Maybe both.

The words would not come.

Not yet.

A nurse came and gave me something for pain.

My body was starting to register the injuries.

Burns on my arms and chest, a deep cut on my forehead, bruised ribs, but nothing serious.

Nothing that would take long to heal.

Another miracle.

The medicine made me drowsy.

I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw hell again, saw the faces, heard the screaming, and I saw Jesus bathed in light, looking at me with those eyes full of love and sorrow.

Over the next few days, I became a wonder in the hospital.

Doctors came from other departments to examine me.

They could not explain my survival.

They could not explain my rapid recovery.

Some said it was luck.

Others said it was the will of Allah.

None of them knew the real reason.

Visitors came constantly.

Hamas commanders, fellow fighters, friends from the mosque.

They all wanted to see the man who had survived the impossible.

They all had the same interpretation.

Allah had spared me for a reason.

I was meant to continue the fight.

I was blessed.

I was protected.

I said little.

I nodded.

I thanked them for their concern.

But inside I was in turmoil.

I knew the truth.

Allah had not saved me.

Jesus had.

But how could I tell them that? How could I explain what I had seen? They would think I was crazy.

They would think the explosion had damaged my brain.

or worse they would think I had become an apostate and apostasy in Islam carries a death sentence.

So I stayed quiet.

I smiled when I was supposed to smile.

I said the right words when visitors came.

I prayed the five daily prayers when people could see me.

But it all felt empty now.

Like going through motions that had no meaning.

At night when I was alone, I would weep.

Silent tears that soaked my pillow.

I wept for the truth I now knew.

I wept for all the people in hell.

I wept for my family who did not know they were on the wrong path.

I wept for myself and the years I had wasted.

I wept for the people I had killed.

The guilt was overwhelming.

in hell.

I had seen some of the people who died because of my bombs.

But Jesus had shown me more.

He had shown me all of them.

Every single person.

And I carried that knowledge.

Now I was responsible for ending lives, for cutting short their chances to find Jesus, for sending them into eternity unprepared.

How do you live with that knowledge? How do you carry that weight? I learned later that Hassan and Bilal, the two men working with me in the workshop, had both died instantly in the explosion.

Their bodies had been torn apart.

They had funerals.

They were called martyrs.

People mourned them and praised their sacrifice.

But I knew where they were.

They were in that place, that place of fire and screaming and endless suffering.

And they would be there forever.

The thought made me sick.

I would lie in my hospital bed and think about them, about how they had believed they were serving God just as I had believed it.

And now they were paying for that belief for all eternity.

I wanted to do something to fix it to go back and warn them.

But I could not.

It was too late for them.

Just as it was too late for all those souls I had seen in hell.

But it was not too late for the living.

That is what Jesus had told me.

That is why he sent me back.

After 5 days, they released me from the hospital.

I was physically well enough to go home.

The doctors were still baffled, but they could find no reason to keep me.

They gave me pain medication and instructions to rest.

They scheduled follow-up appointments.

Then they sent me home.

Home to my cramped apartment, to my wife and children, to my life.

But I was not the same person who had left that apartment 5 days before.

Everything looked the same.

The same cracked walls, the same worn furniture, the same sounds and smells.

But I saw it all differently now.

My children ran to me when I walked in the door.

Tariq hugged my legs.

Leila grabbed my hand.

Little Omar jumped up and down with excitement.

They were so happy to see me, so innocent, so unaware of the danger they were in.

I looked at them and saw souls heading toward hell.

Not because they were bad children.

They were good children, sweet and loving and obedient.

But they were being raised in Islam.

They were being taught the same things I had been taught.

And those teachings led to the place I had been.

The thought was unbearable.

I picked up Omar and held him tight.

I kissed his head and breathed in his child’s smell, and I promised myself that I would find a way to save them somehow.

That night, after the children were asleep, Aliyah came and sat beside me.

We had not had a chance to really talk since the explosion.

She had been at the hospital every day, but always with other people around.

Now, it was just us.

She looked at me with concern in her eyes.

She said I seemed different, distant.

She asked if I was in pain, if I was traumatized by the explosion, if I needed to talk to someone.

I wanted to tell her everything.

The words were right there.

But fear held me back.

Fear of what she would think.

Fear of what she would do.

Fear of losing her and the children.

So I lied.

I said I was fine, just tired, just adjusting.

I would be back to normal soon.

But she did not look convinced.

She knew me too well.

She knew something had changed.

She just did not know what.

The next few weeks were the hardest of my life.

Harder than growing up in a war zone.

harder than making bombs in a dangerous workshop.

Harder than anything I had experienced before.

I was living a double life again.

But it was different from before.

Before I had been a loving father at home and a weapons maker at work.

Now I was pretending to be a devout Muslim while knowing in my heart that Islam was a lie.

I went through the motions.

I prayed five times a day when people could see me.

I went to the mosque on Fridays.

I fasted.

I read the Quran with my children.

I said the right words and made the right sounds.

But it was all hollow, empty, meaningless inside.

I was screaming.

I was dying.

I was suffocating under the weight of what I knew and could not say.

Hamas commanders came to visit me.

They wanted to know when I would return to work.

They needed my skills.

There were operations, planned, materials waiting.

I was valuable to them.

I made excuses.

I said I needed more time to recover.

That I was still having headaches.

That the doctors wanted me to rest.

They were patient at first.

They said to take my time, but I could see the patients wearing thin.

They expected loyalty, commitment, and they were not seeing it from me.

At night, when everyone else was asleep, I would take my phone and hide in the bathroom.

I would search the internet for information about Jesus, about Christianity, about the claims he had made.

I read testimonies from other Muslims who had converted.

I read their stories of visions and dreams and encounters.

I read about the differences between Islam and Christianity.

I read about grace and salvation and redemption.

Everything I read confirmed what I had experienced.

Jesus was who he said he was, the son of God, the savior, the only way to heaven.

But how could I accept this? How could I turn my back on everything I had believed on my family, my community, my entire identity? Yet, how could I not accept it? I had been to hell.

I had seen the truth.

I knew what was waiting for those who rejected Jesus.

How could I stay quiet knowing that? I was torn in half.

Part of me wanted to shout the truth from the rooftops to tell everyone, to warn them, to beg them to listen.

But another part of me was terrified because I knew what happened to apostates in Gaza.

I knew what happened to Muslims who converted to Christianity.

They were killed sometimes by their own families.

It was not just possible.

It was expected.

It was required by Islamic law.

If I came out as a Christian, I would be signing my death warrant and probably alias and the children’s too because families were held responsible for apostates.

They were shamed, dishonored, sometimes attacked.

I could not do that to them.

I could not put them in danger.

But I could not keep pretending either.

The internal conflict was tearing me apart.

Then something happened that changed everything.

I was at the hospital for a followup appointment.

The doctor examined me and declared that I was healing remarkably well.

He said it was truly amazing.

Then he left to get some paperwork.

I was alone in the examination room waiting.

I looked around idly at the medical posters on the walls, the anatomy charts, the health warnings.

Then I noticed the nurse who was preparing to take my blood pressure.

She was young, maybe 25.

She wore a headscarf like most women in Gaza.

She was efficient and professional.

Nothing about her stood out.

But as she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my arm, I noticed something.

A small bracelet on her wrist.

Just a thin chain with a tiny pendant.

The pendant was shaped like a fish.

My heart started beating faster.

I knew what that symbol meant.

I had read about it in my secret searches.

The fish was an ancient Christian symbol, one of the first symbols believers used to identify each other during times of persecution.

Was it possible? Could this woman be a Christian here in Gaza? She pumped the cuff and watched the gauge.

She wrote down the numbers on a chart.

She started to unwrap the cuff.

I spoke quietly, barely above a whisper.

I said, “That symbol you wear, I know what it means.

” She froze.

Her eyes went wide.

For a moment, she looked terrified.

Then she glanced at the door to make sure no one was there.

She leaned close and spoke in a voice so low I could barely hear her.

She said, “Be careful, brother.

Walls have ears.

” I said, “I need to talk to someone.

I need help, please.

” She studied my face for a long moment.

Whatever she saw there must have convinced her.

She nodded slightly.

Then she wrote something on a small piece of paper and pressed it into my hand.

As she finished removing the cuff, she said in a normal voice, “Your blood pressure is good.

The doctor will be back soon.

” Then she left.

I looked at the paper in my hand.

It had a phone number on it.

Nothing else, just a number.

My hands were shaking as I put the paper in my pocket.

That night, I waited until everyone was asleep.

Then I went into the bathroom again with my phone.

I entered the number into an encrypted messaging app I had downloaded for this purpose.

I typed a simple message.

I need to meet believers.

I need to know the truth.

Please help me.

I stared at the message for a long time before I hit send.

Once I did this, there was no going back.

This was real.

This was dangerous.

This was choosing a path that could end with my death.

But I thought about hell, about the faces there, about Jesus’s command to tell others, about my children being led down the same path I had been on.

I had send for several minutes.

Nothing happened.

I thought maybe it was a wrong number.

Maybe the nurse had made a mistake.

Maybe I had misunderstood the situation.

Then a message came back.

Who are you? How did you get this number? I typed.

A nurse at the hospital gave it to me.

I saw her bracelet.

I need to talk to believers.

I’m serious.

Another long pause.

Then you could be anyone.

You could be Hamas trying to find us.

Why should we trust you? I thought about what to say.

Then I typed, I am the bomb maker who survived the explosion in Shajaya two weeks ago.

You probably heard about it.

Two died, one lived.

That was me.

I lived because Jesus sent me back.

I saw hell.

I saw him.

I need to know more.

I need help.

This pause was even longer.

I waited, barely breathing.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it would wake someone.

Finally, tomorrow, 3 p.

m.

, there is a market near Alsha Hospital.

Go to the fruit stand in the northeast corner.

Buy apples.

Someone will approach you.

I typed back.

How will I know them? The response.

They will know you.

Come alone.

Tell no one.

If you are not alone, they will not show.

If you bring danger, may God forgive you.

I typed I understand.

I will be alone.

Thank you.

One more message came.

If you are a genuine brother, welcome.

We have been praying for you.

Then the conversation ended.

I sat there in the bathroom for a long time staring at my phone.

This was really happening.

I was going to meet other believers, people who knew the truth, people who could help me.

But I was also terrified.

What if it was a trap? What if Hamas had already discovered me and this was their way of confirming my apostasy? What if I was walking into my death? Then I remembered Jesus’s words.

Many will not believe.

They will threaten you.

They will hate you, but some will believe.

And for those who believe, it will be worth everything you suffer.

I had to trust.

I had to have faith.

Jesus had sent me back for a reason.

He would not abandon me now.

The next day moved slowly.

I went through my routine in a days.

I ate breakfast with my family.

I played with my children.

I pretended everything was normal.

But inside, I was counting down the hours until 300 p.

m.

When it was time, I told Aliyah I needed to go buy some things at the market.

She offered to come with me.

I said, “No, I would be quick.

She should stay with the children.

” She looked at me oddly, but agreed.

I walked it through the streets of Gaza toward Alshifa Hospital.

The city looked different to me now.

I saw people rushing about their daily lives and I knew that most of them were heading toward hell just like I had been.

Just like I would have been if not for Jesus’s mercy.

The market near the hospital was crowded and noisy.

Vendors called out their wares.

Women haggled over prices.

Children ran between the stalls.

Normal life in a place that was anything but normal.

I found the fruit stand in the northeast corner.

An old man sat behind piles of apples and oranges and dates.

I approached and began examining the apples, picking them up and putting them down like I was looking for the best ones.

I waited 5 minutes, 10 minutes.

I started to think no one would come.

That maybe it had been a test and I had failed it somehow.

Then a man appeared beside me.

He was maybe 40 years old, dressed in ordinary clothes.

He picked up an apple and examined it carefully.

Without looking at me, he spoke quietly.

He said, “These are good apples, fresh, sweet, worth the price.

I did not know what to say.

Was this the person or just another customer?” Then he said, “Sometimes the best fruit is hidden.

You have to know where to look.

You have to be willing to dig beneath the surface.

I realized this was the code.

I said feeling foolish, “Yes, I am looking for something beneath the surface, something real.

” He finally looked at me.

His eyes were kind but cautious.

He studied my face for a moment.

Then he nodded slightly.

He said, “Buy your apples, then follow me.

” Not closely.

Stay back about 10 meters.

If I stop suddenly, keep walking past me and go home.

Do you understand? I said, I understand.

He said, “What is your name?” I hesitated.

Names were dangerous.

Then I said, “Abd,” he said, “I am Yousef, but that is not my real name.

You will understand why soon.

” He walked away.

I quickly paid for a bag of apples, my hands shaking slightly.

Then I followed him.

keeping the distance he specified.

We walked through the market, then down several side streets.

Ysef was careful.

He doubled back twice.

He led me through a building and out another entrance.

He was checking to make sure we were not being followed.

Finally, after about 15 minutes of walking, he turned into an alley and opened a door that looked like it led to a storage room.

He glanced around once, then gestured for me to come quickly.

I followed him inside.

The door closed behind us.

We were in a small room with concrete walls.

There was a table and some chairs.

A single light bulb hung from the ceiling.

Nothing else.

Yousef turned to face me.

His expression was serious but not unfriendly.

He said, “You told my contact that you are the bomb maker from Shajaya, that you survived, that you saw Jesus.

” I said, “Yes, all of that is true.

” He said, “Tell me what happened.

Everything.

Do not leave anything out.

” So I told him, I told him about the explosion, about dying, about hell, about seeing the multitudes there, about the fighters and clerics, about their desperate warnings, about Jesus appearing in light and glory, about his scars and his eyes and his words, about him sending me back, about the message I was supposed to share.

I told him everything while Yousef listened in silence.

When I finished, there were tears on my face.

Yousef was quiet for a long moment.

Then he spoke.

He said, “I believe you, Abdul.

Not just uh because of your words, but because I have heard similar stories before.

Jesus is revealing himself to many Muslims in these days.

through dreams and visions and encounters like yours.

He’s calling his people out of Islam and into truth.

Relief flooded through me.

He believed me.

I was not crazy.

This was real.

I said, “What do I do now? I cannot go back to my old life.

But I cannot tell my family.

They would not understand.

They would turn me in.

What do I do?” Yousef sat down and gestured for me to do the same.

I said, “First, you need to understand clearly what it means to follow Jesus.

This is not another religion.

This is not about replacing Islamic rules with Christian rules.

This is about relationship with God through faith in Jesus’s sacrifice.

” He explained it carefully how Jesus was fully God and fully man.

How he lived a perfect life.

How he died on the cross to pay the penalty for human sin.

How he rose from the dead on the third day.

How anyone who believes in him and accepts his sacrifice is saved.

Not by works, not by religious observance, simply by faith.

He said, “Have you believed this? Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” I said, “Yes, I saw him.

I know he is real.

I know he is the only way.

I believe.

Yousef smiled.

Then a real smile full of joy.

He said, “Then you are my brother.

You are saved.

You are a child of God.

Welcome to the family.

” He prayed with me.

A simple prayer.

I declared my faith in Jesus.

I acknowledged my sins and my need for a savior.

I thanked to Jesus for dying for me and for saving me from hell.

I committed my life to following him.

When we said amen, I felt something, a piece that I cannot fully describe, like a burden being lifted, like chains falling off, like coming home after being lost for a very long time.

Yousef said, “You should be baptized.

It is an important step, a public declaration of faith.

But public is dangerous here, so we do it in secret.

with witnesses from the underground church.

Continue reading….
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