IN IRAQ A PASTOR AND HIS SON ARE CRUCIFIED BY TERR0RISTS… BUT GOD DID THIS | Christian Testimonies

The nails pierced my husband’s wrists while the August sun burned the square of Caracos.

3:40 in the afternoon, August 6th, 2014.

My name is Leila Ahmad.

I am 38 years old and I am watching my family being crucified.

The hammer strikes once, twice.

My son Daniel, 16 years old, screams, “Not out of pain yet, but because they have just nailed his father.

Yousef, my husband, 42 years old, pastor of a congregation of 80 believers in this Christian village in northern Iraq, does not scream.

His lips move in silent prayer as blood begins to run down his forearms.

My daughter Sarah, 14 years old, trembles in my arms like a wounded bird.

I want to cover her eyes, but two armed men hold us by the hair, forcing us to look.

The smell is what I will never forget.

Blood mixed with dust, sweat, fear.

It smells like death.

The ISIS commander walks between the two wooden crosses planted on concrete bases, smiling.

53 people from our village are here, lined up in a semicircle.

Some cry silently.

Others have closed their eyes even though they are threatened.

I recognize Abu Khalil, our 61-year-old Muslim neighbor, with tears running down his face.

The heat is unbearable, 47° C.

The air trembles over the pavement.

The crosses cast long dark shadows on the stone of the square like accusing fingers pointing at us.

Now they are going for Daniel, my boy, my firstborn.

The one who just two days ago helped me bake bread.

The one who played guitar in worship services.

The one who dreamed of studying medicine to serve the poor.

They first tie him with thick ropes.

Then come the nails.

Mom.

Sarah whispers and her voice breaks like glass.

I can’t respond.

If I open my mouth, I will vomit.

If I close my eyes, they will hit me.

So I watch.

I watch as the metal pierces my son’s flesh.

I watch as his body tenses.

I watch as his eyes search for mine.

And in them I see no hatred.

I see peace.

A peace that makes no sense that shouldn’t exist at this moment.

Yousef begins to sing with a horse broken voice but firm.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

Daniel joins him.

Two crucified voices worshiping.

The militants laugh.

They tell jokes about Christians and crosses.

One spits near my feet.

The commander approaches me, his black beard brushing my face as he speaks.

Your men will be here for 3 days, four if they are lucky.

We designed these reinforced concrete bases.

The crosses will not fall.

Their bodies will rot here as a warning to any other Christian who dares to resist.

He looks at his watch.

3:42.

Let’s start the official countdown.

24 hours earlier.

My life was completely different.

Sunday, August 5th, 6:15 in the morning.

I woke up to the sound of birds singing and the aroma of coffee that Yousef was brewing in the kitchen.

Our two-story house on Altahar Street had large windows that let in the golden light of dawn.

I could hear Daniel practicing chords on his guitar, preparing for the service.

Good morning, love of my life.

Yousef kissed my forehead when I came down.

22 years of marriage, and he still looked at me like the day of our wedding.

Today I preach about Esther, about having courage for times like these.

Times like these had been our phrase for 3 months.

Since ISIS began to advance through Iraq, since entire towns were massacred, since black flags appeared in cities just 50 km from Caracosh.

But Caracosh was different.

Or so we thought.

It was the largest Christian city in Iraq.

32,000 inhabitants, 12 churches.

We had survived wars, invasions, dictatorships.

We thought we would survive this, too.

The service started at 9:00.

Our congregation was small but fervent.

80 people gathered in a simple building with white painted walls and carved wooden windows.

That Sunday, everyone was there, even those who usually missed.

As if something in the air told them it was important to be together.

Yousef preached with fire.

Esther did not know that her bravery would save an entire people.

She only knew she had to speak even if it cost her life.

Today, brothers, we are Esther.

This is our for such a time as this.

The congregation responded with amends.

But I saw the fear in their eyes, the same that I felt in my chest.

After the service, while we served tea and shared bread, Abu Mahmood arrived, a 73-year-old elder who lived on the corner.

Pastor Ysef, his voice trembled.

They say ISIS is in Mosul, only 30 km away.

They say they are coming this way.

Yousef placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder.

God is our refuge and strength, our very present help in trouble.

But pastor, another man intervened.

We should evacuate.

Go to Erbil, to Jordan, anywhere.

My husband looked at his congregation.

80 pairs of eyes waiting for direction.

Each family must decide.

I would understand if they leave.

However, someone has to stay.

Someone has to be a light in the darkness.

My family stays.

That afternoon, 23 families packed their bags and left.

I don’t blame them.

They had small children, sick, elderly.

We also had children, but Yousef felt a calling that went beyond logic.

Dad.

Daniel sat next to him on the porch as the sun set.

I’m scared.

Me too, son.

But you always say that God protects us.

Yousef embraced our son.

God protects us.

Yes.

But sometimes his protection doesn’t look like we expect.

Sometimes it looks like courage in the midst of the fire, like peace in the midst of the storm, like joy even in pain.

We didn’t know how prophetic those words were.

The night fell quietly.

We had dinner together.

Rice with chicken, salad, freshly baked bread.

Sarah told us about her sewing class.

Daniel talked about a book he was reading.

Yousef and I exchanged knowing glances, grateful for these ordinary moments that we would soon discover were extraordinary.

At 10:00 at night, we knelt together in the living room, our family tradition.

Each one prayed aloud.

Sarah prayed for her friends who had fled.

Daniel prayed for courage.

Yousef prayed for wisdom.

I prayed for protection.

Not knowing that the answer would come in a way I could never have imagined.

We went to sleep believing we would see another normal dawn.

5:00 in the morning.

Knocks on the door.

No polite knocks.

Knocks that wanted to break it down.

Yousef went down first.

I followed him with Sarah and Daniel behind me.

Through the window, we saw the convoys.

Black trucks, black flags, men with weapons.

Isis had arrived.

Open up or we will break down the door.

Yousef took a deep breath, looked at me, looked at our children.

I love you.

Remember that no matter what happens, he opened the door.

12 men entered.

The commander, a tall man with a thick beard and cold eyes, spoke in Arabic.

This house is marked as Christian.

You have two options.

Convert to Islam or face the consequences.

We are followers of Christ.

Yousef replied firmly.

We cannot deny the one who gave us life.

The commander smiled.

It was not a kind smile, admirable courage, monumental stupidity.

And your son, does he also choose to die? Daniel, my 16-year-old boy, stepped forward.

I am Christian.

I will follow Jesus until my last breath.

Those words, that moment.

There, our fate was sealed.

Very well.

The commander nodded to his men.

Arrest the men.

The women will come with us.

They separated us.

Yousef and Daniel were dragged outside.

Sarah and I were taken to the neighbors house, now empty, and locked in a room on the second floor.

For 18 hours, we knew nothing of our men.

We only heard screams, occasional gunshots, the cries of other women in nearby houses.

Sarah did not speak during that time.

She curled up in a corner, hugging her knees with lost eyes.

I held her.

But how do you comfort your daughter when you yourself are shattered? August 6th, 2:00 in the afternoon.

The door opened.

Come, you are going to witness justice.

They pushed us out.

The midday sun beat down like a hammer.

The streets of Karakosh, my home for 15 years, were unrecognizable.

Every Christian house had the letter N painted in black on the door.

Nasrani, Nazarene, Christian.

A mark of death.

The shops were looted, windows broken, dried blood on some sidewalks.

The silence was worse than any scream.

A town of 32,000 people reduced to perhaps 300 terrified souls hiding in their homes.

We walked four streets to the central square.

Every step felt like walking towards my own grave.

Sarah stumbled twice.

I held her up even though my legs could barely support me.

Al- Shuada Square, Martyr’s Square, ironically, was where we celebrated festivals, where children played football, where families gathered in the cool afternoons.

Now, it was a scene of horror.

Two crosses, thick wood, 3 m high, planted on square bases of reinforced concrete, each the size of a small table.

An ISIS engineer oversaw the installation, ensuring they were perfectly leveled, impossible to move.

Then I saw them, Yousef [clears throat] and Daniel, kneeling at the foot of the crosses, hands tied behind their backs, faces beaten, dried blood at the corners of their lips, but their eyes, their eyes burned with something not of this world.

Mom.

Sarah.

Daniel tried to get up, but was kicked back to the ground.

I ran towards him.

A militant grabbed my arm and threw me to the ground in front of the crosses.

Sarah fell beside me.

We were forced to kneel 5 m away, close enough to see every detail, far enough not to be able to touch them.

The commander stood in the center between the two crosses like a master of ceremonies for some macakob play.

People of Karakosh, this is what happens to those who reject the prophet.

These two Christians had the chance to live.

They chose to die.

May their bodies serve as a warning.

They began to gather people.

53 in total.

Some were openly crying.

Abu Khalil, our Muslim neighbor who had always been kind to us, had a face shattered by pain.

His wife Fatima held his arm, whispering prayers in Arabic.

I recognized more people.

Leila Shamun, school teacher.

Ramy Bulos, bakery owner.

Samira Kuri, nurse.

All forced to witness.

All with the same expression of helpless horror.

3:30 in the afternoon.

The commander looked at his watch.

We begin in 10 minutes.

Prepare the condemned.

Four men grabbed Yousef.

Another four grabbed Daniel.

They dragged them toward the crosses.

My husband did not resist.

He walked with dignity with his head held high.

Daniel trembled, but he followed in his father’s footsteps.

They placed them with their backs against the wood.

They started with the feet, thick ropes wrapped around and around, securing the ankles to the vertical base of each cross.

Then they extended the arms horizontally.

More ropes at the elbows, at the biceps.

Sarah began to moan, a low continuous sound, like a wounded animal.

I hugged her against my chest, but I couldn’t protect her from what we were witnessing.

Then they brought out the nails.

They were not ordinary nails.

They were construction bolts 10 cm long, thick as my thumb.

No, please.

No.

I began to scream.

A militant hit me in the face with the butt of his rifle.

Taste of blood in my mouth.

Ears ringing.

But I couldn’t stop screaming.

The commander approached, knelt before me.

Your husband can stop this right now.

One word.

He just has to say there is no god but Allah.

And we bring him down.

Both of them.

[clears throat] They live.

You decide if your children have a father.

I looked at you.

Our eyes met through the tears.

I saw him move his lips.

No sound, but I could read.

I love you.

Trust Yousef, please.

My voice broke.

Think of the children.

Say what they want to hear.

God will understand.

My husband smiled.

A genuine smile, full of peace.

Ila, my love.

Some things are more important than life.

Our children need to know that there are truths worth dying for.

This is one of them.

The commander stood up.

So be it.

Proceed.

3:40 in the afternoon.

The first nail pierced Yousef’s left wrist.

The sound of the hammer against metal.

The sound of metal piercing flesh and bone.

The sound of the scream that my husband could not contain.

Those sounds are etched in my soul forever.

Daniel closed his eyes tightly.

He knew he was next.

They worked systematically.

Yousef’s left wrist, right wrist, Daniel’s left wrist, right wrist.

Each hammer blow was a stab in my heart.

Sarah fainted in my arms.

I was grateful for that small act of mercy.

When they finished, both were hanging from their outstretched arms, held up by the nails in their wrists and the ropes on their bodies.

The anatomy of crucifixion is brutal.

The weight of the body hanging makes it almost impossible to breathe.

To take a breath, they have to push themselves up with their feet pressing against the nails.

Each breath is agony.

The commander explained to the crowd as if he were giving a history lesson.

These crosses are designed by our best engineer.

The concrete bases weigh 200 kg each.

They have internal reinforcement bars.

They are fixed to the pavement with expansion bolts.

Even if they wanted to knock them down, they would need heavy machinery.

These men will be here until they die.

3 days minimum, four if they are strong.

If you are listening to this and feel that you cannot continue, I understand you.

There were moments in that square where I couldn’t either.

But I need you to know the whole story because what comes next only makes sense if you understand the depth of the horror that preceded the miracle.

4 in the afternoon.

The sun was still relentless, 47°, not a cloud in the sky.

The heat was reflecting off the stone pavement, turning the square into an oven.

Sweat ran down the bodies of Yousef and Daniel, mixing with the blood.

My husband began to pray aloud.

Heavenly Father, forgive them.

They do not know what they do.

Father, receive our spirits.

Father, take care of Ila and Sarah.

Father.

Daniel listened and tried to pray as well, but the pain was too much.

Every time he tried to push himself to breathe, he groaned.

The militant sat in the shade of a nearby building, drinking water, eating dates, casually watching like someone watching a boring movie.

5:00 in the afternoon, Sarah woke up.

I wish she hadn’t.

Her screams when she saw her father and brother were worse than anything she had ever heard.

She tried to run to them.

I held her with all my strength, even if it meant she would hate me.

A militant brought us water, not out of kindness, but because the commander wanted us to be aware to see everything.

I drank, even though I knew that Yousef and Daniel were dehydrating under that brutal sun.

The guilt of drinking water while they were dying of thirst still chokes me today.

6:00 in the evening, the first flies appeared.

Attracted by the blood, they landed on the wounds.

Yousef could not shoe them away.

He could only shake his head, but that left him breathless.

The people in the square began to disperse.

The commander allowed them to leave three by three.

Abu Khalil approached before departing.

With tears in his eyes, he whispered, “Pastor Ysef, your faith has taught us more than a thousand sermons.

May your God receive you with honor.

” My husband, in a barely audible voice, replied, “Abu Khalil, my friend, this is not the end.

It is the beginning.

Wait and see.

” I did not understand what he meant.

None of us understood at that moment.

7 in the evening, the sun began to descend.

The temperature dropped to 38°.

In any other context, that would still be suffocating.

After 47°, it felt like relief, but my men had been hanging for more than 3 hours.

Daniel lost consciousness twice.

Yousef kept praying, although now he was only moving his lips.

He had no voice left.

8 in the evening.

The twilight painted the sky orange and purple.

Beautiful and obscene.

How could the sky be so beautiful? While my family was being torn apart, the militants brought torches.

They planted them around the square.

The show continues all night, the commander announced.

“We want everyone to see.

We want the message to be clear.

” Only 15 witnesses remained in the square.

The rest, forced to stay, had collapsed or were in shock.

Sarah rocked back and forth, singing a lullaby that I used to sing to her when she was a baby.

Her mind sought escape.

I couldn’t escape.

I couldn’t faint.

I couldn’t close my eyes.

I could only look at my husband and my son hanging from those crosses and feel how something inside me was breaking in ways I knew would never heal.

9:00 at night.

The darkness was total except for the orange glow of the torches.

Exactly 6 hours since the nails pierced the wrists of my loved ones.

Daniel no longer moved.

His head hung forward.

I thought he had left.

My heart shattered.

15 witnesses remained in the square.

The commander and 12 militants.

me, Sarah.

An elderly woman named Miriam, who refused to leave, even when threatened.

Yousef lifted his head with an effort that must have cost him everything he had left.

He pushed against the nails in his feet to take a breath.

His voice came out broken, hoarse, but clear in the silence of the night.

Father, forgive them.

They do not know what they do.

The same words that Jesus said on his cross.

My husband, imitating his savior until the end.

Then he added something more.

With the little strength he had left, he shouted, “Father, show them your power.

Let them know that you are God.

Make these crosses fall.

” The militants laughed, “Your God can’t even save you.

” One mocked.

But Yousef smiled.

Blood in his teeth, tears in his eyes, and he smiled.

“Wait, and you will see.

” Then it happened.

9:42 at night exactly.

I know because the commander had just looked at his watch and announced 6 hours.

They still have 72 left.

A roar like thunder, like an explosion, as if the very earth screamed.

The concrete bases of both crosses, 200 kg of reinforced concrete with steel rods, fractured simultaneously from the bottom up.

Cracks appeared in the concrete like frozen lightning.

The sound was deafening.

The crosses swayed for a second that felt eternal.

They balanced.

Then both fell forward in perfect synchrony as if invisible hands were pushing them as if the sky said enough.

Dust rose in clouds.

The impact shook the ground.

The torches trembled.

One militant shouted.

Another dropped his weapon.

Absolute silence.

I stood up.

I don’t remember deciding to get up.

I just did.

I ran towards Yousef.

Sarah ran towards Daniel.

The militants were paralyzed, staring at the fractured concrete bases as if they were impossible.

And they were.

I reached my husband.

The cross had fallen in such a way that his body was half a meter off the ground.

The impact cushioned.

I touched his face.

It was warm.

Alive.

Yousef.

Yousef.

His eyes opened.

And in them, I saw astonishment.

Ila.

He did it.

He did it.

I looked at his wrists.

The wounds from the nails were still there, bleeding.

However, as I watched, and I swear on my life that this is true, the blood began to stop.

Not slowly, quickly.

as if someone were turning off a water tap.

Sarah was screaming, “Mom, Daniel is breathing.

He’s breathing.

” I looked towards my son’s cross.

He was also alive.

The cross had fallen similarly, protecting him from the full impact.

His eyes blinked, confused, terrified, but alive.

Then I saw Daniel’s wounds.

The holes in his wrists where the nails had been.

They were closing.

Not healing like normal wounds heal in days or weeks.

Closing now.

the skin regenerating, connecting, forming scars before my eyes.

What sorcery is this? The commander finally spoke.

His voice trembled.

I had never heard him tremble.

I turned to him.

I [clears throat] don’t know where the courage came from.

But I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “It’s not sorcery.

It’s the god you say doesn’t exist.

It’s the god who breaks concrete, who stops death, who raises the fallen.

It’s the god my family serves.

” Two militants fell to their knees.

They literally collapsed.

Allah is great, one whispered.

But this this is from another realm.

The commander drew his gun.

He aimed it at me.

His hand trembled so much that the weapon shook.

This is this cannot be.

Abu Khalil appeared out of nowhere.

He had been watching from a nearby house.

He ran to the square with Fatima and others.

It’s a miracle.

A miracle from God.

More people began to emerge.

From the houses, from the hiding places.

22 people suddenly surrounded the fallen crosses.

They formed a human circle between us and the militants.

Let them go, Abu Khalil said to the commander.

You have seen what you have seen.

If God can break concrete, what do you think he will do to you if you touch this family again? The commander looked at the concrete bases.

The cracks were impossible.

The ISIS engineer approached, knelt down, and touched the fractures with trembling hands.

Commander, this is not possible.

This concrete has a strength of 3,500 lb per square in.

To fracture it like this simultaneously would require an explosive load of at least 20 kg of TNT under each base.

And there are no signs of an explosion.

None.

It’s as if the concrete simply decided to break.

Another militant, the one who had laughed the loudest before, was crying.

I saw something.

When the crosses fell, I saw light around them like hands of light.

Shut up, shouted the commander.

But his voice sounded more like fear than authority.

The witnesses led by Abu Khalil began to disarm the ropes to carefully remove the nails.

Yousef groaned with each movement but kept repeating, “Thank you, father.

Thank you.

” The wounds on their wrists no longer bled.

Daniels didn’t either.

Pink tender scars, but closed, impossibly closed.

10 at night, 22 people carried my family.

Abu Khalil took Yousef on his shoulders.

Fatima and another woman held Daniel between them.

They helped me to stand even though my legs barely responded.

Sarah clung to me as if she were drowning and I was her only lifeline.

The commander did not order to shoot.

He did not order us to stop.

He stood still looking at the fallen crosses, the fractured bases, as if his whole world had just collapsed.

Perhaps it did.

We walked, 22 rescuers, four rescued through dark streets, house by house.

Someone had prepared an escape route.

back doors, gardens, alleys, as if they knew this would happen.

We arrived at Ramy Bulos’s bakery, closed, looted.

However, Ramy opened a hatch in the floor that I never knew existed.

Tunnel, he simply said, “We built it during the Iran Iraq war, 3 km.

It exits outside the village.

” We went down.

Abu Khalil was still carrying Yousef.

The tunnel was narrow, dark, damp.

It smelled of earth and time.

We walked hunched over for what felt like hours.

The flashlights cast dancing shadows on the compact earth walls.

Yousef whispered verses.

Daniel kept repeating thank you over and over.

Sarah didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

We were beyond words.

Finally stairs.

We climbed up.

We emerged in a wheat field outside of Caracos.

The stars shone with impossible intensity.

A pickup truck was waiting.

The driver was Alias Shimoon, a Christian who had escaped 3 days earlier but had returned.

I heard what happened, he said with tears running down his face.

I heard that God broke the crosses.

I had to come back.

Abu Khalil and Fatima hugged us.

Go, said the elder.

Go and tell what God has done.

We will never forget this.

Never.

We got into the truck.

11:45 at night.

We began the journey to Urbil.

7 hours on back roads, avoiding checkpoints, hiding Christian documents, carrying fake passports that someone had prepared.

During the journey, I examined Yousef’s wrists under the dim light of the flashlight.

perfect circular scars as if he had those marks his whole life.

Not as if they had been made hours ago.

The pink skin, smooth, completely closed, no infection, no inflammation, medically impossible.

Daniel was sleeping in the back seat, his head in Sarah’s lap.

She was stroking his hair, singing the same lullabi she had sung during the hours of horror.

Now, however, it was a song of victory, of life snatched from the jaws of death.

Yousef took my hand.

He squeezed it.

Ila, did you see what I saw? I saw God break concrete.

I saw more than that.

When the crosses fell, I saw angels, two on each cross, holding, guiding the fall, protecting us from the impact.

I did not question.

After what we had just witnessed, who was I to doubt angels? The sun rose as we drove.

August 7th, 5:30 in the morning.

We entered Herbal, the capital of Iraqi Kurdistan, a safer territory, a refugee camp on the outskirts of the city.

Thousands of white tents, thousands of horror stories, but none like ours.

The Ankawa refugee camp was a sea of white tents stretching as far as the eye could see.

17,000 displaced souls, each with their own story of escape, loss, trauma.

We registered at 6:00 in the morning.

The social worker, a Kurdish woman in her 50s named Dylan, took our names.

When she reached medical condition, I paused.

My husband and my son were crucified yesterday, I said.

The words sounded surreal coming out of my mouth.

Dylan dropped her pen.

Excuse me.

Crucified by ISIS less than 12 hours ago.

They need medical attention.

She looked at Yousef, who was standing, holding on to me, but standing.

Then at Daniel, also standing, although pale.

No, I don’t understand.

Neither do we, I replied.

They took us directly to the medical clinic in the camp.

A metal container turned into an emergency room.

Three doctors, eight nurses, limited equipment, but dedicated professionals.

Dr.

Dr.

Azad, a 62-year-old Assyrian Christian, examined Yousef first.

We asked him to lie down on the stretcher.

The doctor saw the scars on his wrists.

He stopped.

“These are crucifixion wounds.

” “Yes,” Yousef confirmed.

“But they are closed, healed, as if they were weeks old.

They are 11 hours old.

” Dr.

Azad called his colleagues.

The three examined Yousef, then Daniel.

They photographed the wounds from all angles.

They measured.

They asked questions.

They took frantic notes.

This is medically impossible.

Dr.

Azad finally said, “A penetrating wound of this size, this type in a crucifixion bleeds for days.

It gets infected.

It requires surgery, antibiotics, weeks of care.

These wounds are completely closed.

The skin has regenerated as if the normal healing process had accelerated by a factor of 100.

” One of the nurses, a Muslim woman named Aisha, touched Daniel’s scars with trembling fingers.

“This is the work of Allah,” she whispered.

Only God can heal like this.

Over the next 3 days, doctors from international organizations came to examine Yousef and Daniel.

They documented, they photographed, they wrote reports.

They all came to the same conclusion.

No medical explanation.

Miracle.

However, the physical scars were only part of the story.

The emotional wounds, especially Sarah’s, were deeper.

My daughter didn’t speak for 4 days.

She just sat in our tent, a space 3×4 m that we shared with another family, staring into space.

She wouldn’t eat unless I put the food in her mouth.

She wouldn’t sleep unless I held her.

On the fifth day, she exploded.

She screamed.

She threw things.

She hit Yousef in the chest with her small fists.

I hate you.

I hate you for not saying what they wanted.

You could have saved us.

You could have avoided all this, but you chose your god over us.

Yousef let her hit him.

He took every blow with tears running down his face.

When she collapsed exhausted, he hugged her.

You are right, my love.

I chose God, but not over you.

For you, because I want you to know that there are things more important than comfort, more important than safety, more important even than life.

And one of those things is the truth.

Sarah cried for hours in their arms.

It was the beginning of her healing, not the end.

The trauma of what we witnessed marked us all in ways we are still discovering, but it was a beginning.

Meanwhile, something extraordinary was happening in the field.

The story spread.

The pastor and his son who were crucified and survived.

The crosses that fell on their own.

The wounds that healed in ours.

People began to come.

First out of curiosity, then out of necessity.

A week after our arrival, Yousef preached his first sermon.

Not in a church.

We had no church.

In the open space between the tents, he sat in a borrowed wheelchair, still weak, still recovering, and spoke.

Brothers and sisters, it began.

His voice still.

We have all lost something.

Homes, families, security, dignity.

I lost my health.

I almost lost my life.

However, I found something more valuable than everything I lost.

I found the living proof that God has not abandoned us.

He showed his wrists, the perfect circular scars.

These marks are my testimony, not of what ISIS did to me, of what God did for me.

He did not save me from the cross.

He saved me on the cross.

There is a difference.

122 people heard that first sermon.

At the end, three Muslim nurses approached.

Aisha, who had touched Daniel’s scars, and two of her colleagues, Pastor Yousef, we want to know your Jesus, the one who breaks crosses, the one who heals wounds, the one who turns death into life.

That night, three women prayed to receive Christ.

The beginning of something that no one could foresee.

During the following weeks, the meetings grew.

200 people, 300 Christian refugees who needed hope.

Muslims who had seen too much hatred in the name of their religion and were seeking something different.

Daniel, despite being 16 years old, became a youth minister without planning it.

Other teenagers sat with him asking questions about faith, about doubt, about trauma.

He showed them his scars and said, “If God can heal this, he can heal whatever you are carrying.

” A month after our arrival, Yousef and Daniel baptized 37 people in the water tanks of the camp.

Metal tanks of 1,000 L that stored drinking water.

We turned them into baptismal fonts.

I saw Aisha go down into the water dressed in simple clothes, trembling with excitement and fear.

I renounce my old beliefs, she declared.

I accept Jesus as Lord, the one who was crucified and resurrected, the one who saves, the one who heals.

Yousef submerged her.

When she emerged, she shouted with joy.

I’m new.

I’m clean.

Fatima, the wife of Abu Khalil, was also among those baptized.

They had traveled to Urbil specifically to meet us.

We couldn’t stay in Karakosh after what we saw.

Abu Khalil explained, “That miracle changed everything for us.

If your God has that power, we want to know him.

” The nighttime gatherings became a tradition.

After the curfew at 10:00, when we were supposed to be in our tents, we gathered in the space between containers.

50 people, 100.

We sang hymns softly.

We prayed for those left behind.

We shared testimonies.

A Kurdish doctor named Saran, who had documented Yousef’s scars, began to attend.

“I am a scientist,” he said one night.

“I need evidence.

However, I have examined these wounds.

I have seen the photographs taken hours after the crucifixion.

I have measured the healing rate, and scientifically, I can only come to one conclusion: divine intervention.

I don’t know what to do with that, but I cannot deny it.

” 3 weeks later, Saron prayed to receive Christ, a man of science surrendering his intellect to a mystery greater than reason.

The stories continued.

Miriam, the elderly woman who refused to leave the square during the crucifixion, found us in the field.

She was 81 years old.

All my life, I was a Christian by name, she confessed.

I went to church out of tradition.

I prayed out of habit.

But when I saw those crosses fall, when I saw God break concrete for his children, I knew this was real.

Not religion, reality, not everything was victory.

Many in the field avoided us.

You brought problems to Carakosh.

You accused us.

Your refusal to convert caused ISIS to become even more enraged.

Those words hurt because part of me wondered if they were right, if our courage had actually been selfishness, if we should have lied to survive.

Yousef addressed these doubts directly in a sermon.

Friends, I understand your anger.

However, let me ask you, what would have been gained by lying? A few more years of life? At what cost? My soul? Teaching my children that truth is negotiable when things get tough.

No, I would rather die with integrity than live as a liar.

If anyone is listening to this feeling that their own faith is weak, that they could never do what Yousef did, let me tell you.

I also didn’t think I could.

Yousef was not born brave.

He became brave because he knew someone greater than his fear.

Three months in the camp, Yousef regained most of his strength.

Daniel grew 10 cm.

The trauma accelerated his growth, according to the doctors.

Sarah began to speak more, although nightmares tormented her every night.

Then we received news from international organizations.

Relocation opportunities, Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey, countries willing to accept Christian refugees.

The decision was difficult.

Leaving Iraq meant leaving our land, our history.

However, staying in a refugee camp indefinitely was not living either.

We chose Jordan, a church in Aman offered to sponsor us.

December 2014, 4 months after the crucifixion, we boarded a bus with 32 other refugees.

Before leaving, Aisha gave us a gift, a notebook.

Write your story, she said.

Every detail, so that the world knows, so that you never forget, so that others find hope.

This testimony you are hearing began in that notebook.

Aman welcomed us with open arms.

The Nazarene church in the Jabal Alwe neighborhood provided us with a small but decent apartment, two rooms, kitchen, bathroom, luxury compared to the tent in the camp.

Pastor Elias Mansour, leader of the congregation, a 55-year-old Jordanian with experience working with refugees, became our mentor.

I don’t see them as a burden, he told us on the first day.

I see them as a blessing.

Their testimony needs to be shared.

During the first weeks, we focused on healing, therapy for Sarah with a Christian counselor specialized in trauma, group sessions for Yousef and Daniel with other ISIS survivors, silent family moments where we simply existed together without fearing that someone would break down the door.

However, Pastor Elias was right.

Our testimony was not just ours.

It was for others.

January 2015, 5 months after the crucifixion, the church invited us to share during a Sunday service.

500 people filled the sanctuary.

Jordanian Christians, Iraqi and Syrian refugees, some curious Muslims.

Yousef stood in front of the congregation.

He rolled up his shirt sleeves.

He raised his wrists.

The circular scars were impossible to ignore under the lights of the sanctuary.

These marks remind me of three things every day, he began.

First, that evil is real.

ISIS is real.

Persecution is real.

Second, that God is more real.

His power over evil is absolute.

Third, that my life no longer belongs to me.

I was bought at a price.

I was saved for a purpose.

He told the whole story.

Every detail, the square, the nails, the six hours, the final cry, the falling crosses, the supernatural healing, absolute silence in the sanctuary, tears streaming down hundreds of faces.

At the end of the service, the altar was filled.

People kneeling, praying, crying, surrendering.

Among them, a Muslim family, the father Omar, his wife Salma, and their three children.

We have been searching, Omar said with a broken voice, searching for a God who is stronger than hate.

We believe we found him today.

That night, five people gave their lives to Christ.

Three Muslim families, two nominal Christians who had never had a real encounter with Jesus.

The following week, another church invited Yousef, then another.

Soon, we were traveling around Jordan every weekend.

Ammon, Erbid, Zarka, Akaba sharing the testimony, showing the scars.

Daniel also began to speak.

His youthful perspective resonated with other young people.

I was 16 when I was crucified.

He shared the same age as many of you.

I thought my life was over.

However, God was just beginning to write my story.

Teenagers approached after the meetings.

Some confessed that they too had thought about ending their lives.

The pain was too much.

But if God saved you on a cross, maybe he can save me in my darkness.

Sarah, although still processing her trauma, found healing by helping other refugee children.

She started an art therapy group at the church.

Children who had seen horrors drawing, painting, creating beauty from ashes.

When I saw Dad and Daniel on those crosses, Sarah shared with the children.

I thought God had abandoned us.

However, he was there in the worst, waiting for the perfect moment to show his power.

Their dark moments also have purpose.

March 2015, a reporter from an international Christian agency contacted us.

They wanted to document our story, film interviews, verify the facts.

They spent 2 weeks with us.

They interviewed doctors from Urbil.

They obtained photographs of the wounds taken hours after the crucifixion.

They spoke with witnesses who had escaped from Carakos.

They consulted with engineers about the impossibility of the concrete bases fracturing in that way.

We have investigated thousands of testimonies, said the lead reporter, an American named Michael.

This is one of the three cases that I cannot explain naturally.

The medical evidence, the multiple testimonies, the fractured concrete bases, everything points to supernatural intervention.

The documentary premiered in June 2015.

It spread through Christian networks.

Millions of views, responses from around the world, letters, emails, messages from people who found faith through our story.

A letter made me cry for hours from a woman in the United States.

I was planning to end my life, she wrote.

Everything was ready.

However, that night I couldn’t sleep.

I turned on the computer.

I saw her story.

I saw the scars of her husband.

I heard about the crosses falling and I thought, “If God can break concrete, he can break my despair.

” I called a helpline.

I am alive thanks to you.

Not thanks to us, thanks to him.

The invitations multiplied.

conferences, retreats, refugee events, not all in Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey, Egypt, places where the persecuted church gathered in need of hope.

In every place, the reaction was the same.

Initial disbelief, crucified and survived, then when they saw the scars, when they heard the details, when they reviewed the evidence, awe after awe, faith.

October 2015, 14 months after the crucifixion, we received an unexpected invitation.

A Kurdish Christian organization had coordinated with Peshmerga forces.

Caracosh had been liberated from ISIS a month earlier.

Did we want to go back? The decision was agonizing to return to the place of our worst trauma.

To see the square again, the crosses.

Could we bear it? I need to close that chapter.

Yousef said, “I need to see with my own eyes that God has won.

That Isis did not have the last word.

” Sarah and Daniel agreed.

I was the only one hesitant, but a family moves together.

November 2015, we returned to Iraq.

The journey from Ammon to Karakosh took two days.

Security checks, documentation, military escorts.

Northern Iraq was still a war zone, even though ISIS had been expelled from some areas.

We arrived in the village at dawn, November 3rd, 2015, 15 months after the crucifixion.

Karakosh was destroyed.

The houses marked with N had been vandalized, some burned.

The church where Yousef preached that last Sunday was damaged but still standing.

Broken windows, pockmarked walls, fallen crosses.

However, people were returning slowly.

150 families had come back, cleaning debris, rebuilding, claiming their land.

We walked towards the square.

My legs were trembling.

Sarah held my hand tightly.

Daniel walked beside his father, both in silence.

Alshia Square, where we almost lost everything.

The crosses were no longer there.

Someone had removed them.

However, the concrete bases remained.

Two square blocks of gray concrete cracked from the center outward.

Cracks like frozen spiderw webs.

Yousef knelt in front of one.

He touched the cracks with trembling fingers.

God did this, he whispered.

He really did.

A group of people had gathered.

I recognized faces.

Abu Khalil and Fatima, now believers in Christ, had returned two weeks earlier.

Ramy from the bakery, Miriam the elder, others from the 23 who helped us escape.

Pastor Ysef Abu Khalil hugged us with tears.

We thought we would never see them again, but here they are alive testifying.

They told us what had happened after our escape.

The ISIS commander had ordered that no one speak of the incident.

He threatened execution to anyone who mentioned the falling crosses.

However, the secret was too big.

The militants themselves were telling it, Ramy explained in whispers with fear.

They spoke of Christian witchcraft, of magic.

Some deserted.

They could no longer serve ISIS after seeing that their god could not keep two crosses standing.

Of the 12 militants who were present that night, four deserted in the following weeks.

Two were executed by ISIS for cowardice.

Six remained but were never the same again.

The engineer who designed the bases went insane.

According to reports, he kept repeating, “It can’t be.

It can’t be.

” Abu Khalil took us to a building near the square.

On the wall, someone had painted a mural.

Two crosses falling, bright light around.

Words in Arabic.

Here God broke death.

August 6th, 2014.

We painted it, Fatima explained.

Those of us who witnessed it, 12 of us now follow Christ.

This mural is our testimony.

ISIS erased it three times.

We painted it four.

We spent three days in Carakosh visiting homes, praying with families who had returned, crying for those who would not come back.

143 Christians from Karakosh had lost their lives during the ISIS occupation.

Their names were written on temporary wooden plaques.

On the third day, the community organized a thanksgiving service in the damaged church.

128 people gathered.

They sat on splintered benches.

They looked at the partially destroyed ceiling.

They sang with broken but strong voices.

Yousef preached not from a pulpit.

ISIS had burned it from the ground.

sitting in a plastic chair like in the old days.

Brothers, he began.

ISIS thought they would destroy us.

They killed our buildings, some of our loved ones.

However, they did not kill our faith.

They cannot kill what God resurrects.

He raised his wrists.

The scars, these marks are my diploma from the school of suffering, my degree in faith under fire.

And what I learned is this.

God does not always prevent pain.

Sometimes he uses it.

He transforms it.

He turns it into a testimony that reaches farther than a thousand sermons.

At the end of the service, they brought the broken concrete bases to the church with pulleys and ropes.

They placed them on either side of the altar.

The local pastor, who had escaped but returned, blessed the bases as a memorial.

May these stones be a reminder, he prayed.

Not of the day we almost lost our pastor, but of the day we saw God break the impossible.

Of the day we learned that no grave is permanent when God decides to open it.

Then they did something I didn’t expect.

They installed bronze plaques on each base with the dates, the names, the story.

First plaque, Yusef Ahmmed, pastor, crucified for faith, saved by grace.

August 6th, 2014.

Second plaque, Daniel Ahmmed, faithful son, crucified for truth, healed by power.

August 6th, 2014.

They installed the foundations in the church garden as a permanent memorial.

Generations will come, said the local pastor.

They will ask about these broken stones, and we will tell them again and again how God broke concrete, how he saved his children, how he turned a day of death into a testimony of life.

That night, before leaving back to Jordan, Yousef stood alone in the square.

9:00, the same hour when the crosses fell 15 months earlier.

I approached him, “What are you thinking about that it would be worth it?” He replied, “Every nail, every hour, every drop of blood.

If one person finds Christ through this, it would be worth it.

It’s already more than one person.

Hundreds have believed.

Then it would be worth it a thousand times.

” We returned to Jordan with something we didn’t have before.

Closure.

No forgetting.

We will never forget.

But closure.

The ability to see the whole story, not just the chapter of pain.

2016, 2017, 2018.

The years passed.

Our family settled in Jordan.

Daniel finished high school.

Sarah graduated with honors.

Yousef became an associate pastor at the church in Aman.

However, the invitations never ceased.

Every month, new opportunities to share.

Some within Jordan, others abroad when visas allowed.

April 2018, a conference of Christian leaders in Beirut, Lebanon.

2,000 people from 23 countries.

Yousef was invited as the keynote speaker.

The theme of the conference, faith under fire.

My husband stood on that huge stage with giant screens projecting his image.

He started simply, “I would like to show you something.

” He took off his jacket.

He rolled up his shirt sleeves.

He raised his wrists towards the cameras.

The scars filled the screens.

2,000 people gasped simultaneously.

“These marks have a story,” he began.

And he told it.

All of it.

25 minutes of raw, honest, powerful testimony.

When he finished, silence, then a standing ovation that lasted 7 minutes.

People crying, embracing each other, falling to their knees.

After the session, the line of people waiting to speak with Yousef stretched 30 m.

Pastors from Syria who had lost entire congregations.

Leaders from Egypt facing daily threats.

Christians from Pakistan who knew crucifixion not as ancient history but as a present threat.

His testimony gives us courage, said a Syrian pastor.

If God could break their crosses, he can break ours.

Among those waiting, there were three Muslims.

They had attended out of professional curiosity.

They worked for a secular institution.

However, the testimony had impacted them.

We need to verify this, said one.

Can we see medical evidence, photographs, documentation? Yousef invited them to our hotel.

We spent 2 hours showing them everything.

Medical reports from photographs of the wounds taken hours after the crucifixion.

videos from the documentary, contacts of witnesses who were still alive.

The three investigated for a week.

They contacted doctors.

They spoke with witnesses over the phone.

They consulted engineers about the concrete bases.

We can’t explain it, they finally admitted.

Naturally, it’s impossible.

However, the evidence is irrefutable.

Something supernatural occurred.

Two of the three gave their lives to Christ that week.

The third returned to his country, still processing, but deeply impacted.

Daniel, now 20 years old, had developed his own ministry.

He worked with young refugees in Aman.

He led trauma groups.

He taught resilience through faith.

“My story is your hope,” he told traumatized teenagers.

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