Was this woman practicing witchcraft? Was she summoning evil spirits? But the light was not dark. It was warm, beautiful even. And the figures did not feel evil. They felt holy. Rasheed stumbled backward from the door. His heart was racing. He did not know what he had seen. He told himself it was exhaustion, lack of sleep, his eyes playing tricks.
But he could not shake the image, could not forget the light. He went to his commander the next morning, told him what he had seen. The commander laughed, told him he was seeing things, told him not to be foolish, told him to get more sleep. But Rasheed knew what he had seen. It was real. Day six came. One day left, one day until my execution.
The reality of it was crushing. Tomorrow afternoon, I would be taken to a field outside the city. A pit would be dug. I would be placed in it, buried to my waist. Religious charges would be read. And then people, maybe even people I knew, would throw stones at me until I died. I could barely think about it without vomiting from fear. I prayed constantly.
Jesus, if you want me to live, please deliver me. Please perform a miracle. Please save me. But I also prayed, “Your will be done. If you want me to come home to you this way, give me strength. Help me honor you even in death.” I thought about my family. My mother who knew nothing of my faith until the arrest.
How was she handling this? My father who had always been kind to me. My sister, what would they think when they watched me die? Would they hate me? Would they understand someday? I thought about the girls from the secret school. They were safe. I had never mentioned Jesus to them, so they could not be accused.
But what would happen to them now? Would they find another teacher? Would they get to learn? Or would they be married off young? Their minds closed, their potential wasted. I thought about other Afghan believers, the ones I had prayed for but never met. Were they watching this? Would my death discourage them or encourage them? I prayed it would encourage them.
I prayed they would see that Jesus was worth dying for. That sixth night was the longest of my life. I could not sleep, could not stop thinking about tomorrow. The fear was like a physical weight on my chest. I paced the small cell. I prayed. I cried. I quoted every verse I could remember.
I sang every worship song I knew. I did everything I could to keep from falling apart. Around midnight, I finally collapsed on the floor, exhausted, terrified. I whispered one more time, “Jesus, I am so afraid. Please be with me. Please do not leave me.” and he answered, not with words, not with a voice, but with presence. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, I felt him in the cell with me, closer than he had ever felt before, like he was physically standing beside me.
Like if I opened my eyes, I would see him. The fear did not disappear, but it was swallowed up by something bigger. Love. Immense, powerful, unshakable love. I felt loved in a way I had never felt loved before. Completely, perfectly, eternally. And I heard in my spirit, not with my ears, but with my heart, “I am with you. I will never leave you. Do not be afraid.
” Tears streamed down my face. But they were different tears. Not fear, tears. Something else. Joy mixed with sorrow. Peace mixed with pain. I lay on that cold floor and I worshiped. I thanked him for being with me. I surrendered everything. My life, my death, my fear, my hope, all of it. Do with me whatever brings you glory.
I prayed, I am yours, completely yours. And in that moment, I found something I did not expect. I found that I meant it. I truly meant it. Death was no longer the worst thing that could happen. Denying Christ would be worse. Losing him would be worse. If he was asking me to die for him, then I would die for him because he had already died for me.
The peace that filled me then was supernatural. It made no sense. I was hours away from execution. But I felt peace. Deep. Unshakable peace. Around 3:00 a.m., Rasheed made his rounds again. When he reached my cell, what he saw terrified him and amazed him at the same time. The entire cell was filled with light. Brilliant, golden, overwhelming light.
And in the center, I was kneeling, head bowed, praying. But I was not alone. Standing behind me with hands on my shoulders was a figure tall, dressed in white, face too bright to see clearly, and all around the cell were other figures. 10, maybe more, all in white, all glowing, all standing guard. The light was so bright that Rasheed had to shield his eyes.
He stumbled backward, his rifle clattering to the ground. His heart felt like it would explode. Every instinct screamed at him to run. This was impossible. This was not real. But it was real. He was seeing it with his own eyes. And then he heard a voice. Not from me. From the figure standing behind me.
The voice was not loud, but it filled everything. It filled the corridor. It filled Rasheed’s mind. It filled his soul. She is mine. just those three words, but they carried such weight, such authority, such power. Rasheed felt his knees buckle. He fell to the ground, unable to stand, unable to look at the light anymore, unable to do anything but kneel.
He did not know how long he knelt there. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes. When he finally looked up again, the light was fading. The figures were disappearing. I was still there, still praying, seemingly unaware of what he had witnessed. But Rasheed knew. He knew with absolute certainty. Whatever he had been taught about Christians, whatever he believed about Islam being the only truth, whatever he thought he knew about God, all of it was shaken.
Because he had just seen something that could not be explained, something that could only be divine. He picked up his rifle with shaking hands. He stumbled away from my cell. He sat in a corner of the corridor, head in his hands, trying to process what had happened. His entire worldview was crumbling.
The God he thought he served, the faith he thought was true. Everything was being challenged by what he had just witnessed. He knew one thing for certain. This woman was protected by something more powerful than the Taliban, more powerful than anything he had ever encountered. and whatever was protecting her was real.
Inside my cell, I continued praying. I had felt the presence intensify. I had felt surrounded, protected, held. I did not see what Rasheed saw, but I felt it. I knew angels were there. I knew Jesus was there. I knew I was not alone. And I knew that whatever happened tomorrow, it was going to be okay. If I lived, praise God. If I died, I was going home.
Either way, I won. Morning came too quickly. Day seven, execution day. Guards brought me water, told me to prepare myself. The execution would be midafter afternoon. They asked one final time if I wanted to recant, if I wanted to return to Islam and live. I looked at them and said clearly, “I follow Jesus Christ.
He is my Lord and Savior. I will not deny him. They shook their heads, called me foolish, called me deceived. Then they left. I spent the morning praying. I prayed for my family, for the girls, for Afghanistan, for Rasheed, the guard whose life I knew had been touched by God. I prayed for my executioners as Jesus commanded.
I even prayed for the Taliban that somehow God would reach them. And I prayed for strength, not to escape death, but to face it well, to die in a way that honored Jesus, to be faithful to the end. Around noon, Rasheed appeared at my cell. He looked different, shaken, uncertain. He glanced around to make sure no other guards were nearby.
Then he whispered through the bars, “What did I see last night?” I looked at him. I do not know what you saw, but I know who was there. Jesus Christ and his angels, the man standing behind you. Who was he? My Lord, my savior, the son of God. Rasheed shook his head. I do not understand. I have been taught all my life that Islam is a truth.
That Christians are kafir, enemies of Allah. But what I saw that was not from Allah. That was something else, something more. That was Jesus, I said gently. He is real. He is more real than anything else in this world. And he loves you, Rasheed, just like he loves me. They are going to kill you today. I know.
Are you not afraid? I am terrified, I admitted. But Jesus is with me. Even in death, he is with me. Death is not the end. It is the beginning. Rasheed stared at me for a long moment. Then he said something I will never forget. I do not know what your Jesus is, but he is more powerful than anything I have ever known. and I do not think these stones can touch you.
Then he walked away. I did not know then that his words would prove prophetic. Around 2 in the afternoon, they came for me. Multiple guards, they bound my hands. They covered me with a blanket. They led me out of the cell, through corridors, into the bright sunlight. I had not seen the sun in 7 days. It hurt my eyes.
They put me in a truck. The drive was longer this time. Out of the city into the countryside, I could hear other vehicles following a convoy. They were bringing witnesses, spectators, people who would watch a woman die for leaving Islam. My heart was pounding. The fear was back, overwhelming.
My mind screamed at me to fight, to run, to try to escape. But there was nowhere to run. I was surrounded by armed Taliban fighters. I was bound. I was helpless. So I prayed. I whispered Psalm 23 one more time. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. The truck stopped. They pulled me out, removed the blanket.
I squinted against the sunlight and looked around. We were in a field, barren, empty, hot under the afternoon sun. A crowd had gathered, maybe a hundred people, Taliban fighters, religious leaders, local men who had been brought or who had come willingly to witness justice. And in the front, I saw them.
My family, my mother, father, sister. They had been forced to come, forced to watch. My mother was already crying. My father’s face was like stone. My sister looked terrified. Seeing them broke me. I had been holding it together. But seeing my mother’s face, seeing the pain there shattered my composure. I started crying, not from fear of death, but from grief for what I was putting them through.
The Taliban had built a pit, a hole in the ground about waist deep. This was where I would be placed. This was where I would die. They dragged me toward it. I tried to walk, but my legs barely worked. Fear had taken over. Every step was agony, not from physical pain, but from the knowledge of what was coming. They positioned me at the edge of the pit.
A commander, not the same one from my arrest, someone higher, stood nearby with papers. He began to read the charges, his voice carried across the field. This woman, Nur Jan, has been found guilty of apostasy. She has abandoned Islam. She has followed the Christian religion. She has possessed and used their corrupted scriptures. She has refused to repent according to the law of Allah, according to the Quran and the teachings of the prophet.
Peace be upon him. The punishment is death. He continued reading, but I barely heard. I was praying. Jesus, into your hands I commit my spirit. Please receive me. Please be with my family. Please let them see you somehow. Please let this not be in vain. Then the reading stopped. The commander looked at me.
Do you have any final words? This was it. My last chance to speak. What do you say when you are about to die? I looked at the crowd, at the Taliban fighters, at my family, at all these people gathered to watch a woman be stoned. And I spoke. My voice was shaking but clear. I forgive you. All of you. I forgive you for this. Jesus Christ is Lord. He died for you.
He rose from the dead. He is real. He is the way, the truth, and the life. And he loves you. He loves even those who kill his followers. I pray that you will know him someday. I pray that you will find the truth. I am not afraid because I am going to be with Jesus and that is all that matters. Silence. complete silence.
No one spoke. No one moved. Even the commander seemed stunned that I had used my final words to pray for them. Then he recovered. He nodded to the guards. They pushed me toward the pit. I was about to step in when everything changed. A commotion at the edge of the field, shouting, vehicles approaching fast.
Taliban trucks, several of them roaring toward us, horns blaring. The execution stopped. Everyone turned. The trucks screeched to a halt and more Taliban fighters jumped out. But these were different fighters, different faction, different commander. An older Taliban leader emerged. He was shouting at the commander running the execution. Stop.
Stop this immediately. What is the meaning of this? The execution commander demanded, “This case is under dispute. There are questions about jurisdiction, about proper procedure. This execution cannot proceed until the religious council reviews it. The council already a different council in Kandahar. We received word this morning this case must be reviewed.
You have no authority to proceed. The two commanders began arguing loudly, angrily. Other Taliban fighters from both groups gathered around them. The argument escalated. Weapons were drawn, not pointed at me, but at each other. Two Taliban factions on the verge of fighting over jurisdiction of my case. This was insane. This was impossible.
The Taliban did not fight each other over prisoners. They did not dispute executions. This made no sense. Unless it was not about me at all. Unless God was moving. Unless this was divine intervention. The argument turned into a confrontation. Shots were fired into the air, people scattered.
The crowd that had gathered to watch the execution was running, trying to get away from the fighting Taliban fighters. In the chaos, someone grabbed my arm. Rasheed the guard. His face was intense. Run, he whispered. Run now. This is your chance. What? I do not know what your Jesus is doing, but this is him. I know it is. Run now.
He pulled me away from the pit, away from the fighting commanders toward the edge of the field. In the confusion, no one noticed. Everyone was focused on the confrontation. Rasheed dragged me behind one of the trucks, then toward a grouping of buildings at the field’s edge. “Why are you helping me?” I gasped. “Because I saw him,” Rashid said. “I saw the light.
I saw the man standing with you. I do not understand it, but I know it was real. And I know you need to escape. I do not know why, but I know, so run.” He pushed me toward an alley between buildings. Then he said something that shocked me. If your Jesus is real, if he can save someone like me, tell him I want to know him. Then he was gone.
Back toward the chaos, leaving me free. I ran. I ran through the alley, my bound hands making me stumble. Behind me, I could hear shouting, gunfire, chaos. But no one was chasing me. Not yet. God had created confusion and I was escaping in the middle of it. The alley opened onto a narrow street.
I did not know where I was outside the city in some rural area. I needed to hide. Needed to get these bonds off. Needed to think. A door was slightly open on my right. An abandoned building, maybe. I pushed through it and found myself in an empty room. I worked frantically at the ropes on my wrists, using my teeth, rubbing against a rough edge of wall.
It took precious minutes, but finally the rope loosened and fell away. I stood there, free, but trapped, free from bonds, but still in Taliban territory. Free from execution, but still marked for death. What now? I heard voices outside, people running. The chaos from the field was spreading. I needed to move.
I needed to get farther away before they realized I was gone. I found a torn blanket in the corner. I wrapped it around myself, covering my head and face like a burka. It was filthy, but it made me less recognizable. Then I stepped back out into the street. People were running everywhere. The fighting between Taliban factions had escalated.
This was unprecedented, unheard of. The Taliban did not fight each other in public like this. It was as if God had reached down and stirred up confusion just like he did for ancient Israel when their enemies turned on each other. I walked quickly trying to blend in with others fleeing the chaos. No one stopped me. No one looked at me.
I was just another woman escaping violence. I walked for maybe 20 minutes, getting farther from the field, deeper into unfamiliar streets. Finally, I stopped, hiding in a doorway, trying to think. I could not go home. That would be the first place they looked. I could not go to friends. That would endanger them. I had nowhere to go.
I was alone in an unknown area with no money, no resources, nowhere to hide. Jesus, I prayed desperately. You saved me from the stones. Thank you. But now what? Where do I go? Please guide me. Please help me. I stood there praying and then I heard footsteps. My heart jumped. Had they found me already? A woman appeared.
older, maybe 60, wearing full covering. She looked at me carefully. Then she spoke quietly. You are running from something. It was not a question. I did not know how she knew, but she knew. I nodded, unable to speak. Come with me quickly. I should have been suspicious. This could be a trap. She could be leading me to the Taliban, but I had nowhere else to go.
and something in her eyes seemed kind, trustworthy. I followed her. She led me through several streets, always checking to make sure we were not followed. Finally, we reached a small house. She opened the door and pulled me inside quickly, shutting and locking it behind us. “You are safe here,” she said. “For now.” “Who are you?” I asked.
She smiled, a surprising warm smile. My name is Fatima, and you, I think, are the Christian woman who was supposed to die today. My blood went cold. How do you News travels fast. Everyone knew about the execution. We have been praying, she paused. We have been praying that God would deliver you. We, my husband and I, we are believers, followers of Jesus like you. I stared at her.
You are Christians here? Yes. Secret Christians like many others in Afghanistan. You are not alone, sister. You were never alone. I started crying from relief, from exhaustion, from the overwhelming realization that I had not been the only one, that there were others, that God had led me to safety, to family, to people who understood.
Fatima embraced me, let me cry on her shoulder. When I finally calmed down, she brought me water, food, a place to sit. “Tell me what happened,” she said. So I told her everything, the arrest, the trial, the cell, the sentence, Rasheed and the lights, the miraculous intervention at the execution, the escape. She listened with tears in her eyes.
God is good, she whispered when I finished. He is so good. He saved you for a purpose, sister. Her husband came home an hour later. An older man named Ahmed. He was also a believer. When he heard my story, he too wept and praised God. That night, they contacted others in their network. I learned that there were hundreds, maybe thousands of secret believers across Afghanistan.
They met in small groups in homes. They communicated carefully. They helped each other survive. They had been doing this for years. And they had a way to help people escape. People like me who were discovered, who were marked for death. They could smuggle people out to Pakistan and from there to other countries where they could be safe.
It will take time, Ahmed warned. And it is dangerous, but we can get you out. We can save your life. What about my family? I asked. The thought of leaving them was agony. “They are being watched now,” Fatima said gently. “The Taliban will monitor them, hoping you contact them.
If you try to reach them, you put them in more danger. The best thing you can do for them is disappear completely. Maybe someday when you are safe, you can find a way to send word, but not now.” It broke my heart, but I knew she was right. Over the next week, I stayed hidden in their home. They gave me clean clothes, let me wash, gave me food and rest, let me recover from the trauma.
Other believers visited one or two at a time. They shared their stories, how they had found Jesus, how they lived in hiding, how they kept faith despite the danger. I was not alone. That truth kept overwhelming me. I was not the only Afghan Christian. I was part of a family I never knew existed. A secret church, suffering but alive, hidden but faithful.
During that week, we heard news. The Taliban were furious about my escape. They were searching. They had interrogated my family, but my family knew nothing. They had questioned people at the execution, but the chaos had been too complete. No one knew how I had gotten away. And there was other news. Rashid, the guard, had disappeared.
Some said he had been killed in the fighting between the factions. Others said he had deserted. No one knew for sure. But I prayed for him. I prayed that God would find him, save him, just as God had saved me. On the eighth day in hiding, Ahmed came to me with news. We have a way out. There is a route to Pakistan, a smuggler who helps people cross the border.
It is arranged. You leave tomorrow night. Tomorrow, I was leaving Afghanistan, leaving my country, my family, everything I knew. I would probably never return, never see my mother again, never see my home, never teach Afghan girls again, but I would live and I would be free. Free to worship Jesus openly, free to speak his name, free to live without fear.
Act five, the deliverance and the new life. The journey out of Afghanistan took 12 days. 12 days of hiding in safe houses, traveling in covered trucks, walking through mountain passes at night, crossing the border hidden among legitimate travelers. It was dangerous every moment. Discovery would mean death, not just for me, but for everyone helping me. But God protected us.
Every checkpoint we passed without being searched. Every suspicious moment passed without incident. Every dangerous night ended safely. It was miracle after miracle. The network of believers who helped me cross Afghanistan was amazing. In every city, in every town, there were secret Christians, all risking their lives to help a sister they had never met.
All united by our shared faith in Jesus. All part of God’s invisible church in one of the most dangerous places on earth. When we finally crossed into Pakistan, I collapsed in tears. I was out. I was free. I was alive. Against every odd, against every expectation, God had delivered me. In Pakistan, I spent 3 months in a refugee camp.
It was crowded and difficult, but it was safe. The Taliban had no power there. I could pray openly. I could sing worship songs without fear. I could read my Bible. I had been given a new one without hiding it. During those months, I connected with a Christian organization that helped persecuted believers. They heard my story.
They helped me apply for asylum in a western country. They connected me with churches that were praying for me. They gave me hope. The asylum process was long. There were interviews, forms, waiting. But finally in March 2024, 6 months after my escape, I received news. My application was approved. I was going to a safe country. I was going to be free.
The flight was the most surreal experience of my life. Sitting on a plane, flying away from everything I had ever known toward a life I could barely imagine. I watched Afghanistan disappear below me. my country, my home, the place of my pain and my salvation. I did not know when or if I would ever see it again.
When I arrived in my new country, I will not say where for security reasons. I could not believe it was real. Women walked freely. No burkas required. No religious police. No fear of being beaten for showing your face. Churches everywhere. crosses visible, people worshiping Jesus openly, loudly, joyfully. I cried for three days straight from relief, from grief, from overwhelming gratitude, from survivors guilt.
Why was I saved when others were not? Why did I get to escape when so many believers were still trapped in Afghanistan? The adjustment was hard. Everything was different. the language, the culture, the food, the way people lived. I felt lost, displaced, a stranger in a strange land. I had escaped physical persecution, but the trauma remained.
I had nightmares about the cell, about the execution, about the stones. I woke up screaming. I could not be in dark rooms. I flinched at loud noises. A church in my new city welcomed me. They connected me with a counselor who specialized in trauma. They gave me a place to stay. They helped me learn the language.
They surrounded me with love and support. Slowly, painfully, I began to heal. One day about 4 months after my arrival, I received unexpected news. Rasheed had escaped Afghanistan. He had made it to Pakistan and he had converted to Christianity. The network connected us. We had a phone call. He told me his story. After helping me escape, he had been questioned by the Taliban.
They suspected he had been involved. He had fled before they could arrest him. During his flight, hiding in safe houses, someone had shared the gospel with him. Someone had explained who Jesus really was. And Rasheed, who had seen the light in my cell, who had heard the voice saying, “She is mine,” had believed.
He had given his life to Christ. “You were right,” he told me on that call. “Jesus is real, more real than anything else. I saw him that night, and I had to know him. I had to follow him.” We both cried. This man who had been my guard, who had been trained to hate Christians, was now my brother in Christ.
God’s work is amazing. God’s power to transform is unstoppable. By the end of 2024, I had found my footing in my new life. I was learning the language. I was working with the refugee organization, helping translate for other Afghan refugees. I was attending church regularly. I was making friends. I was building a new life. But I felt a calling, a burden.
I could not stop thinking about Afghanistan, about the believers still there, about the girls in my secret school, about my family, about the millions of Afghans suffering under Taliban rule. I felt God saying, “Tell your story. Tell what I did. Tell how I saved you. Tell about my faithfulness.
be a voice for those who have no voice. So I began first in my local church sharing my testimony, then in other churches, then at conferences, then through videos online. Each time I shared, people responded. Some came to Christ for the first time. Some recommitted their lives. Some were moved to pray for Afghanistan. Some were inspired to support persecuted believers.
And that brings us to now, to this moment, to 2025. 2 years after my arrest, almost a year and a half after my escape, I stand before you alive, free, and whole. Not because I was strong enough or smart enough or worthy enough, but because Jesus saved me. Because God performed miracle after miracle to deliver me. because his purposes for my life were not finished.
I still think about Afghanistan every day. I still miss my family desperately. I still pray for the girls from the literacy circle, wondering where they are, hoping they are okay. I still grieve for my country, for the suffering there, for the darkness that has fallen over my homeland. But I also have hope because I know that God is at work even there.
I know that the church, though hidden, is alive. I know that believers are meeting in secret, worshiping in whispers, keeping faith despite persecution. I know that the gospel is spreading even in the darkest places. I have received word through the network. Some of the girls from my school escaped. Some are safe now. Some are even believers in Jesus.
Though I never spoke to them about my faith, God reached them another way. Reach them through my example. Maybe through seeing my peace in the midst of suffering. Through wondering what gave me that peace and they searched and they found and they believed. This is how God works. He takes suffering and uses it for glory.
He takes persecution and uses it to spread the gospel. He takes death sentences and turns them into testimonies of life. He takes one woman hiding in a room with a secret Bible and uses her story to reach thousands. I want you to understand something important. My story is not special. Not really. Around the world right now, there are thousands of believers suffering persecution like I suffered.
Being arrested, being tortured, being executed for following Jesus in Afghanistan, in Iran, in North Korea, in China, in many countries, Christians are paying the price for their faith. Some are delivered miraculously like I was, but many are not. Many are martyed. Many die for Jesus. And their stories are just as important as mine.
More important maybe because they were faithful unto death. They received the crown of life that Jesus promised. Why was I saved when they were not? I do not know. I have wrestled with that question a thousand times. Survivors guilt is real. Why me? Why not someone more important, more useful, more faithful? I do not have a full answer, but I know this. God is sovereign. God is good.
And God had a purpose in saving me. Part of that purpose is this. Telling you my story, being a voice, being a witness, showing the world that Jesus is real, Jesus is faithful, and Jesus is worth everything. Let me tell you what I want you to take away from my story. First, for believers, never take your freedom for granted.
If you live in a country where you can worship openly, where you can own a Bible, where you can speak the name of Jesus without fear, that is a privilege. That is a gift. Millions of Christians do not have that. Do not waste it. Use your freedom to worship boldly, to share the gospel fearlessly, to support those who do not have freedom. Pray for the persecuted church.
We need your prayers. Believers in dangerous places need your prayers more than we need anything else. Pray for protection. Pray for strength. Pray for deliverance. Pray for the gospel to spread despite persecution. Your prayers matter. Your prayers make a difference. Support organizations that help persecuted believers.
Give, volunteer, use your resources to help those who are suffering for Christ. There are networks like the one that saved me operating in dangerous places around the world. They need support. They need funding. They need people who care. Second, for doubters and seekers. I gave up everything for Jesus. Everything. My country, my family, my safety, almost my life.
Why would I do that for something that was not real? Why would millions of Christians throughout history do the same? Why would people die for a lie? We would not. We do not die for a religion. We do not die for a philosophy. We die for a person. For Jesus, because he is real. Because he revealed himself to us. Because we know him personally, intimately, undeniably.
I found Jesus in the darkest place imaginable. In Taliban ruled Afghanistan, in a cell awaiting execution, in the valley of the shadow of death. And he was there. He was real. He was present. He was faithful. If he can meet me there, he can meet you anywhere. You do not have to go to Afghanistan to find Jesus.
You do not have to face persecution. You do not have to risk your life. He is right here, right now, wherever you are. All you have to do is seek him honestly, sincerely, with an open heart, and he will reveal himself to you. He promises that in scripture you will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.
Third, for Muslims and people of other faiths, I am not here to condemn Islam or any religion. I respect religious searchers. I respect sincere faith. But I have to tell you the truth that changed my life. Jesus Christ is the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the father except through him. I know that is controversial.
I know that sounds exclusive. But it is what Jesus himself said and it is what I discovered to be true. I searched, I questioned, I looked for answers in many places and I found the truth in Jesus. Not in a religion, not in rules, not in rituals, in a person, in a relationship. In Jesus, he loves you.
Whether you are Muslim or Hindu or Buddhist or atheist or anything else, he loves you. He died for you. He rose for you. He wants you to know him and he is calling you right now. Can you hear him? I risked everything to follow Jesus. And I would do it again a thousand times, a million times because he is worth it.
Because knowing him is worth any cost. because eternal life with him is worth temporary suffering. Let me tell you where I am now. What my life looks like today. I live in freedom, but I have not stopped teaching. I teach online now. Teaching Afghan women who are still in the country, who connect through secret internet, who hunger for education and for hope. I teach them literacy.
I teach them English. And yes, when they ask, I tell them about Jesus carefully, wisely, but honestly. Some have believed, some have asked how to become Christians. And I connect them with the underground network, with other believers who can help them. The secret church is growing despite persecution, despite danger, despite everything.
The gospel is spreading. I work with refugee organizations. I help translate. I help other Afghan refugees adjust to life and freedom. I share my story at churches and conferences and universities. I write articles. I do interviews. I use every opportunity to tell what God did. And I pray. Oh, how I pray. I pray for Afghanistan.
For the Taliban to encounter Jesus like Rasheed did. For the country to be free someday. for justice and peace. I pray for my family. I have not been able to contact them, but I pray that somehow God is protecting them, providing for them, maybe even revealing himself to them. I pray for every believer still in Afghanistan, for protection, for strength, for perseverance, for God to hide them like he hid me, for miracles, for deliverance. And I pray for you.
Yes, you listening to my story right now. I pray that God will use my story to touch your heart, to draw you to Jesus, to strengthen your faith, to increase your compassion for persecuted believers, to change your life. Because that is why I am sharing this. Not for sympathy, not for attention, not to make myself seem brave or special, but to glorify Jesus, to show what he can do, to demonstrate his faithfulness, to prove that he is real.
Jesus Christ is Lord. He is real. He is faithful. He is powerful. He is loving. He is present. He is everything he claims to be. And he is calling you to know him, to follow him, to give your life to him. Is he worth it? Yes. A thousand times? Yes. A million times? Yes. Would I go through it all again? The persecution, the arrest, the cell, the sentence, the terror, the escape, the loss of everything.
Yes, I would because it led me to Jesus. because it made me know him in a way I never could have otherwise. Because it gave me a story to tell that points people to him. The cost was high but the gain was infinite. I lost a country but gained a kingdom. I lost a family but gained a father. I lost my life but found true life. I lost everything and gained everything.
This is my testimony. This is my truth. Jesus Christ saved my life. He delivered me from death. He walked with me through the valley of the shadow of death. He performed miracle after miracle to keep me alive. And he did it all for his glory and for his purposes. And he can do the same for you.
Whatever darkness you are in, whatever valley you are walking through, whatever fear you are facing, whatever pain you are enduring, Jesus is there. Jesus is real. Jesus is faithful and Jesus will never leave you nor forsake you. My name is Nor Jahan. It means light of the world. I did not choose that name, but God knew because the true light of the world found me in the deepest darkness.
found me in Taliban ruled Afghanistan, found me in a prison cell, found me sentenced to death, and he saved me, delivered me, brought me into his marvelous light. And if he can find me there, he can find anyone anywhere. No darkness is too dark for him. No place is too far for him. No situation is too hopeless for him.
He is the light of the world and he is calling you out of darkness into his light. Will you answer? Will you come to him? Will you let him save you like he saved me? This is my testimony. This is my truth. This is my life. Jesus Christ saved me and he can save you too. Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring. Thank you for praying and may God bless you and draw you close to himself in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Epilogue. As I finish sharing my story with you today, I want to leave you with one final thought. Two years have passed since my arrest. 18 months since my escape. Every day is a gift. Every breath is a miracle. Every moment of freedom is something I do not take for granted. I still have nightmares. I still carry trauma.
I still grieve for what I lost. But I also have joy. Deep, unshakable joy that comes from knowing Jesus, from being held by him, from experiencing his faithfulness in the most impossible circumstances. The scars remain, but they tell a story. A story of suffering, yes. But more than that, a story of deliverance, of faithfulness, of a God who never abandons his children, of a savior who walks through fire with us, of a love that is stronger than death.
I do not know what the future holds. I do not know if I will ever see Afghanistan again. I do not know if my family will ever know what happened to me, why I disappeared, where I am now. I do not know if I will see them again this side of heaven. But I know who holds the future. I know who holds me. And that is enough. To the believers listening, be faithful, be bold, be courageous.
Jesus is worth everything. Never deny him. Never be ashamed of him. Never hide your faith out of fear. He is worthy of everything we have to give. To the seekers listening, keep searching. Keep asking questions. Keep pursuing truth. Jesus said, “Ask and it will be given to you. Seek and you will find. Knock and the door will be open to you.” He meant it.
If you seek him sincerely, you will find him. He is waiting for you. To the doubters listening, I understand doubt. I lived in doubt for years. But I am telling you with every fiber of my being, with all the authority of someone who has walked this path, Jesus is real. He is not a myth, not a fairy tale, not a crutch for weak people. He is God.
He is real. And he will prove himself to you if you give him a chance. To the persecutors, if any are listening, I forgive you. All of you. The ones who arrested me, the ones who beat me, the ones who sentenced me to death. The ones who tried to kill me, I forgive you because Jesus forgave me because he commands me to forgive because forgiveness is the only path to freedom.
And more than that, I pray for you. I pray that you will encounter Jesus like I did, like Rasheed did, that your eyes will be opened, that you will see the truth, that you will turn from darkness to light because God loves you, too. Jesus died for you, too. There is forgiveness available for you, too. No matter what you have done.
Finally, to Jesus, thank you. Thank you for finding me. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for never leaving me. Thank you for the darkness because it led me to your light. Thank you for the persecution because it made me know you deeper. Thank you for the deliverance because it gave me this story to tell. Thank you for your faithfulness.
Thank you for your love. Thank you for your grace. I am yours completely yours forever yours. Use my life for your glory. Use my story for your purposes. Do with me whatever brings you the most glory. I am willing. I am ready. I am yours. To everyone listening, I leave you with the same words I heard in my darkest hour.
The words that carried me through the valley of the shadow of death. The words that are still carrying me today. Do not be afraid. I am with you. I will never leave you nor forsake you. Jesus spoke those words to me in that cell. And he speaks them to you today. Right now, wherever you are, whatever you are facing. Do not be afraid.
He is with you and he will never leave you. This is my testimony. This is his faithfulness. This is the gospel truth. Jesus Christ is Lord and he is worthy of everything. May you come to know him. May you follow him. May you experience his love like I have experienced it. May your life be transformed like mine has been transformed.
From darkness to light, from death to life, from fear to freedom, from despair to hope. This is what Jesus does. This is who he is. This is why he is worth everything. Thank you. God bless you. And may the true light of the world shine on you today and always. Amen.

 

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