They renounced everything they had believed until then and asked, “We want to know Jesus.

” Most of them had never read a single line of the Bible.

They had grown up in strict Islamic schools where only the Quran was allowed.

And yet, God’s grace penetrated the walls of that prison with a force that no human doctrine could resist.

But the most impressive transformation was undoubtedly that of Abu Malik.

At the end of the second day, he called me aside to talk.

He was different.

There was a new weariness in his soul, not physical, but spiritual.

Like someone who, looking in the mirror, finally saw his own sins and couldn’t look away.

I was a monster, he said, his voice breaking.

I killed dozens with my own hands.

I ordered the deaths of hundreds.

I did evil thinking it was good.

He paused, swallowed hard.

How can God forgive someone like me? I approached him without any fear and took his hands, the same ones that had once held a whip.

Now they were shaking.

The thief on the cross next to Jesus received forgiveness at the last moment.

And Paul, before becoming an apostle, persecuted and killed Christians.

There is no sin greater than the grace of God.

When repentance is real, forgiveness is absolute.

That night, in secret, because we knew that other members of the group had not yet witnessed any of this and might report us, we performed a baptism.

We used water from a simple jar in his own room.

There was no crowd, no music, no public celebration, but there was heaven.

As the water ran down his head, it was as if the weight of decades of hatred and deceit was being washed away.

Abu Malik’s face, once hardened by ideology and fanaticism, now displayed something completely new.

Freedom, he cried.

But it wasn’t out of guilt anymore.

It was out of relief.

He had known the truth, and the truth had set him free.

My real name is Ysef, he said quietly, almost as if reclaiming something sacred.

Abu Malik.

It was just a nomde.

I want to be Yuf again.

Those words carried more than a wish.

They were a declaration of rebirth.

The man who had once commanded executions now wanted to return to being the son, the brother, the man God had created him to be.

On the third day after the miracle in the courtyard, Ysef entered the room with a tense, determined expression.

I need to get you out of here.

It’s past time.

It’s not safe for anyone anymore.

The news hit me like a final wakeup call.

He explained to me bluntly that high-ranking commanders would be coming to inspect the base within 2 days.

If they discovered what had happened, the resignation, the baptism, the blossoming Christian faith among them.

The consequences would be brutal.

Apostasy for ISIS was more than treason.

It was a slow and exemplary death sentence.

But I’m not going out alone, I replied without hesitation.

What about the others? What about Fisal Rashid Tarik? Ysef nodded.

Some will come with us.

The others need to stay for now.

They will continue to operate from the inside.

What happened here wasn’t just for us.

It started something bigger.

And it really started with military precision.

Ysef began to organize the escape.

He forged documents, redrrew roads on an old map, and coordinated the exit like someone who knew every blind spot in the system.

On the outside, he looked the same as ever, the respected, disciplined feared leader.

On the inside, he was a different man, one guided not by fear or ideology, but by faith.

On the last night in the compound, the same one that had been my captivity and later the scene of the miracle, we gathered in secret.

Ysef, Faizal, Rashid, Tarik, myself, and three other men whose names I will keep secret for safety sake.

Eight men, eight hearts pierced by the light of God.

“Your God is the true God,” Ysef said before we left.

The same words he had whispered in the courtyard days ago, but now with the conviction of someone who had not only seen but known.

Now he is my God, too.

We set off before dawn in two vehicles heading north to the safety of the Kurdish region.

YSU had contacts within the CDO, an anti-ISIS force, and believed they could shelter us temporarily until we figured out our next steps.

None of us at that moment could have imagined what was to come.

This escape was not the end of anything.

It was the beginning, a sacred exodus that would eventually trigger something much greater, an underground revival.

Over the next few months, 17 former ISIS members would give their lives to Christ.

Many of them were guided by Ysef Fisel and the others who chose to remain undercover.

One by one, God began to deliver men from the deepest darkness, not with brute force, but with love, light, and truth.

Three refugee camps in three different regions would eventually receive these new converts.

There, quietly, we began to serve.

We began to preach.

We began to live the gospel, not with microphones or stages, but with hugs, silent prayers, broken bread, and transformed lives.

But the journey there was not easy.

The journey from Mosul to Kurdistan was an odyssey.

Every checkpoint was a Russian roulette.

Any suspicious look, any mistake in tone of voice, and it would all end there.

Not only for me, but especially for Ysef, now considered a deserter, a traitor.

But what was once used to kill was now being used to save.

“Even my training as a terrorist, God is using for good,” Ysef said with a weary, almost incredulous laugh as we drove down a bumpy country road.

“I never thought I would be guided by maps not to destroy, but to protect.

It was almost 20 hours of tension.

We slept only during quick stops.

We ate poorly.

We were thirsty.

But none of that mattered.

Freedom.

And more than that, a new life and was near.

Finally, we arrived on the outskirts of DK, a Kurdish town where my former humanitarian organization had a base.

There our paths would begin to open again.

Not to return to our old lives, but to a new, bigger, and much more dangerous mission.

Because now we were not just survivors.

We were living witnesses to grace.

And that was just the beginning.

When we arrived, we caused quite a stir.

I, who had been reported dead after weeks of being missing, got out of the car accompanied by seven former ISIS members, all claiming to have miraculously converted to Christianity.

Rashid, a former colleague, was the first to recognize me as we entered the compound where the aid workers were sheltering.

His face changed from disbelief to joy.

But then confusion set in when he saw who I had brought with me.

“Jacob, are you alive?” he asked, hugging me so tightly that my still healing ribs hurt.

“Thank God,” I replied.

He looked at the other men beside me and asked, “But who are they?” “Brothers,” I replied simply.

“Men transformed by grace who will need protection and guidance.

” The weeks that followed were intense.

Prayer sessions, meetings with Kurdish and international security agencies, and long Bible teaching sessions with the new converts.

The story of the miracle spread quickly among the local Christian community, many of whom still bore the wounds of ISIS’s brutal regime.

At first, the reaction to Yuf and the others was suspicious, some even hostile.

I remember a Yazidi woman who had lost her entire family in the massacres who confronted Fisizel with a broken voice.

“How do I know this conversion is real?” she asked, almost begging for an answer.

“How do I know this isn’t just a ploy to infiltrate us?” “It was Ysef who answered.

” And his words were filled with humility, a far cry from the arrogant commander he had once been.

“You have no reason to trust us,” he admitted.

“Our hands are stained with the blood of your people.

We ask not for human forgiveness which we probably do not deserve but only for the chance to show with our lives that we have been changed that we want to make amends as much as we can for the damage we have done.

His sincerity along with the testimony of the miracle that I and others could attest to began to open doors gradually.

Even the previously skeptical Kurdish authorities began to help us.

They provided new identities and basic protection in exchange for the valuable information that YSU and the others provided about active ISIS cells, weapons caches, and smuggling routes.

This collaboration helped to thwart several planned attacks and saved many lives.

During this period of transition, Sarah, a young convert to the Christian community, played a key role.

Having experienced rejection and persecution from her family, she could deeply identify with the challenge of reintegration that our brothers faced.

Sarah set up a disciplehip program that mixed biblical teachings with practical skills, giving them tools to gradually rebuild their lives.

The real miracle, she told me during one of our prayer meetings, isn’t just what happened in that execution yard.

It’s what’s happening here right now.

Is seeing former killers become brothers and sisters dedicated to reconciliation and restoration is to me living proof of God’s transformative power.

6 months after our escape, we witnessed a moment that sealed that transformation in a profound way.

A Christian family in Karacos whose teenage son had been publicly executed by ISIS two years earlier met face tof face with Rashid who was part of the group responsible for the execution.

The meeting carefully conducted by local church leaders was heartbreakingly intense.

A visibly shaken Rashid knelt before the parents of the young man who had been martyed and confessed his part in that terrible crime.

He did not ask for forgiveness.

He knew that some wounds are too deep to be completely healed in this life.

What happened next surpasses all human logic.

The young man’s father, a seemingly frail man, but with immense spiritual strength, placed his hands on Rashid’s bowed head.

In a choked but firm voice, he said, “My son is with Christ, and Christ has forgiven his executioners on the cross.

Who am I to do less?” Those words echoed, and despite the pain, similar scenes of reconciliation began to emerge.

Former ISIS members transformed by the gospel reached out to victims families to confess, offer reparations where possible, and accept the legal consequences of their actions.

Of course, not all stories ended in forgiveness.

Many victims were not ready to forgive, and no one forced them to.

But each encounter, even the most difficult ones, was part of a larger healing process.

As these miraculous transformations gained momentum, reports of similar dreams and visions began to arrive.

Some ISIS members began secretly contacting our growing network, seeking help in their escape.

Others defected and crossed into Turkey or Jordan, where they found churches willing to welcome them.

Intelligence reports confirmed a wave of defections, especially in cells that had contact with the unit led by Abu.

In the refugee camps where we served, these ex-combatants became living and powerful witnesses.

With their deep knowledge of the Quran, now combined with their faith in Christ, they became bridges of dialogue with curious and skeptical Muslims.

Fisal and Taric, for example, ended up leading small house churches made up mostly of new converts.

Ysef, perhaps the most surprising case, dedicated his life to a risky mission, creating secret channels to reach disillusioned fighters, those who were beginning to doubt and question.

I know their minds because I’ve thought the same thing, he said.

I know what questions they keep silent, what doubts haunt them in the darkness of the night.

The years that followed were marked by victories and losses.

Three of our brothers were discovered and executed by their former comrades.

The pain of these losses was enormous, but their lives and sacrifices became seeds for new spiritual growth.

These brothers, who gave their lives, ended up inspiring more than 300 missionaries from all over the world to volunteer to work in areas of persecution.

The recording of my execution, or at least parts of it, reached Western intelligence networks.

Officially, they classified it as a strange optical phenomenon, perhaps a technical error.

But those who were there saw something that could only be explained as supernatural intervention.

For me, that 17-day period in captivity changed everything.

I was no longer just a humanitarian worker, but a living witness to God’s action in the midst of one of the darkest places in this world.

My story has come to particularly touch those who face real and profound persecution.

This hope we carry goes far beyond our circumstances.

Today, I understand Steven when he saw heaven open before him.

I shared this at a conference with persecuted churches in Ammon.

Sometimes God uses persecution to reveal his glory even to his worst enemies.

In my case, it wasn’t my strength or courage that made the miracle happen.

It was Christ living in me, resisting until the right moment.

Four years have passed since that early morning in the execution yard when God acted supernaturally.

They were intense years full of risks, but also of incredible testimonies of transformation and new life.

Now, speaking to you from a safe place, I think about the most profound lessons that this experience left me with.

The first is simple but fundamental.

There is no darkness too great for God.

The Islamic State was in many ways the most brutal portrayal of evil the world has seen in recent times.

A cold brutality, an ideology of hate that sought to extinguish all light in humanity.

But it was precisely in the heart of this darkness that God’s light shone brightest.

As the Apostle John wrote, “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.

” The second lesson reminds me of the spiritual warfare that goes on behind our eyes.

The warrior angels, my capttors reported, were not delusions or collective illusions, but actual manifestations of the invisible battle that Elisha described to his servant.

He prayed, “Lord, open his eyes that he may see.

” And just as that servant saw the mountain filled with horses and chariots of fire, today the heavenly forces continue to be at work, even though we cannot see them with our physical eyes.

Finally, the third lesson came from the power of prayer during persecution.

In prison, my prayers became more sincere and intense than they had ever been in times of peace.

James 5:16 says, “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.

” The effective fervent prayer of a righteous man avaleth much.

I learned in that darkness the real power of those words.

 

 

In March 2011, the Aurora Dream departed Port Canaveral with 350 passengers and crew aboard for a 5-day Caribbean cruise.

The ship never made it home.

Coast Guard searched 200,000 square miles of ocean and found nothing.

No distress signal, no debris, no bodies.

Oceanic Ventures told grieving families it was a tragic mystery of the sea, collected $340 million in insurance, and continued operating luxury cruises.

For 8 years, 350 families searched empty water while the cruise line posted record profits.

Then in March 2019, a Coast Guard patrol spotted something impossible frozen between two massive icebergs in the North Atlantic, 340 m from where the Aurora Dream should have been.

Every passenger and crew member was still aboard, perfectly preserved in ice.

Along with evidence that would prove the ship didn’t vanish by accident, it was deliberately led to its frozen grave by someone who was paid $3 million to make sure no one survived.

March 15, 2019.

Owen Hartley was under a Honda Civic replacing brake pads when his phone rang.

Unknown number.

He almost didn’t answer.

Bill collectors had been hunting him for months, but something made him wipe the grease off his hands and pick up.

Mr.Hartley, Lieutenant Dale Kirby, United States Coast Guard.

Owen’s chest went tight.

Eight years of searching and those words still hit like a fist.

We found the Aurora dream.

The wrench slipped from Owen’s hand and clattered on concrete around him.

The shop kept moving, impact guns whining, radio playing, someone yelling about a stripped bolt, but Owen couldn’t hear any of it.

Say that again.

The Aurora Dream, located yesterday morning, 340 mi southeast of Newfoundland.

The ship is intact, trapped between icebergs.

We’re mounting a recovery operation.

Owen sat down hard on an overturned bucket.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

My wife, Clare Hartley, is she.

I can’t discuss specifics over the phone, but there are bodies aboard.

We’re beginning identification.

I’m calling because you filed requests every month for papers rustled.

96 consecutive months, 8 years.

Owen had called the Coast Guard every 30 days asking if they’d found anything.

usually got transferred three times before reaching someone who’d tell him no.

Nothing new.

Sorry for your loss.

I need to be there.

When can I Mr.

Hartley? This is an active recovery site.

Restricted access.

We can’t accommodate.

My wife is on that ship.

I understand, but we have 350 families already filing requests.

We can’t let everyone.

Lieutenant Owen’s voice went flat.

He’d learned this tonefighting bureaucracy for eight years.

I’ve spent $127,000 on private searches, hired marine salvage experts, interviewed every dock worker between Miami and Montego Bay.

I know more about the Aurora Dreams last voyage than anyone in your office.

So, I’m going to be there when you bring my wife home.

Only question is whether I’m doing it with your cooperation or by chartering a boat and forcing you to arrest me.

Silence.

Then, where are you located? Cincinnati.

Flight to St.John’s tomorrow at 6:00 a.m.

I’ll add your name to the liaison clearance list.

Report to Coast Guard station when you arrive, but I can’t promise ship access.

That’s above my authority.

I’ll be there.

Owen hung up, stared at the phone in his grease stained hands.

After eight years of ghost ships and false sightings, they’d actually found her.

Clare was coming home.

Owen left work without explanation.

Fourth job he’d lost since Clare died.

His apartment was the same disaster it had been for 8 years.

Maps covering walls, string connecting coordinates, printouts scattered everywhere.

Emma called it his serial killer room the one time she’d visited, then refused to come back.

Emma, he checked his watch.

3:30 p.m.

She’d be getting out of school.

He should call first, but the thought of explaining over the phone made his throat close up.

He drove to Lakeside High instead, waited in the parent pickup lane like a normal father, which he hadn’t been in 8 years.

When Emma emerged, she didn’t recognize his car at first.

M.

She stopped, turned, 15 now, looked exactly like Clare.

Same dark hair, same sharp jawline.

Three expressions crossed her face in two seconds.

Surprise, irritation, concern.

Dad, what are you doing here? Get in.

Need to talk.

I’m supposed to catch the bus to Aunt Rachel’s.

Emma, please.

Something in his voice made her stop.

She got in, dumped her backpack.

What’s wrong? Lose another job? Coast Guard called.

They found the ship.

Emma went still.

The ship.

The Aurora dream frozen between icebergs off Newfoundland.

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