My name is Jacob Nazar and what I’m about to share with you is a living testimony of how God can reveal himself even in the midst of the greatest terror.

It all began on a hot June morning in 2021 just outside Mosul, Iraq.

The fine desert dust danced around my feet as I delivered medicine and food to Kurdish families who had been forced to flee their homes because of the war.

I had been in that region for 3 years, dedicated to helping rebuild what the war had destroyed, bringing a little hope to those who seem to have lost everything.

Out in the west, many thought I was dead, but those who work closely knew that the threats had not disappeared.

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The sleeper cells were still lurking, ready to emerge from the darkness at any moment.

In our country where the freedom to follow one’s faith is a luxury that few have, being a Christian in certain areas is almost like signing your own death warrant.

From an early age, my father taught me to have courage, but also to be careful.

I remember the nights we studied the Bible together in the basement of our home in Herville when he would say, “If one day you have to choose between denying Christ or losing your life, never forget that this life is fleeting compared to the eternity that awaits us.

” I never imagined that these words would sustain me during the darkest 17 days of my existence.

Friends, if you have ever doubted that God can work in the darkest places, if you have ever questioned his faithfulness in the face of the most cruel persecution, this story is for you.

I am here to prove that there is no darkness, no terrorists, no threat that can separate us from the love of Christ.

In the ISIS dungeons near Mosul, I reached the limit of what a human being can bear.

The line between life and death became as thin as a strand of hair.

But it was in that very place of darkness that God’s light shone with a power I had never felt before.

I want you to follow me through this story, not as a tale of fear, but as a testimony of faith and transformation.

The dusty streets of Herville in Iraqi Kurdistan have been my home for much of my adult life.

I grew up in a Calaldian Christian family at a time when being a Christian in the Middle East meant living in a constant storm.

My father, Elas Naza, was a doctor at a small community hospital, and my mother, Mariam, taught English at the local school.

Unlike many who left the country in search of safety, my parents chose to stay.

“This land needs light,” my father would say when I asked why we didn’t follow the path of so many who went to Europe or America.

My journey into humanitarian work has not been easy.

I studied civil engineering at the University of Baghdad, where the religious climate was always tense.

I learned to be discreet, to measure my words, to know when to reveal my faith.

But everything changed in 2014 with the rise of ISIS.

Seeing Christians being massacred, churches reduced to rubble and entire families uprooted from their homes made my heart burn with a calling I could not ignore.

I could no longer just build buildings while watching my people suffer around me.

It was in 2018 that I decided to join an international humanitarian organization using my engineering background to help rebuild war torn villages.

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My work focused mainly on the CEDA region where the situation was somewhat calmer but still required extreme caution with every step we took.

Each day began the same way with prayer, Bible reading, and a thorough security assessment with our local team.

Never travel the same route twice, Farid, our security coordinator, warned us.

The eyes of the enemy are always watching.

Despite the constant danger, those 3 years before my abduction were marked by moments of great significance.

I have seen churches rise from the ashes, communities find hope again, and families return to homes they thought were lost forever.

I have also quietly organized small prayer and Bible study meetings for local Christians, always changing the location and using codes so that no one would find out.

Among so many stories, one stood out for me.

That of Sarah, a young woman who had left Islam to follow Christ.

When her family discovered her new faith, they rejected her completely.

It was at that moment that she found shelter in our network of brothers and sisters.

Your compassion showed me Christ even before your words,” she once told me over a simple but meaningful breakfast.

“At the time, I didn’t know that her testimony would be one of the pillars that would sustain my hope during the captivity that would follow.

The night before my abduction, I had a disturbing dream.

I saw myself locked in a dark cell surrounded by hooded men.

However, instead of feeling fear, a strange peace came over me.

When I woke up, I shared the dream with Rashid, a Christian colleague who worked with me.

“Maybe this is a warning,” he said, concerned.

“You should cancel the trip to Mosul tomorrow.

But I knew I couldn’t back out.

Many families were waiting for supplies that only I could bring since I had permission to pass through several checkpoints along the way.

Fear does not come from God,” I replied, remembering 2 Timothy 1:7.

“If I must face the darkness, let me take the light with me.

” Rashid nodded silently.

And that night, we prayed longer than usual, as if we sensed that this might be our last time together.

The morning of June 12th, 2021, arrived calm and dense.

The sun was rising shily over the dusty horizon of central Iraq, and I was loading the old white pickup truck with boxes of medicine, dehydrated food, and school supplies for the children.

Jasan, our regular driver, was sick, so I decided to take over the driving.

Later, I would understand that this coincidence was part of God’s plan.

If Hassan had been with me, he might have been captured or even lost his life.

As I drove toward Mosul, I silently repeated Psalm 91.

A thousand may fall at your side and 10,000 at your right hand, but it will not come near you.

At that moment, I had no idea how I would need to cling tightly to those words in the days to come.

The road to Mosul was lined with checkpoints.

Some were run by the Iraqi army, others by local militias.

Near the city, on a particularly deserted stretch, I noticed a black car parked on the side of the road.

It looked like a makeshift checkpoint, a common site in the area.

So, I slowed down carefully.

My left hand automatically reached for the briefcase where I kept my documents and authorizations while I mentally repeated my story.

Humanitarian worker delivering medical supplies with no political affiliation whatsoever.

When I was about 30 m from the vehicle, my safety instincts went into red alert.

There were no flags or official uniforms, just four men with their faces covered by bandanas holding rifles.

One of them was pointing an AK-47 straight at me.

Within seconds, I was considering my options.

Turn around and risk being shot in the back, accelerate, and try to force my way past or stop and trust in God.

Before I could decide, a controlled explosion went off right in front of my car, sending up a cloud of dust and debris that forced me to break suddenly.

Get out of the vehicle with your hands up.

The order came in Arabic, but with a strange accent that didn’t fit the place.

Maybe Saudi, maybe Syrian.

My heart raced as I slowly opened the door.

I’m an aid worker, I said in Arabic, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear that gripped me.

I’m taking medicine to displaced families.

The tallest man, who was clearly in charge of the group, walked over and snatched my ID from my shirt pocket.

Jacob Nazar, he read with disdain.

A Christian name.

He spat on the ground and glanced into the van.

It seems we’ve caught a crusader missionary trying to contaminate Muslim lands.

The others burst out laughing, a cruel laugh that would echo in my mind for days.

It happened quickly and mercilessly.

They hit me in the back of the head with the butt of a rifle.

And when I came to, I was shrouded in darkness.

My hands tied behind my back and a throbbing pain pounding in my head.

The strong smell of damp and mold gave it away.

I was trapped underground, probably in one of the tunnels ISIS had dug during its occupation of Mosul.

I tried to move, but felt a chain lock my ankles to a hook in the wall.

The clang of metal caught the attention of the gods.

The door opened, and a blinding flashlight forced me to close my eyes.

The infidel has awakened,” a cold voice announced.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw three men in the doorway.

Two of them wore black balaclavas, but the third showed his face, a thick beard, deep set eyes, and a scathing scar on his left cheek.

“I would later learn that this man was Abu Malik, the commander of this ISIS cell, and amazingly the instrument God would use to free me.

” “Do you know who we are?” he asked with a calmness that was frightening.

I nodded silently.

“Good.

” Then he said in that cold, contemptuous voice, “Do you know what we think of Christians? To us, you are less than dogs, especially those who try to convert Muslims.

” Then he pulled out his cell phone and showed me pictures that made my blood run cold.

Pictures of me meeting with local brothers, baptizing Sarah in a makeshift tank, handing out Bibles hidden in food parcels.

“We have informants everywhere,” he said, a cruel smile on his face.

“We’ve been targeting you for months.

We’ve just been waiting for the right moment to get you.

” A shiver ran down my spine.

They weren’t just watching me.

They knew every step I took, every contact I made, and how many others besides me were in danger.

Thinking about Sara, Rashid, and the risk my capture could posed to them.

And so many others hurt more than any blow I had received.

Abu Malik crouched in front of me, his breath thick with tobacco and cardamom invading my space.

“You have two choices,” he said with menacing calm.

Convert to Islam.

Renounce your false faith and help us identify other believers or you will die slowly in ways you can’t even imagine.

I took a deep breath feeling the weight of the decision that was about to come.

My father’s words came forcefully to my mind.

If one day you have to choose between denying Christ or dying, “My name is Jacob Nazar.

” And with a serenity I didn’t know I possessed, I replied, “I am a follower of Jesus Christ.

I cannot deny the one who gave me life and purpose.

” The first blow came without warning.

A sharp punch to the solar plexus that knocked the wind out of me.

Then another to the face, splitting my lip open.

Everyone says that in the beginning, Abu Malik sneered as his men continued to beat me.

Let’s see how long your faith holds out when you understand the true meaning of suffering.

That first night in captivity set the tone for what was to come.

I was alone, plunged into total darkness with no food or water.

Every now and then, I heard distant screams, signs that I was not the only one trapped in that underground labyrinth.

In my loneliness and pain, I began to recite in my mind every verse I had ever memorized.

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

At the time, I had no idea that that valley would be deeper and darker than I could ever imagine.

Or that God would use my suffering to reveal his power in extraordinary ways.

Time lost all meaning in that infinite darkness with no windows or clocks.

My only markers were the torture and interrogation sessions which occurred almost like a ritual with frightening regularity.

Every morning or what I thought was morning, the metallic sound of the door opening and the monotonous voice of a god ordering me to perform Islamic ablutions and recite the shahada, the Muslim profession of faith.

The god would recite the words waiting for me to repeat them.

There is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger.

My silence, firm and constant, was always the signal for the first punishment of the day.

Lashes on the back administered with almost cruel precision.

It would start with five strokes, then 10, and finally 20.

“Your stubbornness will only prolong your suffering,” Abu Malik said with clinical coldness during one of his visits.

He didn’t show up every day, which showed he had other responsibilities outside of our captivity.

“We’ve broken men much stronger than you.

” By the third day, my back was a map of open wounds, some starting to fester from the unsanitary conditions of the place.

The fever came like a thick fog, blurring what was real and what was hallucination.

At those moments, I would see my father sitting beside me whispering prayers in Aramaic, the ancient language of our Christian ancestors.

Other times, it would be the image of Sarah that would come to me, her face glowing after her baptism, reminding me why it was worth resisting.

The water I was given was measured with calculated cruelty.

just enough to keep my body alive, but never enough to quench the thirst that burned within.

Food, when it came, was little more than scraps.

Leftovers that tasted like they had come from my own captor stables.

I learned to savor every morsel, knowing that it could be a whole day before a new helping arrived.

On the fifth day, the formal part began, the interrogations.

I was taken to a better lit room where a camera recorded every word.

Today, we will record your confession, announced Omar, a young man with a Jordanian accent.

Our Amir wants proof of your crimes against Islam, but it was all a farce.

They didn’t want information.

They already had my photos, contacts, and my entire history.

They wanted my spiritual collapse, the moment I would deny Christ.

The questions were designed to bring me down.

Details about my work, names of converts, connections to Western churches.

Each answer deemed wrong was followed by a punishment that reflected specialized torture training.

We learned from the CIA manual, Omar would say as he attached electrodes to my fingers.

Funny, huh? Your American brothers taught us that the pain of the electric shocks was indescribable.

It wasn’t just a physical suffering too intense to bear, but the feeling of completely losing control of one’s body as muscles contracted involuntarily, teeth shattered until they nearly broke, and one’s mind desperately cried out for relief that never came.

It was during one of these sessions that I felt the first divine intervention.

As electricity coursed through my body, I began to pray.

The words poured out of my mouth like a river of sounds that I did not understand, but that strengthened my soul.

Omar took a step back, visibly disturbed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Omar asked, increasing the voltage in an attempt to silence me.

But the more the pain increased, the more the holy words poured out of my mouth like a river that could not be contained.

Annoyed, he finally threw the controllers on the floor and left the room, muttering something about Christian black magic.

That night, alone in the darkness of my cell, my mind searched for answers.

Then Romans 8:26 came to me clearly, like a beacon in the darkness.

The Spirit helps us in our weakness, for we do not know what to pray for as we ought.

But the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.

There, in my total helplessness, I felt the Holy Spirit taking over, speaking for me when my strength failed.

The days that followed, from the 6th to the 10th, were a continuous sequence of pain and fear.

Every night I was shown cruel videos of executions of captured Christians and Westerners.

Tomorrow it could be you was the deadly whisper that accompanied me every time.

One of the crulest psychological tortures came when a child no older than 12 was brought to watch my punishment.

His wide, fearful eyes stared at my wounds as I was whipped for refusing to recite the shahada again.

This is how infidels end, Abu Malik explained with the coolness of a teacher.

Pay attention, little Muajid.

One day you two will punish the enemies of Allah.

That child’s face haunted me in every dream.

There was no hatred there, but deep confusion, an innocent fear being weaponized.

It was a young soul slowly being transformed into an instrument of violence.

And that night, though my body was exhausted, my spirit refused to give in.

Surprising even myself, I began to pray aloud for my tormentors.

Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.

I said using the words Jesus spoke on the cross.

I named them one by one.

Malik, Omar, the gods, and even the boy, and asked, “Lord, show them your truth.

Let your light break through this darkness.

” At that moment, I didn’t know that my prayers were being heard, not only up in the sky, but also through the cold, thick walls of that underground hideout.

I didn’t know that seeds of hope were being planted in what seemed like barren ground.

And I certainly didn’t imagine that in just a few days, I would witness a miracle capable of shaking even the hardest hearts of my captives.

On the third day of my captivity, something changed in the air.

The rhythm of interrogations and torture, which until then had seemed unchanging, was interrupted by an unusual noise in the corridors outside.

Agitated voices, hurried footsteps, the sound of equipment being carried.

Something important was happening.

My cell was suddenly opened, and Abu Malik entered, accompanied by two men I had never seen before.

Their faces were partially covered, but their icy eyes betrayed a meticulous coldness that sent chills down my spine.

These were no ordinary torturers or guards.

There was a professional precision to them, a training that spoke of something greater, something beyond simple everyday terror.

Tomorrow at dawn, Abu Malik announced with the coldness of one merely following protocol.

You will be executed for the glory of Allah.

And as a warning to all crusaders who dare touch this land, there was no anger in his voice, just a cold, impersonal conviction, as if he were telling me the time of a flight.

Behind him, two men I’d never seen before approached.

One of them held an orange jumpsuit folded with almost ceremonial precision.

the same kind I’d seen in ISIS execution videos so many times.

Put this on, he ordered.

We want you to get used to the idea.

I looked at the fabric with trembling hands.

It wasn’t just clothing.

It was the uniform of the condemned, a symbol that the end was near.

I remembered so many who had worn that same color in their final moments.

Men and women who had faced horror with steady eyes and unwavering faith.

“What if I refuse?” I asked with what little courage I had left.

The answer came quickly.

A kick to the stomach knocked me to the concrete floor.

“Then we’ll put this on you after we break every finger on your hand,” the other said in a thick chetchin accent.

“You’ll die the same way, but with more pain.

” With effort, I pulled on the jumpsuit.

The rough fabric stuck to the cuts and wounds on my body, making every movement hurt.

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