In this video, I want to share something very personal with you.

A true story that completely changed my life.

I come from a difficult past marked by pain, wrong choices, and moments when I thought everything was lost.

But it was right in the midst of despair that something supernatural happened.

Something that made me see faith through different eyes.

What you are about to hear is more than just a simple testimony.

It is a journey of courage, faith, and liberation.

An intimate and transformative account that I hope deeply touches your heart.

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May this story speak to your heart.

I was a respected man when I walked through the streets of our small town in southern Egypt.

People would bow their heads in reverence.

My students listened to me in silence.

I was Sheik Hassan al-Rahim, the teacher, the defender of the faith, the man no one dared to question.

I grew up in the Islamic tradition like one who breathes without thinking.

My father was an imam.

My mother knew the Quran by heart.

And from a young age, I was molded to carry this inheritance.

By the age of 12, I had already memorized the entire holy book.

At 25, I taught Islamic juristprudence.

My life was set.

A devout wife, two loving daughters, a position of honor in the temple.

I never doubted anything.

Never, until that Friday morning.

The sun was strong when I arrived at the mosque.

I remember the light pouring in through the arched windows, reflecting on the marble floor and illuminating the attentive faces of the worshippers.

That day, I was especially excited about the sermon.

I had prepared a fierce critique against the doctrine of Jesus’s resurrection.

I wanted to show with theological and historical arguments that it was a hoax, a grotesque error sustained by a corrupted book.

As I spoke, I saw looks of admiration.

Some murmured, “Amen!” between one sentence and the next.

I felt in control until that pain came.

It started as a pressure in my chest and in the blink of an eye became a crushing weight.

I lost my breath.

I tried to keep talking, but no sound came out.

I staggered, tried to lean on the low wall next to the pulpit, but my legs gave way.

I fell to the ground in front of everyone.

And there on that cold floor, I heard my last breath.

Then the silence.

The first thing I felt was the absence of everything.

It wasn’t darkness like when you turn off the light.

It was a living void, dense, suffocating.

No sound, no wind, no thought.

It was as if I had been ripped from the world and thrown into a place where time made no sense.

And as strange as it sounds, I was still conscious.

I knew I was no longer breathing.

I knew my body had been left behind, fallen on the mosque floor.

But there, wherever I was, the pain didn’t exist.

Only a nameless anguish.

I tried to move, but I had no body.

I tried to scream, but I had no mouth.

It was just me, a consciousness suspended in nothingness.

That’s when the fear arrived.

Not the fear of dying, because I already knew I was dead, but the fear of what would come next.

Where were the angels they told me would appear? Where was the judgment, the questions, the promised paradise? There was nothing, just loneliness.

And this nothingness seemed to last forever.

But then, when I was already on the verge of despair, a point of light appeared, small, distant, as if someone had lit a candle at the end of an endless tunnel.

And that light began to grow.

First slowly, then like a flash that pierced all that suffocating darkness.

I no longer felt alone.

There was a presence coming from that light.

Something or someone was approaching.

And I can’t explain how.

But even before I saw clearly, I already knew.

My heart or whatever was pulsing inside me in that state knew.

This was not just any creature.

It was someone I had denied my whole life.

I felt shame even before seeing him.

The light became so strong that it forced me to retreat.

But I had nowhere to go.

When I finally managed to face that light, I saw a silhouette emerging from its center.

It was not a ghostly apparition, nor a dream figure.

It was someone, a man.

His bare feet touched a ground I couldn’t distinguish, as if he were in the air itself.

He walked slowly toward me, and the closer he got, the more I felt a weight inside me that was not physical pain.

It was something else.

A mixture of shame, regret, fear, and something I had never felt before.

Total exposure.

It was as if he could see every part of me, every thought, every lie, every pride hidden beneath my beard and my titles.

When I finally saw his face, my mind screamed inside.

I knew who he was.

I had spent my entire life saying he was just a prophet.

That Christians had turned him into an idol.

That everything they said about him was exaggeration or lies.

But now, right there, face to face, I couldn’t deny it.

That was Jesus.

And there was nothing in me that could meet his gaze.

Even so, he did not look away.

There was no anger in him.

There was no sarcasm.

It was as if he was sad, but not with contempt.

It was a kind of sadness that embarrassed me more than any words.

And it was then that I saw his hands, and in them there were marks.

Marks that looked old yet open.

I knew what they were.

I had never believed in them, but now there was no room for doubt.

The nail marks were there, visible, clear.

I trembled inside.

I had publicly said dozens of times that Jesus was never crucified, that it was an invention, that someone else had died in his place.

And now those marks contradicted me without saying a word.

I felt small, miserable, and yet he remained there looking at me as if he had been waiting for me for a long time.

I wanted to say something, anything, to ask for forgiveness, to justify my ignorance, to say I didn’t know.

But no word came out.

It was as if the truth itself was crushing my pride.

I knelt or had the sensation that my knees gave way because in that place, even without a body, I knew what it meant to bow.

Not before a man, but before someone who carries an authority that doesn’t need to raise its voice.

I wept, a tearless cry, but so strong that it seemed to tear apart what was left of me inside.

I remembered every time I mocked Christians, every sermon where I denied Jesus, every debate where I used my intelligence to humiliate those who believed in him.

And there he was, alive, real, with the most sincere eyes I had ever seen.

And the most unbelievable thing, he didn’t push me away.

He didn’t accuse me.

He just asked me, “Why did you persecute me?” I couldn’t answer.

Not a single word.

I just lowered my head.

And even without him saying anything else, I understood everything.

That question was like a mirror being placed before me.

I wasn’t there due to ignorance.

I had made a choice.

I chose my reputation, my theology, my pride, and threw away the truth.

And now, standing before it, everything hurt.

Then he stretched out his hand.

I remember it vividly.

the same hand with marks that no one could fake.

And he told me calmly, “I will show you the truth.

” It was not an invitation.

It was a calling.

And when I touched that hand, everything changed.

It was as if we had been transported to another place.

The scenery around us transformed.

Suddenly, I was facing something I never thought could be real.

What I saw first was the fire, but it was not common fire.

It didn’t illuminate.

It was as if it burned the air itself, and yet left everything plunged in darkness.

The heat was unbearable, even without a body.

I felt as if I were being crushed by waves of dense, suffocating heat, as if the very atmosphere was made of guilt.

We were on the edge of an abyss that seemed to have no end.

And inside it there were screams.

Screams I will never forget.

They were not just of physical pain.

It was an existential lament.

As if every voice there knew that there was no more hope.

That nothing could change their destiny.

Jesus said nothing.

He just showed me.

And I felt that it was necessary.

It was as if he were saying you need to see with your own eyes.

And I saw I saw people, not generic figures, but faces, men, women, people.

And then to my horror, I saw familiar faces, scholars I admired, authors of books I quoted in class, religious leaders who were revered in life, all there crying, screaming, looking at me.

One of them recognized me.

He stretched his hand toward me and shouted my name with despair, imploring me to go back, to tell the truth, to warn people while there was still time.

That broke me down.

I didn’t know what to think.

These men, like me, had prayed, fasted, defended the faith.

But now they were there, and they all said the same thing.

We denied Jesus.

The words repeated like an echo.

And in that place where the notion of time seemed non-existent, I realized something terrible.

There was no return.

The separation there was eternal.

And that was what awaited me too if I hadn’t died that day.

I wanted to close my eyes, turn my face, escape that vision.

But it was as if Jesus kept me there out of mercy.

Yes, mercy.

Because if I hadn’t seen that with my own eyes, I would never have believed.

In that moment, I realized that it wasn’t about being a good person, nor about fulfilling rituals or following rules.

Those people were not lost because they lived badly, but because they rejected the only truth capable of saving them.

And that truth was right there by my side.

Jesus didn’t speak, but his presence said everything.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t show anger.

It was as if he carried the pain of each of those souls.

It was a silent suffering, but so profound that it left me in pieces.

Then, before I could beg for relief, he took me out of there.

The transition was instant.

The heat, the screams, and the anguish vanished.

And what came next left me breathless.

I was standing before an immense field bathed in a light that did not come from any sun.

It was as if everything there was made of peace.

The air, the color of the flowers, even the sound of voices in the distance seemed to have been designed to calm.

And it was there that I felt something I had never felt in my whole life.

Belonging.

For the first time, I didn’t need to prove anything.

There were no judgments, no demands.

It was as if I had been expected there.

Jesus was with me.

And in front of us, a multitude was singing.

I saw people of all colors from all nations singing with their hands raised, and everyone was looking at him.

There was no confusion, no competition.

It was as if all those people had found exactly what they had searched for their whole lives.

And now they were complete.

As I walked beside Jesus in that place, there was no weight on my shoulders.

It was as if all the tiredness, all the tension of life had been removed from me.

I saw trees that seemed alive in a way that is impossible to explain, as if they were smiling.

The waters of a nearby river shone like moving glass.

And the music, it didn’t come from an instrument or a single voice.

It was as if the entire creation was singing.

A song of freedom, of redemption, and all of it pointed to him.

I felt so small, but at the same time loved deeply, as if even knowing my every mistake, he still wanted me there.

I thought this is where I want to stay forever.

And even before I said it out loud, he answered with his eyes.

Not with words, but I understood.

Only suddenly he stopped.

He placed his hand on my shoulder and his gaze changed.

It was like a father about to say goodbye to a son.

I knew in that instant I wasn’t going to stay there.

My heart sank.

I looked at him and with the little strength I had left, I begged, “Please let me stay.

” But he was clear.

He said it was not my time yet.

That I had a mission, that I needed to go back.

And once again, he looked at me with compassion and said, “Tell the world that I am the way, the truth, and the life, and no one comes to the Father except through me.

” Those words were etched into me like fire.

And before I could react, everything began to fade.

The light moved away.

The sound dissolved.

And a strong pull dragged me back.

I woke up with a start as if I had been shocked in the chest.

My first sight was the white light of the hospital, cold, artificial, and the faces around me.

Doctors, nurses, all paralyzed, as if they had seen a ghost.

Air rushed back into my lungs like an explosion.

My whole body achd.

My chest felt crushed.

There were tubes, wires, sensors.

Someone was shouting, “He’s back.

He’s alive.

” But I could barely understand what they were saying.

Only one thing occupied my mind.

Jesus.

I had seen, touched, heard, and now I was back.

I wanted to cry, but my body was locked up.

I closed my eyes and tried to hold on to that feeling, that place.

But it was too late.

What remained was the memory and the pain.

not the physical one, but the pain of having left something so perfect behind and of knowing that now I would have to live with this and do something with this.

In the following days, while still recovering in the hospital, no one understood my silence.

They said it was a miracle I had survived such a severe heart attack.

7 minutes without a heartbeat, they said.

Doctors called me a rare case.

My family visited me with Muslim prayers, thanking Allah for my second chance.

But I couldn’t go along with it.

I looked at everyone, but I was distant.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the abyss, the fire, the faces that begged me to warn people.

And then the heaven, the singing, the face of Jesus, and the words he said.

I had to speak.

But how? Who would believe? How to explain that a Muslim shake who spent his life denying Christ had a direct encounter with him after death? My mind spun in silence as if I were on the edge of an emotional abyss.

And deep down I already knew.

When I told the story, everything would change.

It took me almost a month to tell my wife the truth.

Aisha, who had always been discreet and firm, looked at me with suspicion ever since I came home.

I avoided talking.

I slept little.

I spent hours staring at the ceiling as if I were somewhere else.

She said my spirit was restless.

And it was.

One night after our daughters had gone to sleep, I called her into the room and asked her to listen without interrupting.

I told her everything, every detail.

From the moment I fell to the mosque floor to the instant I saw Jesus face to face, I spoke of hell, of heaven, of the calling I received.

She stared at me as if I had gone mad.

At first, she was silent, but then she started to cry.

She said I was being deceived by demons, that it was the work of Shayan, that if I didn’t repent, I would lose not only my faith, but my family.

She carried out her threat.

In less than two weeks, she left home with the girls.

She said she wouldn’t let me poison her daughters with lies.

It was as if my heart had been ripped from my chest.

The children were crying, confused, begging to stay.

I didn’t even have time to say a proper goodbye.

The door closed and the silence that remained was deafening.

I tried to talk to friends, mosque colleagues, the elders of the Madrasa.

I thought that maybe, just maybe, someone would listen to me calmly.

But no, I was treated as a traitor, a madman, an apostate, a dangerous man.

They forbade me to teach.

They distanced me from the temple.

In a short time, I was a pariah in my own city.

Everything I had built in 40 years vanished.

All because of seven minutes of being dead.

All because of a single truth I could no longer deny.

What hurt the most was the abandonment of my family.

My brothers, who had always been by my side, visited me only once, and it was to tell me I was dead to them.

My mother refused to let me into her house.

My father, who had been my greatest example of faith, just said, “I no longer have a son with that name.

” I went home and sat in the dark alone for hours.

groundless, directionless, afraid to even go out into the street.

For weeks, I received anonymous threats.

Someone spray painted kafir on my door.

They pushed me on the street.

They said I was lucky to still be alive.

And yet, in the midst of all this, something inside me wouldn’t let me give up.

It was as if that phrase from Jesus, the one he spoke looking into my eyes, wouldn’t stop echoing, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

” I couldn’t be silent.

It was at that moment when I was already thinking of disappearing for good that Gurgus knocked on my door.

A Coptic Christian, the owner of a small fabric shop that I used to criticize in the market square.

How many times had I gone into his shop just to argue, to confront him? And yet he came to me.

He brought food.

He sat with me in silence.

And after a while, he just said, “I have been praying for you all these years.

” That broke me down.

He gave me a gift I never expected.

A Bible in Arabic.

I held that book as if it were burning in my hands.

I had never read it sincerely.

I always used it only to refute, never to understand.

But that night I opened it without knowing where without choosing a passage and it opened to John 14.

When I read, I am the way, the truth, and the life.

I fell to the floor.

It was exactly what he had said to me in heaven.

Word for word.

That same dawn, I read the entire Gospel of John.

Then I read Matthew, then Mark, and I couldn’t stop.

I read like someone hungry, like someone trying to piece together a puzzle that had always been before their eyes, but they never wanted to see.

Jesus’s words did not sound strange to me.

They reminded me of his gaze, of the way he held me, of the firmness with which he showed me hell and the compassion with which he led me to heaven.

Everything made sense now.

For the first time, I didn’t feel fear of God.

I felt love, a love that embarrassed me but liberated me at the same time.

I started meeting secretly with a small Christian group that welcomed me.

They were few, discreet, but there I found something no mosque had ever offered me.

Peace.

Months passed before I decided to be baptized.

It was not an easy decision.

I knew that from then on there would be no turning back.

I would be persecuted, marked, perhaps killed.

But I also knew that if I did not obey that calling, I would be betraying everything I saw, everything I experienced.

The baptism took place in a simple house with few people, all in secret.

But what happened there was more true than any public ceremony I had ever witnessed.

When I came out of the water, I felt something break.

As if the guilt, the fear, and the weight of my old life had been left behind.

I was no longer Shake Hassan.

I was just Hassan, loved by Christ, chosen by him, called to a mission I didn’t even know how to fulfill yet.

But something inside me said I could no longer be silent.

that even if it meant dying alone, I had to speak.

I started slowly, first by helping with what I could in the small church work.

Then by guiding refugees and ex-Muslims who arrived in secret, seeking shelter.

I didn’t tell my story to just anyone.

Only when I saw that the person was ready to listen, and even so, always with fear.

But every time I spoke, it was as if something burned inside me.

I remembered the faces in hell begging me to tell.

I remembered the light, that last phrase of Jesus before sending me back.

I couldn’t ignore that.

Then when the pandemic started and everyone moved online, I found a way.

I recorded my testimony in parts with the camera low, voice low, without showing my face, and I posted it.

I didn’t imagine anyone would watch, but the videos spread.

People from all over the world began to look for me.

Some to curse, others to say they were feeling the same calling.

Threats came too, some serious.

I was followed on the street, beaten once.

I lost two jobs because they suspected me.

But even so, I continued.

And every time someone wrote to me saying, “I found Jesus because of your story.

” Something inside me healed.

One day, while walking alone in a narrow street in Cairo, I stopped and realized I had nothing left.

My family abandoned me.

My career destroyed, my reputation turned to dust.

But I felt a peace so profound that I cried right there, leaning against a broken wall with my eyes toward heaven.

Because even without having anything left, I had him.

And that was everything.

I never thought that my death and what came after it would change my entire life.

But it did in a way that even today I can’t fully explain.

Even today, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with the feeling of being back in that place between life and death.

I can’t explain it.

I don’t know if it’s memory, if it’s an impression, or if it’s just my heart trying to understand something that the human mind cannot process.

Sometimes I close my eyes and see the light.

Other times I remember the heat of the abyss.

And always, always, I hear that phrase inside me as if it had been said a few seconds ago.

I am the way, the truth, and the life.

I have tried to ignore it.

I have tried to say it was a delusion, that it was a hallucination, that 7 minutes without a heartbeat could have created all that in my mind.

But every time I try to rationalize it, something stops me.

It’s not fear.

It’s not guilt.

It’s certainty.

a certainty that did not come from study nor from tradition.

It came from him.

And no matter how hard I try to explain it, the truth is that even today I don’t know how it happened that way.

I only know that it happened.

And the strangest thing is that after that day, I never had another vision.

No extraordinary dream, no supernatural manifestation, nothing.

It was as if everything had begun and ended there in that single instant between my death and my return.

As if Jesus had said everything he needed to say all at once.

Sometimes I find myself wondering why he didn’t appear again.

Why he didn’t say anything else? Why he left me here trying to piece things together alone.

But maybe that’s the way it is.

Maybe he did exactly what he had to do and the rest was left to me.

What I know is that my life never went back to normal.

And maybe it never will because after seeing what I saw and hearing what I heard, there’s no way to live as before.

And even though I lost everything, I gained something that no one will ever take from me.

And every time someone asks me how I know Jesus is real, I answer the same thing.

I saw him.

And the silence that remains after that phrase is the same silence that remained when everything began.

And even today, I have no explanation.

After all I’ve lived, I understood that faith is not born only from words, but from real encounters with the impossible.

If this story has touched your heart, remember, even in the darkest moments, there is a purpose that can change everything.

Sometimes the miracle happens when we least expect it and with whom we least imagine.

Now, I want to hear from you.

Have you ever experienced something that made you rethink your whole life? Leave your comment below sharing your experience or opinion about the video.

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See you in the next video.

God bless