

But I could feel it.

The way my face pulled when I tried to speak.

The way my mouth didn’t close all the way.

The way my left eye wouldn’t fully open.

I was alive.

But I was not the same.

Sister Raela came every day.

She wasn’t allowed in at first.

Hospital policy, family only.

But she bribed a nurse, slipped in during visiting hours, sat beside my bed, and prayed.

She never asked me to explain, never asked me to justify.

She just held my hand and whispered the words I needed to hear.

He is faithful.

He is with you.

You are not alone.

On the eighth day, my mother came.

I heard her voice in the hallway before I saw her.

Loud, angry.

I want to see my daughter.

The nurse tried to calm her.

Mom, she’s still recovering.

I don’t care.

Let me in.

The door opened.

My mother stepped inside.

She stopped when she saw me.

Her face.

I will never forget her face.

Horror, disgust, grief.

She covered her mouth with her hand.

Turned away.

Zanab, she whispered.

“Mama,” I said.

My voice was still weak, still broken.

She turned back, tears streaming down her face.

But they weren’t tears of compassion.

They were tears of shame.

What have you done? She said.

Mama, please.

What have you done? She repeated louder now.

Do you know what people are saying? Do you know what this has done to our family? I didn’t.

You brought this on yourself, she said.

Her voice was shaking.

Rasheed told us.

He told us what you were hiding.

That that book.

That filth.

It’s not filth, I said.

She stepped closer, her eyes blazing.

You abandoned Allah.

You abandoned your husband.

You abandoned your children.

I didn’t abandon them.

I said, I was taken from them because you chose this, she shouted.

You chose this this Christian lie over your own family.

I wanted to argue, wanted to defend, but I was too tired.

Mama, I said quietly.

I love you, but I cannot go back.

Go back? She laughed bitterly.

There is no going back.

Rashid has divorced you.

Your children will be raised by his family.

You are dead to us.

The woods hit harder than the bullets.

Mama, do not call me that.

She said, “You are not my daughter anymore.

” She turned and walked out.

The door closed and I was alone.

I stared at the ceiling, the tears sliding down my ruined face, and I felt it.

The weight of the cost I had known it would come, Issa had shown me.

But knowing and feeling are two different things.

I reached for the red book on the table beside me, pulled it close, and uh I prayed.

Not a loud prayer, not a desperate one.

Just surrender.

I am yours, I whispered.

Even if I lose everything, even if I am alone, I am yours.

The room was silent.

But I felt him, that presence, that peace, the same one I had felt in the light, in the place between.

You are not alone.

You are mine, and I will not let you go.

I closed my eyes and for the first time since I woke in that hospital bed, I felt hope.

Two weeks later, they let me see a mirror.

I wasn’t ready, but Dr.

Fuk said I needed to know, needed to see, needed to begin the process of accepting what had happened.

He handed me a small mirror, his face somber.

I took it, held it up, and I saw um my face was unrecognizable.

Scars crisscrossed my cheeks, my forehead, my jaw, my left eye drooped, my mouth pulled to one side, my nose was crooked, rebuilt, but wrong.

I looked like someone else.

No, I looked like someone who had died and come back.

I set the mirror down, my hands shaking.

I’m sorry, Dr.

Farukq said quietly.

I shook my head.

Don’t be, he frowned.

You’re not upset.

I am, I said.

But I’m also grateful.

Uh, grateful.

I touched my face, traced the scars with my fingers.

He told me I would carry his name in my face.

I said, “Every scar is a testimony.

Every glance is a question.

And when they ask, I will tell them of him.

” Dr.

Farooq stared at me.

Then he nodded slowly.

“You are stronger than most,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“I’m just his.

” 3 days later, I was discharged.

Sister Raha took me to a safe house on the edge of the city.

A small room, a single bed, a window that looked out over the hills.

It wasn’t much, but it was mine.

And for the first time in my life, I was free.

If you’ve ever had to choose between comfort and truth, between acceptance and obedience, I see you.

And so does he.

Drop one word in the comments that captures where you are right now.

Let’s build a thread of courage together.

The first time I told my story, I was terrified.

Sister Raela had invited me to a gathering, a small group of women, she said.

Believers, secret followers of Issa, meeting in homes, in hidden places, risking everything to worship.

You don’t have to speak, she said.

Just come, let them see you.

I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to be seen, didn’t want to be the woman with the ruined face, the walking reminder of what faith can cost.

But something in me, something whispered.

Go.

So I went.

The meeting was in a home on the outskirts of town.

10 women, maybe 12.

All of them covered, all of them careful.

They looked up when I walked in.

I saw it in their eyes.

The shock, the pity, the questions.

Sister Raela introduced me.

This is Mariam.

She said she has a testimony.

I hadn’t planned to speak, but when she said my name, my new name, I felt it.

The nudge, tell them.

I stood.

My legs were shaking.

My voice was still rough, still broken from the surgeries.

But I spoke.

I told them about the red book, about the dreams, about the well.

I told them about Rashid, about the gun, about the 12 bullets.

And I told them about the light, about Issa, about the choice he gave me and the choice I made.

When I finished, the room was silent.

Then one woman stood, tears streaming down her face.

“I have been hiding for 2 years,” she said.

“I thought I was the only one.

I thought I thought I was crazy.

Another woman stood.

I found the Bible last year.

I’ve been reading it in secret, but I was afraid.

Afraid of what it would cost.

One by one they stood.

And one by one they spoke.

Stories of dreams, of whispers, of hunger for something more.

Stories of fear, of isolation, of wondering if they were alone.

You are not alone.

I said, “He sees you.

He knows your name and he will not let you go.

” We prayed together that night.

Not the prayers we had been taught.

Not the prayers of ritual and repetition.

We prayed the way children pray, honest, desperate, free.

And when I left that house, I knew this was why I had come back.

Not for myself, for them.

Over the next months, I began to travel quietly, carefully.

Sister Raela connected me with other networks, other gatherings.

I spoke in homes, in basement, in courtyards, always near a well when I could.

The well had become my symbol, my reminder.

The place where I had met Sister Raela.

The place where I had prayed.

The place where I had been shot.

And now the place where I told others about him.

I carried the red book everywhere.

The one that had been soaked in my blood.

The one that had survived.

I would hold it up, show them the stains, the warped pages.

This is proof, I would say.

Proof that he preserves.

Proof that he is real.

proof that no weapon formed against his purpose can stand.

And I would see it in their eyes, the shift from fear to hope.

Some of them gave me their own red books to carry.

Small gospels hidden in bags, in pockets, in the folds of their clothing.

Give this to someone who needs it, they would say.

And I did.

I became a courier, a messenger, a living testimony.

Everywhere I went, people stared.

My faith made sure of that.

But when they asked, I told them, I was shot 12 times for following Issa, I would say.

And he brought me back.

Some turned away, some cursed me, some threatened me, but others others leaned in.

Tell me more, they would whisper.

and I would.

One woman, a young mother, came to me after a gathering.

She was trembling.

My husband will kill me if he finds out I’m here, she said.

I know, I said.

But I can’t stop, she said.

I can’t stop thinking about him, about Issa, about what you said.

I took her hand.

Then don’t stop.

He’s calling you and he will not let you go.

She wept and then she prayed.

Right there in the shadows, she gave her life to him.

I gave her a red book.

“Hide it,” I said.

“Read it when you can, and when you’re ready, pass it on.

” She nodded, tucked it into her bag, and disappeared into the night.

I never saw her again.

But I heard months later that she had started her own gathering.

Five women, then 10, then 20.

The red book was multiplying, and so was the hope.

If someone you love is walking this road in secret, facing the cost, carrying the weight, share this quietly with them.

Let them know they’re not alone.

Sometimes one testimony is all it takes to tip the scale from fear to faith.

A year after the shooting, I received a message.

Dr.

Farooq wanted to see me.

I went to the hospital nervous.

I hadn’t seen him since my discharge.

I wondered if something was wrong, if there were complications, if my body was failing in some new way.

But when I arrived, he wasn’t in his office.

He was in the records room.

Mariam, he said when he saw me, he had started using my new name.

Thank you for coming.

Is everything all right? I asked.

He hesitated.

Then he pulled out a folder, thick, worn.

I need to show you something, he said.

He opened the folder.

Inside were scans, CT images, X-rays, reports.

These are from the night you were brought in, he said.

I’ve been reviewing them over and over, and I I need you to see this.

He spread the images across the table.

I stared at them.

I’m not a doctor.

I didn’t understand most of what I was seeing, but I understood enough.

12 entry wounds marked in red on the scans.

Here, Dr.

Faruk said, pointing.

This bullet entered your cheek.

It should have shattered your jaw, severed your corroted artery, but it didn’t.

It deflected.

Lodged in soft tissue.

Nonfatal.

He pointed to another.

This one entered near your temple.

Should have penetrated your skull.

Should have killed you instantly.

But it didn’t.

It curved followed the bone.

Exited near your ear.

He went through each one.

Bullet after bullet, deflected, redirected, lodged in places that defied logic.

And this one, he said, pointing to the final image.

This one passed clean through.

Soft tissue only.

No bone, no artery, no nerve damage.

He looked up at me, his face pale.

Mariam, he said, I’ve been a trauma surgeon for 30 years.

I’ve treated hundreds of gunshot victims, and I have never never seen anything like this.

What are you saying? I asked.

I’m saying this is impossible, he said.

12 bullets, point blank range, the angle, the trajectory, the force.

You should be dead.

There is no medical explanation for your survival.

He pulled out another document, a report typed official.

I wrote this, he said, for the hospital records.

I documented everything, the wounds, the surgeries, the outcome.

He handed it to me.

I read the final line.

Patient survival cannot be attributed to medical intervention alone.

No natural explanation accounts for this outcome.

I looked up at him.

You wrote that? I had to.

He said, “Because it’s the truth.

” He paused.

Then he said, “You told me that first day that he saved you.

Issa, I didn’t believe you.

I thought you were in shock, confused.

And now I asked.

He stared at the scans.

Now I don’t know what I believe, but I know this isn’t natural.

I touched the images, traced the paths of the bullets with my finger.

12 chances to die.

And I was still here.

Can I have a copy? I asked.

Dr.

Faruk nodded.

I made one for you.

I thought I thought you might need it for your testimony.

He handed me a folder.

Inside were copies of the scans, the reports, the ballistics analysis.

Proof.

Tangible.

Undeniable proof.

I held the folder to my chest, tears streaming down my scarred face.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Dr.

Faruk nodded.

Then he said, “There’s one more thing.

” He reached into his coat, pulled out a small book, red cover.

I got this, he said, from a woman at the market.

She said, she said you would know what it means.

I stared at the book, then at him.

Are you I don’t know what I am, he said.

But I’m reading it and I’m I’m asking questions.

I smiled.

That’s how it starts.

He smiled back.

a small uncertain smile.

“Keep reading,” I said, “and when you’re ready, he’ll be there.

” I left the hospital that day with the folder in my hands and hope in my heart because now I had more than a testimony.

I had proof.

The next gathering I attended, I brought the folder.

I stood in front of 30 women in a basement lit by a single lamp, and I opened it.

I want to show you something, I said.

I held up the scans, explained what Dr.

Farooq had told me.

12 bullets, 12 deflections, 12 miracles.

This is not luck, I said.

This is not chance.

This is him.

I held up the red book, the one stained with my blood.

He preserved this book, I said.

and he preserved me because he has a purpose for me, for you, for every woman in this room who has ever wondered if he sees, if he cares, if he’s real.

I looked around the room at the faces, the tears, the hope.

He is real, I said.

And he knows your name.

One woman stood.

Can I see it? She asked.

The scan.

I handed it to her.

She stared at it.

Then she passed it to the woman beside her.

It went around the room, hand to hand, woman to woman.

And as it did, I saw it.

The shift from doubt to belief.

If he can do this, one woman whispered.

He can do anything.

Yes, I said.

He can.

Another woman stood.

I want to follow him, she said.

I want to give my life to Issa.

Then do it, I said.

She knelt right there and she prayed.

And then another woman knelt and another.

By the end of the night, 12 women had prayed.

12, the same number as the bullets.

I don’t believe in coincidences anymore.

If this moment, the scans, the proof, the 12 women stirred something in you.

If you’ve been waiting for a sign that he’s real, that he moves, that he saves, this is it.

Subscribe so the next person searching for this exact hope can find it.

Let’s make sure this testimony reaches the ones who need it most.

I carry that folder everywhere now.

The scans, the reports, the proof.

Not because I need it.

I know what happened.

I was there.

But because others need it.

The ones who are afraid.

The ones who are doubting.

The ones who are standing at the edge wondering if the cost is worth it.

I show them the scans.

I show them the red book.

I show them my face.

And I say, “He is faithful.

He is real.

And he will not let you go.

” Some believe, some don’t.

But I keep telling the story because this is what I was brought back for.

Not to live a quiet life.

Not to hide.

Not to disappear, but to testify.

To carry his name in my face and my voice in every scar.

And to tell the world no weapon formed against his purpose can stand.

I don’t know where Rashid is now.

I’ve heard rumors.

Some say he fled to the tribal areas.

Some say he remarried.

Some say he’s haunted by what he did.

I don’t hate him.

I should.

I know that by every human measure, I should hate him.

But I don’t because I know what it’s like to be bound, to be trapped in a system, a belief, a way of life that tells you there’s only one path, one truth, one way to live.

I know what it’s like to be afraid of what lies beyond the walls.

And I know what it’s like to be set free.

Rashid is still in the walls.

But I pray for him.

I pray that one day he’ll hear the voice.

The one that calls him by name.

The one that says, “I know you.

I see you.

And I will not let you go.

” I pray the same for my children.

Amir and Hina.

I haven’t seen them in over a year.

I don’t know if I ever will.

But I trust that he does.

And I trust that one day they’ll understand.

They’ll see the scars, read the story, hold the red book, and they’ll know their mother didn’t abandon them.

She chose truth.

And uh truth cost everything.

But it gave everything, too.

If you’re reading this, if you’ve made it this far, I want you to know something.

He knows your name.

Not the name your parents gave you.

Not the name your culture gave you, not the name your fear gave you.

your real name, the one written before the foundation of the world.

And uh he’s calling you.

Maybe you’ve heard it in a dream.

Maybe you’ve felt it in a moment of silence.

Maybe you’ve wondered late at night if there’s more.

There is.

His name is Issa.

Jesus, the word made flesh.

And he didn’t just die for the world.

He died for you.

I’m not asking you to abandon your family.

I’m not asking you to pick up a gun or start a revolution.

I’m asking you to read.

Read the red book, the gospel.

Start with John.

Start with the first chapter.

In the beginning was the word and see if he doesn’t meet you there.

See if he doesn’t call your name.

See if he doesn’t change everything.

He did for me.

And I believe I believe with every scar, every breath, every beat of this preserved heart, he will for you too.

He knows your name and he will not let you