Do you understand what you are doing? They will kill you.

They will kill all of us.

How can you do this to your family? I said, I am trying to save you.

You are on the wrong path.

You are heading to hell.

All of you, I have seen it.

I have been there.

Jesus is the only way.

She slapped me hard across the face.

Then she ran into the bedroom and locked the door.

I stood there in the darkness, my cheeks stinging, my heart breaking.

I had lost her.

I had lost my wife and probably my children, too.

This was the cost.

This was what Jesus had warned me about.

I would lose everything.

But it was worth it if even some would be saved.

I contacted Yousef that night.

I said, “I need to leave now.

Today, it’s not safe anymore.

” He said, “Give us 2 days.

We are almost ready.

two days and we can get you out.

Those were the longest two days of my life.

Aliyah would not speak to me.

She kept the children away from me.

She was talking to her family, to my family, to people at the mosque.

She was telling them something was wrong with me.

I knew it was only a matter of time before Hamas came.

On the second night, Yousef sent a message.

Tonight, midnight, be ready.

Bring nothing.

Come to the location I send you.

Do not be followed.

I looked at my sleeping children one last time.

TK with his mouth open, breathing softly.

Ila curled up with her favorite doll.

Omar with his thumb in his mouth even though he was getting too old for that.

I wanted to wake them, to hold them, to tell them I loved them, but I could not risk it.

They might cry out.

They might alert Aliyah.

So I just kissed their foreheads while they slept.

I whispered that I loved them, that I was doing this for them, that someday they would understand.

Then I left.

I walked out of my home and my old life forever.

At midnight, I met believers who had arranged my escape.

They smuggled me out of Gaza through tunnels and safe houses and bribes and risks I did not fully understand.

They passed me from one contact to another like a relay race.

After 3 days of traveling, I arrived in a small town far from Gaza.

A place where no one knew me, where I could start over.

They set me up in a safe house, a single room with a bed and a table and a computer.

Everything I needed to begin my mission.

I created accounts, multiple platforms, all anonymous, all secure.

I began to write my story to share my testimony to warn people about hell and tell them about Jesus.

The first blog post was the hardest.

I wrote it and deleted it a dozen times.

I was terrified.

But finally I hit publish.

The title was simple.

I was a Hamas bomb maker.

Jesus saved me from hell.

Within hours the responses started coming in.

Hundreds then thousands.

Some were death threats.

Some called me a liar and a traitor and a tool of the West.

But some were different.

Some said, “Is this true? Tell me more.

I need to know.

” And I knew then that Jesus was working, that my story was reaching people, that some would believe, and that made everything worth it.

The first few months in hiding were the hardest time of my life.

Not because of physical danger, though that was always present.

Not because of the conditions of the safe house, though they were basic and lonely.

The hardest part was the separation from my family.

Every night I would lie awake thinking about my children, wondering what they were doing, if they missed me, if they understood why I had left.

If Aliyah had told them I was dead or just gone, if they hated me now.

I had photos of them on my phone.

Hundreds of photos.

I would look at them in the dark and cry silently.

Tariq at his seventh birthday party, smiling with cake on his face.

Leila dancing in the living room to music from my phone.

Omar taking his first steps while we all cheered.

I had left them to save them, but the cost of that choice was almost more than I could bear.

The safe house was in a town I cannot name.

The room was on the third floor of a building that housed several refugee families.

My cover story was that I was a refugee from Aleppo, displaced by the Syrian civil war.

No one questioned it.

There were thousands of Syrian refugees scattered throughout the region.

One more made no difference.

The room was small, maybe three meters by four meters.

a single bed, a small table with a chair, a hot plate for cooking, a bathroom down the hall that I shared with three other families.

The walls were thin.

I could hear conversations and arguments and children crying through them at all hours.

But I had a computer, an old laptop that the believers had provided and I had internet access through a secure connection.

That was all I needed.

I spent hours every day writing blog posts, articles, testimonies.

I wrote about my experience in hell with as much detail as I could remember.

I wrote about seeing Jesus.

I wrote about the message he gave me.

I wrote about salvation and grace and the urgency of choosing Christ before death comes.

I wrote in Arabic.

My people needed to hear this message in their own language.

But I also had friends translate my posts into English and other languages.

The message needed to go everywhere.

The response was overwhelming.

Within weeks, my blog had thousands of followers, then tens of thousands.

My story was being shared across social media platforms.

People were discussing it, debating it.

Some believed it, many did not.

The death threats came immediately.

Detailed messages describing exactly how they would kill me if they found me.

graphic descriptions of torture, promises to hurt my family.

I learned to expect them.

I learned to not let them frighten me into silence.

But mixed in with the threats were other messages.

Messages that made everything worthwhile.

A young man in Saudi Arabia wrote, “I have been having dreams about Jesus for months.

Your story confirms what I have been feeling.

I prayed the prayer of salvation today.

Thank you.

A woman in Iran wrote, “I am a secret believer.

I thought I was alone.

Your testimony gives me courage.

There are more of us than we know.

” A former ISIS fighter wrote, “I have done terrible things.

I thought I was serving Allah.

Your story about hell terrified me.

But your message about Jesus’s mercy gives me hope.

Can someone like me be forgiven? I responded to as many messages as I could.

I prayed for people I would never meet.

I pointed them to resources.

I connected them with other believers in their regions when I could do so safely.

I realized I was part of something much bigger than myself.

Jesus was moving throughout the Muslim world in ways that had never happened before through dreams and visions and testimonies like mine.

He was calling people out of Islam and into relationship with him.

My contact with other believers was limited but vital.

Yousef checked on me regularly through encrypted messages.

He sent me encouraging words and warnings when there was news of threats.

He connected me with other converts who could provide advice and support.

I learned that there were thousands of us, secret believers scattered throughout the Middle East and North Africa, most living double lives, most unable to be open about their faith, some in real danger every single day.

I heard stories that broke my heart.

A young woman in Afghanistan who had converted after a vision of Jesus.

Her family discovered her Bible.

They killed her for apostasy.

She was 19 years old.

A pastor in Algeria who had been running an underground church for years.

He was arrested.

He refused to recant his faith.

He died in prison under suspicious circumstances.

a family in Iraq who had all come to Christ together.

ISIS fighters found out.

They gave the family a choice.

Deny Jesus or die.

The parents and their teenage son chose death rather than deny their Lord.

The two younger children, both under 10, watched their family die before Isis took them away.

No one knows what happened to those children.

These stories should have discouraged me, should have made me want to hide and stay silent.

But instead, they did the opposite.

They strengthened my resolve.

These brothers and sisters had given everything for Jesus.

How could I do any less? I increased my output.

I began making storys, though I never showed my face, just my voice speaking over images and text.

I talked about hell, about heaven, about Jesus, about the lies of Islam and the truth of the gospel.

The storys reached even more people than the written posts.

Something about hearing a human voice telling this story made it more real, more urgent, more believable.

One story went especially viral.

It was titled What I Saw in Hell: A Warning to All Muslims.

In it, I described in detail the souls I had seen, the fighters and clerics, the suffering, the hopelessness, the desperate warnings they gave me.

That story was viewed over a million times in three months.

It was shared on Facebook and Twitter and WhatsApp and Telegram.

It was translated into multiple languages.

It reached people in countries I had never heard of.

And with its spread came both blessing and danger.

More people were reading and believing and accepting Jesus.

But more people were also hunting for me, trying to identify me, trying to track me down.

I had to be extremely careful.

I never used the same internet connection twice.

I never showed identifying details in storys.

I never mentioned specific locations or names.

I used VPNs and encryption and every security measure the techsavvy believers had taught me.

But I knew that no security was perfect.

Hamas had cyber capabilities.

So did other Islamic groups.

It was only a matter of time before someone got close to finding me.

About 6 months after I left Gaza, I got word through Yousef.

Hamas had been to my family’s apartment.

They had questioned Aliyah.

They wanted to know where I was, what I was doing, why I had disappeared.

Aliyah told them she did not know that I had left without explanation.

that she had not heard from me.

This was true.

I had not contacted her.

It was too dangerous for both of us.

But Hamas did not believe her.

They came back multiple times.

They threatened her.

They said she would be held responsible if I was working against them.

They watched the apartment.

They followed her when she went out.

My family was suffering because of my choices.

My children were being harassed.

My wife was being interrogated.

My parents were being shamed in the community.

People whispered about them in the streets and at the mosque.

The guilt was crushing.

I had saved my own soul.

But at what cost? To the people I loved most.

I wanted to contact them to explain, to apologize, to tell them why I had done what I did, but I could not.

Any contact would put them in more danger, would confirm that they knew where I was or what I was doing.

So, I suffered in silence.

I prayed for them daily.

I begged God to protect them, to provide for them, to eventually open their eyes to the truth.

and I continued my work because their suffering would be meaningless if I gave up now.

The only way to honor their sacrifice was to press forward, to reach more people, to save more souls.

I began to receive invitations to speak.

Christian organizations wanted to interview me.

Churches wanted my testimony.

News outlets wanted my story.

I said no to most of them.

The exposure was too dangerous.

But I did a few carefully arranged phone interviews where my voice was disguised and my identity protected.

I wanted the message to spread, but I needed to stay hidden.

One interview was with the Christian satellite TV channel that broadcast throughout the Middle East.

The interviewer asked me if I was afraid, if I regretted leaving everything behind, if I thought it was worth it.

I told him, “Every day I’m afraid.

Every day I miss my family.

But I have seen hell.

I have seen Jesus.

I know what is true.

How can I stay silent knowing what I know? How can I let others walk into eternal suffering without warning them? My life is not my own anymore.

I gave it to Jesus the moment he sent me back.

Whether I live or die, I will use whatever time I have to tell people the truth.

The interview aired and was viewed by millions, more messages flooded in, more death threats, more people accepting Christ, both in equal measure.

Then came the close calls.

Twice in the first year, I had to relocate suddenly.

Once because someone recognized my voice from a story and reported the general area I was in.

The believers moved me in the middle of the night to a new safe house in a different town.

The second time was worse.

Hamas operatives actually came to the building where I was staying.

They were going door to door, asking questions, looking for suspicious people.

I hid in a closet while they searched the apartment below mine.

The family who lived there told them nothing, but I knew I had been seconds away from discovery.

After that, I moved every few months, whether there was a specific threat or not.

I never stayed in one place long enough to feel comfortable.

Never made friends with neighbors, never established patterns that could be tracked.

I lived like a ghost, always watching over my shoulder, always ready to run, always aware that today could be the day they found me.

But I also lived with purpose.

Every morning I woke up knowing that my life had meaning.

That I was doing exactly what God had called me to do.

That whatever suffering I endured was producing fruit that would last for eternity.

In the second year, something unexpected happened.

I received a message through the encrypted network.

It was from Aliyah.

My heart nearly stopped when I saw her name.

For a long moment, I could not bring myself to open the message.

What would she say? More anger, curses, a demand that I come back or leave them alone forever.

I finally opened it.

The message was short.

It said, “Abd, I know you are alive.

I know you are hiding.

I do not understand what happened to you, but Ila asks about you every day.

She cries for her father.

The children need to know you are alive.

They need to know you did not abandon them.

Please just tell me you are alive and safe.

I will not tell anyone.

I promise.

I just need to know for the children.

I read the message 10 times.

I wept.

I wanted so badly to respond.

To tell her yes, I was alive.

To tell her I loved her and the children.

to explain everything.

But I was afraid.

What if it was a trick? What if Hamas had forced her to send the message to draw me out? What if responding would put her in more danger? I agonized over it for days.

I prayed constantly.

I asked Yousef for advice.

He said, “It was my choice, but I needed to be very careful.

” Finally, I decided to respond.

I wrote, “I am alive.

I am safe.

” Tell the children I love them more than anything.

Tell them I did not abandon them.

Tell them I had to leave to protect them.

Someday they will understand.

I cannot say more.

It is not safe.

I am sorry for everything.

Please forgive me.

I sent the message and then waited in agony.

Would she respond? Had I just made a terrible mistake? 3 days later a reply came.

It said, “Thank you.

I will tell them.

They will be happy to know.

I still do not understand.

I still think you have gone crazy, but I know you loved them.

I know you loved us.

That is enough for now.

” I cried when I read that.

Not tears of sadness, but of relief.

She did not understand, but she knew I had not abandoned them by choice.

That was something.

After that, we exchanged a few messages every few months.

Nothing detailed, nothing that could compromise anyone’s security, just small updates.

The children were healthy.

They were doing well in school.

They missed me, but they were coping.

These messages became lifelines for me.

They kept me connected to the family I had lost.

They reminded me why I was doing this.

They gave me strength to continue when I wanted to give up.

By the third year, my reach had grown beyond anything I could have imagined.

My blog had hundreds of thousands of followers.

My storys had been viewed millions of times.

I was receiving messages from people in over 50 countries.

And the testimonies kept coming, people accepting Christ because of my story, underground churches growing, believers being encouraged and strengthened.

A man in Pakistan wrote, “I was a Taliban fighter.

I was prepared to die as a martyr.

Then I saw your story about hell.

It shook me to my core.

I started investigating.

I found Jesus.

My whole life has changed.

” A woman in Egypt wrote, “I am from a very conservative Muslim family.

I was taught that Christians were infidels, but your testimony made me question everything.

I started reading the Bible in secret.

Now I believe.

I have not told my family yet.

I am afraid.

But I know the truth now.

” A doctor in Turkey wrote, “I considered myself a secular Muslim.

I did not take religion seriously, but your description of hell terrified me.

I realized I needed to know what happens after death.

Your message pointed me to Jesus.

I am now a secret believer in a country where that is very difficult.

These messages kept me going through the hard days, through the loneliness and fear and constant danger because I could see that Jesus was using my story to reach people I could never reach on my own.

I was just a bomb maker from Gaza.

I had no theological education.

I had no special skills or talents, but I had a testimony.

I had a message.

And Jesus was using it to save souls.

I also began connecting with other converts who had similar missions.

We formed a lose network.

We encouraged each other.

We shared resources and strategies.

We prayed for each other.

There was a former Iranian intelligence officer who had converted after seeing Jesus in a vision.

He was now running a secret ministry to reach other intelligence and military personnel.

There was a woman from Somalia who had been uh raised in an extremist family.

She had escaped and converted and was now running a safe house for other female converts fleeing persecution.

There was a man from Morocco who had been a successful businessman.

He had left everything to start an underground publishing operation that distributed Bibles and Christian materials throughout North Africa.

Meeting these people, even if only virtually, showed me that I was part of a movement, a great awakening happening across the Muslim world.

Jesus was calling his people home from every nation and tribe and tongue.

We were all taking enormous risks.

We were all sacrificing greatly.

But we were seeing fruit that made it worth everything.

In the fourth year, I received the message I had been both hoping for and dreading.

Yousef wrote, “Your wife has been asking questions, real questions.

She has been reading Christian materials in secret.

She has been searching the internet.

She is starting to see the truth.

We need to be ready to help her when she is ready.

My heart soared.

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