thumbnail
Saddam Hussein ruled Iraq for more than two decades with the promises of strength, unity, and prosperity.

But all he gave was fear, war, and endless bloodshed.

Entire families disappeared overnight, and millions lived in silence.

Yet, the world finally saw his end become one of the most shocking and controversial executions in modern history.

Saddam was born on April 28th, 1937 in the small village of Alalia near Territ, Iraq.

He came from a poor family raised by his mother and uncle after his father disappeared.

Life was hard, but young Saddam carried something dark, an obsession with power.

By the late 1950s, Iraq was in chaos.

coups, assassinations, and shifting governments made it the perfect playground for an ambitious young man.

In 1957, Saddam joined the Ba Party, which preached Arab unity and socialism.

But what he truly wanted wasn’t unity.

It was control.

In 1968, the Baists took over Iraq in a bloodless coup.

Saddam became vice president under his cousin, Ahmed Hassan Albakr.

From that point, he built a system where loyalty meant survival and disobedience meant death.

He created secret police forces like the Mukabarat who could arrest anyone any time.

By 1979, Saddam forced Albaka to resign.

He officially became president, commanderin-chief, and head of everything that mattered.

That same year, he called hundreds of top officials to a meeting.

One by one, he read names, accusing them of betrayal.

Those named were dragged out, executed, or imprisoned.

Saddam had removed all rivals in a single day.

And that’s how his reign of fear began.

In September 1980, he launched a full-scale invasion of Iran.

The Iran Iraq war would last eight long years.

Millions were killed or wounded.

Entire cities were turned into rubble.

Saddam used chemical weapons like mustard gas and nerve agents against Iranian soldiers.

And even his own Kurdish population.

The world watched in horror, but most countries stayed silent.

Western nations fearing Iran’s growing power after the 1979 Islamic Revolution quietly supported Saddam.

The United States provided intelligence.

France and the Soviet Union sold him weapons.

The war ended in 1988 with no winner, only destruction.

But Saddam celebrated as if he had conquered the world.

His next move would be even more disastrous.

In 1990, Iraq invaded Kuwait.

He claimed it was Iraq’s 19th province, but the world reacted immediately.

Within months, the United States led a massive coalition of 35 nations.

Operation Desert Storm began in January 1991.

After 6 weeks of bombing and ground attacks, Saddam’s army was crushed.

Tens of thousands of Iraqi soldiers were killed or captured.

But the dictator remained in power.

He crushed uprisings in the north and south using helicopter gunships and tanks against civilians.

By the late 1990s, Iraq was under severe United Nations sanctions.

Food, medicine, and supplies became scarce.

children starved.

While Saddam lived in luxury inside his palaces, surrounded by golden furniture, private zoos, and portraits of himself, his grip on power was still iron, but cracks were forming beneath him.

And the hunt began on September 11th, 2001, when the US government, led by President George W.

Bush began targeting regimes it believed were dangerous or could support terrorism.

Saddam’s Iraq quickly became one of those targets.

For years, Saddam had been a problem for the West.

He had invaded two neighboring countries, used chemical weapons, and ignored United Nations inspections.

Now, after 9/11, the US believed it could no longer take chances with him.

Even though Iraq had no proven connection to the 9/11 attacks, Washington claimed Saddam was hiding deadly weapons of mass destruction, including nuclear, biological, and chemical.

American intelligence reports said Iraq was secretly producing toxic agents like anthrax and sarin gas.

Saddam denied it, saying Iraq had destroyed all such weapons after the Gulf War.

But the world didn’t trust his word.

Years of defiance and lies had damaged his credibility.

The United Nations sent inspectors led by Hans Blicks to look for weapons, but they found nothing.

Still, the United States and Britain insisted Saddam was deceiving them.

Tensions grew quickly.

In early 2003, the US and its allies gave Saddam an ultimatum to leave Iraq or face invasion.

He refused.

On March 20th, 2003, the bombing of Baghdad began.

The campaign was called Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Within days, American and British troops pushed deep into the country.

Cities like Basra, Carbala, and Najaf, fell one after another.

Saddam’s forces, once considered among the strongest in the region, collapsed faster than anyone expected.

His Republican Guard units tried to fight back but were no match for the advanced American military.

By April 9th, 2003, Baghdad fell.

US tanks rolled into the city and crowds pulled down Saddam’s massive bronze statue in FO Square, a symbolic end to his power.

His palaces were looted, government buildings burned, and portraits of him were destroyed everywhere.

The man who once ruled Iraq with fear had vanished.

No one knew where he was, and that uncertainty haunted the entire nation.

Over the next few months, US forces launched massive manhunts to find him.

They called it Operation Red Dawn, a name inspired by an old American war movie.

Soldiers searched hundreds of locations from farms to desert hideouts based on intelligence from captured aids and loyalists.

Saddam kept moving, staying in safe houses provided by a few remaining supporters.

He shaved his beard, wore simple clothes, and traveled only at night to avoid detection.

The US military also went after his inner circle.

Dozens of top officials from his regime were captured, often identified through the famous deck of cards.

A set of playing cards showing the most wanted members of Saddam’s government.

But the biggest blow came when his sons Ud and Kusay were tracked down in Mosul.

On July 22nd, 2003, American forces surrounded the house they were hiding in.

A fierce gun battle broke out that lasted nearly 4 hours.

When it ended, both were dead.

With his sons gone, Saddam was completely alone.

His once loyal army had dissolved.

His government was destroyed, and his closest aids were either dead or imprisoned.

Still, he managed to stay hidden for months, living like a fugitive in the same country he once ruled with absolute power.

The hunt for Saddam had become one of the largest manhunts in modern history.

And on December 13th, 2003, it finally came to an end.

That night, US soldiers from the Fourth Infantry Division, together with a special task force called Task Force 121, launched a carefully planned raid near the small town of Adawer, about 15 km south of Dit, Saddam’s birthplace and stronghold.

This area had always been loyal to him, filled with relatives, old bodyguards, and tribal supporters who helped him stay hidden for months.

American forces had searched there many times before, but always came up empty.

This time, though, they had fresh intelligence from a captured bodyguard who revealed the exact location.

The operation, cenamed Red Dawn, began late at night.

US troops surrounded two farm houses that were believed to be safe houses.

They used helicopters, Humvees, and infrared cameras to block every possible escape route.

Soldiers searched every room, every storage area, and every nearby shed.

Hours passed before they noticed a small patch of disturbed earth behind one of the huts.

It looked like nothing special, just a small piece of ground covered with bricks and weeds.

But when they removed the bricks, they found a hidden hole leading to an underground space barely large enough for one person.

Inside that cramped pit about 6 ft deep, they found Saddam Hussein.

His hair was long and matted, his face covered in a thick beard, and he was wearing simple clothes.

He looked nothing like the powerful man who once appeared on posters and television screens across Iraq.

A loaded pistol and two AK-47 rifles were found nearby, but he didn’t fire a single shot.

Instead, he surrendered without resistance, clearly exhausted and in shock.

The soldiers described him as nervous but cooperative.

After his capture, US forces immediately took DNA samples to confirm his identity.

They also compared scars and dental records to be sure.

Within hours, it was confirmed.

He was then flown by helicopter to a secure location for interrogation.

His capture was officially announced the next day by US Administrator Paul Breamer, who famously said, “We got him.

” Those three words spread like wildfire around the world.

When footage of Saddam’s capture was released, Iraqis reacted with strong emotions.

In Baghdad, people poured into the streets, firing guns in the air in celebration.

For them, it was the end of decades of fear.

Others, especially those from areas that had supported Saddam, mourned or watched in disbelief.

They couldn’t imagine the man who once ruled their lives being dragged from a hole in the ground.

But this was only the beginning of his final chapter.

In June 2004, after months of questioning and negotiations, Saddam Hussein was officially handed over to the newly formed Iraqi interim government.

However, because Iraq was still unstable and violent at the time, American soldiers continued to guard him closely as there were still many people who wanted to free him or kill him before the trial could even begin.

Saddam’s first court appearance took place on July 1st, 2004.

It was a short session inside a heavily guarded courtroom in Baghdad’s green zone.

Cameras filmed him as he entered, wearing a simple gray suit and holding a copy of the Quran.

For many Iraqis, it was the first time they had seen him since his capture.

The man who once terrified the entire nation now looked older and tired, though he tried to appear confident.

The court read out the charges against him.

crimes against humanity, [clears throat] mass murder, and the use of torture and executions against innocent civilians.

One of the main cases chosen for the trial was the 1982 Duja massacre.

That year, a small group of men in the Shia town of Duja had tried to attack Saddam’s convoy.

In revenge, he ordered a massive crackdown.

Entire families were arrested and 148 men and boys were executed after quick unfair trials.

Their homes were destroyed and their land was seized.

The event was well documented which made it a strong case for the court to begin with.

The trial officially began in October 2005 under the Iraqi special tribunal.

It was held in a specially built courtroom inside Baghdad’s fortified green zone, protected by soldiers and walls of concrete.

The judges, prosecutors, and lawyers all knew how dangerous their work was.

Many received death threats, and some had to move their families to secret locations for safety.

Within months, three of Saddam’s defense lawyers were murdered, one was kidnapped, and the chief judge, Rizgar Muhammad Amin, eventually stepped down after facing political pressure and threats.

Despite the chaos, the court sessions continued.

Saddam appeared many times, sometimes calm, sometimes furious.

He refused to recognize the authority of the court, claiming it was illegal because it was set up under US occupation.

He shouted at judges, insulted witnesses, and often tried to turn the hearings into political speeches.

Still, the evidence against him was overwhelming.

There were government orders signed by him.

Videos of his meetings and eyewitnesses who described the killings, torture, and destruction in painful detail.

Survivors from Duja told the court how their fathers and brothers were taken away and never came back.

Throughout the trial, Saddam was kept in a small cell under strict US guard.

Only his lawyers and a few family members were allowed to see him.

Reporters from around the world covered every development, making it one of the most watched trials in history.

After more than a year of hearings, on November 5th, 2006, the judges finally announced their decision.

Saddam was found guilty of crimes against humanity for ordering the killings in Du Jail.

The sentence was death by hanging.

When the verdict was read, Saddam shouted in defiance, but there was no escape this time.

The decision marked the end of one of the most feared regimes in the Middle East.

The execution date was set for December 30th, 2006.

A day that carried deep meaning for Muslims around the world.

It was the first day of Eid alada, a sacred holiday that celebrates faith, sacrifice, and forgiveness.

Choosing this day for Saddam’s execution immediately sparked debate.

Many Iraqis who had suffered under his rule saw it as a final act of justice.

But others, including some from the Sunni community, saw it as an act of revenge carried out on a holy day.

The decision added to the already rising tensions between Iraq’s Sunni and Shia groups, which were tearing the country apart.

Saddam spent his final night in a US controlled prison known as Camp Craropper, located near Baghdad International Airport.

For months, he had been kept in isolation under tight security.

Guards were ordered to treat him according to strict procedures.

No abuse, no public display, just constant watch.

On his last night, he appeared calm even as he knew what awaited him.

He asked to keep his Quran with him until the very end.

Those who saw him said he seemed resigned but not broken.

He reportedly prayed, read verses from the Quran, and spoke quietly to himself for much of the night.

At around 2:30 in the morning, American guards entered his cell.

They told him it was time.

His hands were tied behind his back with plastic cuffs and a black coat was draped over his shoulders.

When offered a hood to cover his face, he refused.

He said he wanted to face his death with open eyes.

The Americans then handed him over to Iraqi officials who had come to carry out the sentence.

For the US, this moment marked the end of their part in the mission.

He was taken in an armored vehicle through dark, quiet streets to a secret location in northern Baghdad.

That location was the former Iraqi intelligence headquarters in the Kadima district, a building where, ironically, Saddam’s regime had once tortured prisoners.

Now it would serve as the place where his own life would end.

The execution room was small and dimly lit with concrete walls and a wooden platform built above a steel trap door.

A thick rope hung from the ceiling.

Only a handful of people were allowed to witness what was about to happen.

Present in the room were several government officials, a few security officers, a doctor, a cleric, and witnesses appointed by the court.

Some of them represented the victims of Saddam’s regime.

A few journalists were also allowed to be there to record the official footage for documentation.

The time was just after 6:00 a.

m.

when Saddam was brought onto the platform.

Despite the tension, Saddam appeared calm.

He held his head high and walked steadily up the steps.

He stood facing the witnesses as they read out the order, confirming his execution.

The rope was placed around his neck and tightened.

For a brief moment, the room fell silent.

Then, without delay, the executioner pulled the lever.

The trap door opened and Saddam’s body dropped sharply.

The fall was quick, and within minutes, the attending doctor confirmed that he was dead.

The news spread across Iraq within hours.

Radio stations, television channels, and newspapers announced the breaking news early that morning.

But what shocked the world even more came shortly after.

A cell phone video recorded secretly by one of the witnesses in the execution room.

The video showed what official cameras didn’t.

It captured Saddam’s final moments before the trap door opened.

In the footage, Saddam stood on the platform surrounded by guards and witnesses.

Some of them began shouting sectarian slogans at him.

Their words were harsh and mocking, creating a heated atmosphere just moments before his death.

The video showed Saddam responding briefly, appearing angry but composed.

Then the screen shook as the trap door opened and the scene went dark.

That leaked footage spread across the internet within hours and was broadcast by news channels all over the world.

Millions watched it, not just Iraqis, but people from every continent.

For many, it was the first time they had ever seen a modern dictator’s execution caught so closely on camera.

Some viewers felt justice had finally been served.

Others were disturbed by the tone and chaos inside the room.

The way the guards behaved made the execution look less like a legal act and more like an act of revenge.

The Iraqi government faced heavy criticism after the video went public.

Leaders in other countries questioned why the execution was allowed to take place during a religious holiday and why it had not been carried out in a more controlled and dignified way.

Even within Iraq, people were divided.

Some saw it as a necessary step to end a dark chapter, while others believed it only fueled more hatred between Sunni and Shia communities.

Saddam’s body was handed over to his family and buried in his hometown of Alia the next day.

His grave became a pilgrimage site for supporters.

But the violence in Iraq didn’t end.

In fact, it grew worse.

The years following his death saw deadly sectarian wars between Sunni and Shia groups.

Bombings, assassinations, and kidnappings became daily news.

By 2007, thousands of Iraqis were dying every month.

Saddam’s execution had not brought peace.

It had opened old wounds.

The once centralized dictatorship was replaced by chaos and militia control.

Even within his tribe, divisions grew.

Some family members were killed in revenge attacks.

Others fled Iraq altogether.

Saddam’s half brothers and cousins who once ruled alongside him were either executed or exiled.

The new Iraqi government struggled to establish order.

Corruption, foreign interference, and endless violence became the new reality.

By 2010, Iraq was still drowning in instability.

Entire cities were under siege by insurgents.

The rise of extremist groups like al-Qaeda in Iraq laid the foundation for an even more terrifying force, ISIS.

In 2014, ISIS captured large parts of Iraq, including Mosul, and declared its own caliphate.

Ironically, many of its leaders were former officers from Saddam’s army, who had lost everything after his fall.

The country that once feared one man now faced thousands of fanatics.

Millions were displaced.

Historic cities and monuments were destroyed.

The US eventually returned with air strikes and troops trying to undo the chaos that followed Saddam’s fall.

For Iraqis, hope felt distant.

The dream of democracy had turned into a nightmare of endless wars.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Muslim Teacher Faces Execution for Reading the Bible — Then Jesus Did the Unbelievable – YouTube

Transcripts:
My name is N Jan.

It means light of the world in my language.

I did not choose this name.

My mother gave it to me 32 years ago in Kabul, Afghanistan.

She could not have known then what that name would come to mean.

She could not have known that one day I would meet the true light of the world in the darkest place imaginable.

Two years ago, I was sentenced to death by stoning in Afghanistan.

The charge was apostasy, leaving Islam, following Jesus Christ.

Today, I stand before you alive and free, and I want to tell you how I got here.

I want to tell you what God did.

But to understand the miracle, you must first understand the darkness.

Let me take you back to August 2021.

That was when everything changed for Afghanistan and for me.

>> Hello viewers from around the world.

Before Nor shares her story, we’d love to know where you’re watching from so we can pray for you and your city.

Thank you and may God bless you as you listen to this powerful testimony.

>> I was a teacher.

I had been teaching for 8 years at a girl’s school in Cabbell.

I taught literature and history to girls aged 12 to 16.

I loved my work.

I loved seeing their faces light up when they understood something new.

When they read a poem that moved them.

When they realized that learning could open doors they never knew existed.

These girls were hungry for education.

Their mothers had lived under Taliban rule before.

In the 1990s, when women could not work, could not study, could barely exist outside their homes, these mothers wanted different lives for their daughters, and I was helping give them that chance.

Then the Taliban returned.

I remember the day, August 15th.

I was preparing lessons for the new school year.

We were supposed to start in 2 weeks.

I had my lesson plans laid out on my desk.

I had borrowed new books from the library.

I was excited.

Then my father came home early from his shop, his face gray with fear.

He turned on the television.

We watched the news together.

The government had fallen.

The president had fled.

The Taliban were entering Kabul.

My mother began to cry.

She remembered.

She had lived through their rule before.

She knew what was coming.

Within days, everything changed.

The music stopped playing in the streets.

The colorful advertisements came down from the walls.

Women disappeared from television.

The news anchors were all men now, all with long beards, all wearing turbons.

Then came the decrees.

Women must cover completely.

Women cannot work in most jobs.

Women cannot travel without a male guardian.

And then the one that broke my heart, girls cannot attend school beyond the sixth grade.

Just like that, my job was gone.

Just like that, the futures of millions of girls were erased.

I will never forget going to the school one last time to collect my things.

The building was empty.

The classrooms where girls had laughed and learned were silent.

I walked through the halls and I felt like I was walking through a graveyard.

These were not just rooms.

These were dreams that had died.

I stood in my classroom and I looked at the empty desks and I wept.

I thought of Miam who wanted to be a doctor.

I thought of Fatima who wrote poetry that made me cry.

I thought of little Zara, only 12, who asked more questions than anyone I had ever taught.

What would happen to them now? What would happen to their dreams? I took my books home in a bag.

I felt like I was smuggling contraband.

In a way, I was.

Knowledge had become contraband.

Learning had become rebellion.

The next months were suffocating.

My world became smaller and smaller.

I could not work.

I could not go out without my brother or my father.

I had to wear the full burka, the one that covers everything, even your eyes behind a mesh screen.

I felt like a ghost, like I did not exist.

I would see women beaten in the streets by the Taliban’s religious police for showing a bit of ankle, for laughing too loudly, for walking without a male guardian.

I saw fear everywhere.

The city that had been coming alive after years of war was dying again.

But it was not just the rules that suffocated me.

It was the cruelty behind them.

It was the way they justified it all with Islam.

I had grown up Muslim.

I had prayed five times a day.

I had fasted during Ramadan.

I had read the Quran.

I believed in Allah.

But this this did not feel like the faith I knew.

This felt like something else.

Something dark and angry and hateful.

I started having questions.

Questions I could not ask anyone.

Questions that felt dangerous even to think.

Is this really what God wants? Does God really hate women this much? Does God really want half of humanity to be invisible, to be nothing, to be prisoners in their own homes? I would push these thoughts away.

Questioning your faith is dangerous in Afghanistan.

Questioning Islam can get you killed.

So, I kept my doubts locked inside my heart.

And I prayed and I tried to believe that somehow this was all part of God’s plan that I could not understand.

But then something happened that changed everything.

It was January 2022, 6 months after the Taliban returned.

I was at home going slowly crazy with boredom and frustration.

My younger sister Paresa came to visit.

She was crying.

She told me about her friend Ila.

Ila was 16.

Her family had married her off to a Taliban fighter, a man in his 40s.

Ila did not want to marry him.

She begged her family not to make her.

But they had no choice.

The Taliban commander wanted her.

And you do not say no to the Taliban.

The wedding happened.

Ila was crying through the whole ceremony.

She was a child.

A child being given to a man old enough to be her father.

Parisa told me this and she said something I will never forget.

She said that when Leila’s family was asked about it, they quoted a hadith.

They quoted Islamic teaching to justify giving a child to a grown man.

They said the prophet himself had married a young girl.

So this was acceptable.

This was Islamic.

This was right.

I felt something break inside me that day.

I felt angry.

Truly angry.

Not at the Taliban, not at Leila’s family, but at the system, at the interpretation, at the way faith was being used as a weapon to hurt and control and destroy.

That night, I could not sleep.

I lay in bed and I stared at the ceiling and I prayed.

I prayed to Allah and I said, “Is this really what you want? Is this really your will?” I got no answer, only silence.

The silence felt heavier than any answer could have been.

It was shortly after this that the idea came to me.

If I could not teach officially, I could teach unofficially.

If girls could not go to school, I could bring school to them.

I started small.

I contacted three mothers I knew from before.

Women whose daughters had been in my classes.

I told them I could teach their daughters in secret in my home.

just basic literacy and math, just enough to keep their minds alive.

The mothers were terrified.

They were also desperate.

They said yes.

That is how the secret school began.

Three girls in my family’s living room twice a week.

We would tell neighbors we were having Quran study.

We were careful.

We kept the real books hidden.

We had Islamic texts on the table in case anyone came to the door.

But underneath we were teaching literature, mathematics, history.

We were keeping the light of learning alive in the darkness.

Words spread quietly.

By March, I had seven girls.

By May, 12.

We had to move locations constantly.

One week in my home, one week in another mother’s home, always rotating, always careful.

We were like ghosts appearing and disappearing, teaching in whispers.

The girls were so hungry to learn.

They absorbed everything like dry ground absorbing rain.

They asked questions.

They wrote essays.

They solved equations.

They were alive in those moments.

Truly alive in a way they could not be anywhere else in the Taliban’s Afghanistan.

But I was always afraid.

Every knock on the door made my heart stop.

Every stranger who looked too long made me nervous.

The Taliban had informants everywhere.

Neighbors reported neighbors.

Family members reported family members.

One word to the wrong person and we would all be arrested.

The girls could be beaten.

I could be imprisoned or worse.

There were close calls.

Once a Taliban patrol was going door todo on our street doing random inspections.

We were in the middle of a lesson.

We had 30 seconds.

We hid all the books under floor cushions.

We brought out Qurans.

We covered our heads completely.

When they knocked, we were sitting in a circle reading Quranic verses.

They looked around.

They questioned us.

And then they left.

My hands did not stop shaking for an hour afterward.

Despite the fear, I kept teaching.

I had to.

Education was the only hope these girls had.

Without it, they would be married off young, trapped in homes, never knowing what they could have been.

I could not let that happen.

Even if it cost me everything, I had to try to give them a chance.

But as I taught them, something was changing inside me.

The questions I had pushed down were rising back up stronger.

Now I would read the approved Islamic texts we used as cover and I would see things I had never noticed before.

Contradictions, justifications for things that felt wrong.

The more I read, trying to find peace, the more troubled I became.

I witnessed things that haunted me.

A woman beaten in the street for letting her burka slip and show her face.

The Taliban fighter who did it quoted Quranic verses as he struck her.

I saw a young girl, maybe 14, whose hands were cut off for stealing bread to feed her siblings.

They did it in public in the square.

And they called it Islamic justice.

They called it God’s law.

I would go home and I would pray and I would ask, “Is this you? Is this what you want?” The silence from heaven was deafening.

One evening in June 2022, something happened that I think now was God’s hand, though I did not know it then.

I could not sleep.

The questions in my mind were too loud.

I got up in the darkness and I took out my phone.

This phone was my secret.

Most women were not supposed to have smartphones.

The Taliban wanted to control all communication, but I had one bought on the black market, hidden in my room.

I used it rarely and only late at night, connecting to my neighbor’s Wi-Fi that I had hacked the password for.

That night, I opened the phone and I started searching for answers.

I looked for Islamic scholars who might explain things differently.

I looked for interpretations that made sense of the cruelty I was seeing.

I read arguments and debates between different schools of Islamic thought.

Some of it helped a little.

Some of it made me more confused.

Then by accident, I clicked on a link that took me to a website I had not intended to visit.

It was a Christian website in Farsy.

Someone had translated Christian materials into my language.

My first instinct was to close it immediately.

Christians were kafir infidels.

I had been taught this my whole life.

Their book was corrupted.

Their beliefs were wrong.

To even read their materials was dangerous to my soul.

But I did not close it.

I do not know why.

curiosity maybe or desperation or perhaps God’s hand on my heart.

Though I would not have believed that then I read for maybe 5 minutes.

It was about Jesus, about his teachings, about love and forgiveness and peace.

It was simple.

It was beautiful.

It was nothing like what I had been taught Christians believed.

I closed the phone and I tried to forget what I had read.

But I could not forget the words stayed with me.

Over the next weeks, I kept thinking about it.

I told myself I was just curious.

I told myself I was just trying to understand different perspectives to be a better teacher.

I told myself many lies to justify what I was doing.

Late at night when everyone was asleep, I would take out my phone and I would go back to that website.

I would read more about Jesus, about his life, about what he taught.

The more I read, the more confused I became.

This Jesus seemed different from anything I had known.

In Islam, Isa is a prophet, yes, but a distant figure.

Here in these Christian writings, he was something more.

He was close.

He was personal.

He spoke to people with such love and such authority.

He healed the sick.

He defended the oppressed.

He elevated women in a time when women were nothing.

He challenged the religious leaders who used faith as a tool of power.

I found myself drawn to his words in a way I could not explain.

When I read his teachings, something in my heart responded.

It was like hearing a voice I had been waiting my whole life to hear.

But this was dangerous.

I knew it was dangerous.

I was playing with fire.

If anyone knew I was reading Christian materials, I could be arrested.

I could be beaten.

My family could be shamed.

The secret school would be destroyed.

Everything would be lost.

Yet, I could not stop.

By September 2022, I was deep into something I could not pull myself out of.

I had found websites with entire portions of the Bible translated into Farsy.

I read the Gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John.

I read them over and over.

I read about Jesus touching lepers when everyone else rejected them.

I read about him talking to the Samaritan woman at the well, treating her with dignity when her own people shamed her.

I read about him defending the woman caught in adultery, saying, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

” I read the sermon on the mount, “Blessed are the poor, blessed are the meek.

Blessed are the persecuted.

” I read these words in my dark room under my blanket with my phone hidden, terrified someone would hear me crying because I was crying.

These words touched something deep in my soul.

They spoke to the questions I had been asking.

They spoke to the pain I had been feeling.

They spoke to a hunger I did not even know I had.

Still, I told myself I was just learning, just exploring, just satisfying curiosity.

I was still Muslim.

I still prayed the five daily prayers.

I still fasted.

I still believed in Allah.

I was not converting.

I was just looking.

That is what I told myself.

But I was lying to myself.

Something was changing.

Something was shifting in my heart.

A door was opening that I did not know how to close.

In October, I found something that changed everything.

I found a website where I could download a complete Farsy Bible, not just portions, the whole thing, Old Testament and New Testament, everything.

There was a download button right there on the screen.

I stared at that button for a long time.

My hand hovered over it.

I knew that if I pressed it, I was crossing a line.

Possessing a Bible in Afghanistan was dangerous.

Possessing it as a Muslim was apostasy.

If anyone found it, I could be killed.

But I wanted it.

I wanted to read more.

I wanted to understand.

I wanted to know the truth.

Whatever the truth was, I told myself I would just download it, just read it, just satisfy my curiosity, and then I would delete it.

no one would ever know.

So, I pressed the button.

The file downloaded.

I saved it in a hidden folder on my phone, disguised with a different name.

I held my phone in my hands, and I felt like I was holding a bomb.

This little device now contained something that could end my life.

I did not read it that night.

I was too afraid.

I put the phone away and I tried to sleep, but sleep would not come.

The next afternoon, I was alone in my room.

Everyone else was out.

I locked my door.

I took out my phone.

I opened the hidden folder.

I opened the Bible file.

And I started reading.

I started with Genesis, with creation, with God speaking light into darkness.

I read for hours.

I lost track of time.

I was absorbed in these ancient words, these stories I had heard about but never really known.

the flood, Abraham, Moses, the Exodus, the prophets.

Then I moved to the New Testament, back to the Gospels I had read before, but now with more context, more depth.

I read Acts about the early church about persecution, about believers being scattered, but faith spreading anyway.

I read Paul’s letters.

Romans, Corinthians, Ephesians, words about grace, about faith, about love, about freedom in Christ.

I did not understand everything.

Some of it was confusing.

Some of it seemed to contradict what I had been taught.

But some of it was so clear, so beautiful, so true that I felt it in my bones.

By December 2022, I had read the entire Bible once.

I was reading it again.

I had also found something else, an audio Bible.

Someone had recorded the entire Farsy Bible, every book, every chapter, every verse read aloud by native speakers.

I downloaded it onto a small USB drive I had bought.

This was safer than having it on my phone.

A USB drive could be hidden more easily.

It could be destroyed more quickly if needed.

I would listen to it at night lying in bed with tiny earphones hidden under my headscarf.

I would listen to the words washing over me in the darkness.

I would hear the voice reading Isaiah, Psalms, the Gospels, Revelation.

I would fall asleep to these words.

I would wake up to them.

They became the soundtrack of my secret life.

One night in late December, I was listening to the book of John, chapter 14.

Jesus was speaking to his disciples, comforting them, telling them not to be afraid.

Then I heard these words.

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

No one comes to the father except through me.

I sat up in bed.

I rewound and listened again and again.

These words struck me like lightning.

Jesus was not just claiming to be a prophet.

He was claiming to be the only way to God, the only truth, the only life.

This was not something a prophet would say.

This was something God would say.

I felt something crack inside me.

A wall I had been building to protect myself, to keep myself safe, to stay in the religion I had been born into.

That wall was crumbling.

And on the other side was Jesus looking at me, calling me.

I was terrified.

I was exhilarated.

I was confused.

I was more certain than I had ever been about anything all at the same time.

I did not sleep that night.

I lay in darkness listening to the audio Bible and I wrestled with God.

I wrestled with the truth.

I wrestled with what this all meant.

If Jesus was who he said he was, then everything changed.

Everything.

My life, my faith, my identity, my future, everything.

By the time dawn came, I was exhausted.

But something had shifted.

I did not have all the answers.

I did not understand everything.

But I knew one thing.

I believed Jesus was real.

I believed he was who he said he was.

I believed he was calling me.

I just did not know what to do about it.

The next days and weeks were a blur of confusion and fear and strange peace all mixed together.

I kept teaching the girls.

I kept living my outward Muslim life.

But inwardly, I was changing.

I was becoming someone new, someone I did not fully recognize yet.

I wanted to talk to someone about what I was feeling.

But who could I tell? My family would disown me.

My friends would report me.

The girls I taught would be horrified.

I was completely alone with this secret.

Alone except for Jesus, who was somehow becoming more real to me than anything else in my life.

It was January 2023 when something happened that I think now was God preparing me for what was coming.

We had a close call with the secret school.

Very close.

We were teaching in a house on the east side of the city.

Nine girls were there.

We were in the middle of a mathematics lesson.

Suddenly, we heard shouting outside.

Taliban trucks.

A raid on the house next door.

They were looking for someone.

Some man they suspected of working with the former government.

We froze.

The girls looked at me with terror in their eyes.

If the Taliban searched this house too, we were all finished.

I made a quick decision.

I told the girls to hide the books under floor cushions.

I told them to sit in a circle.

I brought out a Quran.

I told them to bow their heads like we were praying.

They obeyed immediately.

We sat there in that circle, heads bowed.

And I heard the Taliban next door breaking down the door, shouting, dragging someone out.

We heard a man screaming.

We heard gunshots.

We heard a woman crying.

And we sat there, heads bowed, pretending to pray, barely breathing.

I do not know what made me do what I did next.

I should have recited Quranic verses.

I should have said Muslim prayers.

But instead, in my mind, I prayed to Jesus.

I prayed desperately.

I prayed, “Jesus, if you are real, if you hear me, please protect us.

Please hide us.

Please do not let them come here.

” We sat like that for what felt like hours, but was probably 10 minutes.

The noise next door continued, shouting, breaking glass, a woman weeping, but no one came to our door.

No one knocked.

No one searched our house.

Eventually, we heard the trucks drive away.

We heard silence.

I opened my eyes.

The girls opened theirs.

We looked at each other.

We were alive.

We were safe.

They thought we had just been lucky.

But I knew something different.

I knew someone had heard my prayer.

Someone had protected us.

That was the day I stopped lying to myself about what was happening.

That was the day I admitted the truth that was growing in my heart.

I believed in Jesus.

Not just as a prophet, as my Lord, as my savior, as the son of God.

I still did not tell anyone.

I still lived outwardly as a Muslim.

I still prayed the five prayers, though my heart was elsewhere.

I still fasted during Ramadan, though I felt like a hypocrite.

I was living a double life and it was exhausting.

But what choice did I have? To confess faith in Christ in Afghanistan was to choose death.

So I kept my secret.

I kept teaching.

I kept reading the Bible in hidden moments.

I kept listening to the audio Bible at night.

I kept praying to Jesus when no one could hear me.

And I kept hoping that somehow someday I would find a way to live honestly, to live as the person I was becoming.

I did not know then that my time was running out.

I did not know that someone was watching me.

I did not know that soon everything would fall apart and I would face the choice I had been avoiding, Christ or death.

But God knew he was preparing me.

He was strengthening me.

He was getting me ready for what was coming.

The storm was gathering.

I just could not see it yet.

Asked two, the hidden word.

It was February 2023 when I first prayed to Jesus out loud.

I know the exact date because it was the anniversary of my father’s heart attack 3 years before.

He had survived, but that day always brought back memories of fear and helplessness.

That morning, I was alone in my room, and I felt overwhelmed with gratitude that my father was still alive.

Without thinking, without planning, I knelt down and I whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.

Thank you for my father’s life.

” The words came out before I could stop them.

And the moment they left my mouth, something changed.

Speaking his name aloud made it real in a way that thinking it never had.

It was like a door had opened between my inner world and my outer world.

For months, Jesus had been my private secret.

Now I had spoken to him out loud in my room in Kabell, Afghanistan, where speaking that name could get me killed.

My heart was pounding.

I looked around as if someone might have heard me even though I was alone.

But along with the fear came something else.

Peace.

A deep unexplainable peace that filled my chest and spread through my whole body.

I stayed kneeling there for a long time just feeling that peace, just being in that presence.

From that day on, I began praying to Jesus regularly, always in secret, always in whispers, always when I was sure no one could hear.

I would pray in the morning before anyone else woke up.

I would pray at night after everyone was asleep.

I would pray during the day if I found myself alone for even a few minutes.

I would lock my door or hide in the bathroom or stand in the kitchen pretending to cook while I whispered prayers to the God I was coming to know.

I was still outwardly Muslim.

I still went through all the motions.

Five times a day, I would wash and face Mecca and go through the physical movements of Islamic prayer.

But my heart was not in it anymore.

My heart was somewhere else.

My heart was with Jesus and I felt guilty about the deception.

But I did not know what else to do.

To stop praying as a Muslim would raise questions I could not answer.

To start praying as a Christian would mean death.

So I lived this double life.

And it was exhausting and terrifying and also strangely beautiful because even though I was alone, I did not feel alone.

Even though I was hiding, I felt seen.

Jesus was with me.

I could not explain it.

I just knew it.

I felt his presence.

When I prayed to him, I felt like someone was actually listening.

When I read his words, I felt like someone was actually speaking to me.

It was intimate and real in a way I had never experienced in all my years of practicing Islam.

Around this time, I started memorizing scripture.

I did this partly for practical reasons.

I could not always have my phone or USB drive with me.

If someone discovered them, I would be exposed.

But if I had scripture in my heart, no one could take that away from me.

I could carry it safely.

I could access it any time.

And so I began committing verses to memory.

The first passage I memorized was Psalm 23.

I had read it dozens of times.

Every time I read it, I cried.

It spoke to my soul.

So, I decided to learn it by heart.

I would read one verse, then close my eyes and repeat it.

Read another verse, repeat it over and over until I had the whole psalm fixed in my mind.

The Lord is my shepherd.

I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures.

He leads me beside still waters.

He restores my soul.

I would whisper these words to myself throughout the day when I was afraid, which was often.

When I was teaching the girls and worried about being discovered.

When I heard Taliban trucks driving through the streets.

When I saw women being beaten or humiliated, I would whisper, “The Lord is my shepherd.

” And I would feel courage return.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

These words became my anchor.

In a country that had become a valley of death’s shadow, where evil seemed to rule, where fear was everywhere, these words reminded me that I was not alone.

God was with me.

Even here, even in Taliban ruled Afghanistan, even in my secret hidden faith, he was with me.

I memorized other passages, too.

John 14 where Jesus says, “Let not your heart be troubled, and I am the way, the truth, and the life.

” I memorized Romans 8 about nothing being able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

I memorized parts of the sermon on the mount.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

That verse struck me particularly hard.

Persecuted for righteousness.

That is what would happen to me if my faith was discovered.

I would be persecuted.

I would be punished.

But Jesus said that was a blessing.

He said the kingdom of heaven belonged to such people.

It was a strange comfort.

It did not make me less afraid, but it made my fear mean something.

It gave purpose to the risk I was taking.

The audio Bible on my USB drive became my most precious possession.

Every night, I would wait until the house was quiet.

I would lock my door.

I would take out the USB drive from its hiding place.

I had hidden it inside a small cloth bag that I kept inside a box of sanitary supplies.

No man would search there.

Continue reading….
Next »