Let me rage against the injustice.

Let me feel the full weight of what it meant to be alive when others were suffering.

Later, she said something that helped.

Not because it made the pain go away, but because it was true.

Ahmed knew the cost.

We all did.

Every time we met in that basement, every one of us made a choice.

We chose Jesus over safety.

Some of us get to keep choosing for many years.

Some don’t.

But Amit’s choice is not less valuable because it ended an arrest.

If anything, it’s more valuable.

He’s doing what you would have done if God hadn’t intervened.

He’s paying the price you were willing to pay.

She was right.

I had been ready to die.

I had closed my eyes and surrendered to it.

The only difference between Ahmed and me was that God had chosen to stop the bullets for me and not for him.

That didn’t make me a coward or Ahmed a martyr.

We had both been willing.

God had simply written different stories for us.

But knowing that intellectually didn’t stop the guilt, didn’t stop me from lying awake wondering if I should have stayed.

Should have turned myself in.

Should have traded places with Ahmed somehow.

Over the following days and weeks, more news filtered through the network.

The basement church had been destroyed.

Hassan had been arrested and questioned, then released when his injuries and the damage to his shop convinced authorities he was just an unlucky shopkeeper who had unknowingly rented space to apostates.

Most of our congregation had scattered successfully.

Some had fled to other cities.

Some had gone deeper underground in Sah.

A few had even made it out of Yemen entirely, crossing into neighboring countries where they might find some measure of safety.

But the church, as we had known, it was gone.

That community that had worshiped together, grown together, suffered together, it no longer existed in in the same form.

We were scattered seeds blown across Yemen and beyond.

I grieved for what we had lost.

That basement had been more than a meeting place.

It had been sacred ground.

Not because of the building itself, just concrete and dim light.

But because of what happened there.

We had encountered God in that space.

We had shared communion.

We had prayed and wept and laughed together.

We had become family.

And now it was gone.

But as I grieved, I also began to see something else.

Seeds that are scattered don’t die.

They grow.

Each person who had been part of our congregation was carrying the faith with them to new places, new cities, new communities.

The light wasn’t going out, it was spreading.

Ahmed’s arrest wasn’t the end of his story.

News came that he was being bowled in prison.

That he was sharing his faith with other inmates.

That even in chains he was a witness for Christ.

The very thing the militants had meant for evil his imprisonment God was using for good.

Hassan, though badly shaken, had reopened his shop and was quietly making contact with the scattered believers, helping them stay connected, facilitating their escape or their going deeper underground.

The beating he had endured had not broken him.

All Fatima had disappeared entirely, which we took as a good sign.

She was clever and had survived decades of secret faith.

She knew how to vanish when necessary.

Mariam, the widow, sent word through the network that she was safe and continuing to meet with a small group of women believers in a new location.

The church was reforming just in different shapes, different places.

And me, I was in a strange city with my family trying to figure out what God wanted me to do next.

I couldn’t go back to Sana.

My face was known now.

There might be warrants, wanted posters, informants looking for me.

Returning would mean certain arrest or worse, but I also couldn’t just disappear into normal life, get a regular job, pretend to be an ordinary Muslim man going about his business.

God had saved me for a reason.

That much was clear.

I just didn’t know what that reason was yet.

I spent hours in prayer those weeks asking God for direction.

What now? Where should we go? What should I do? The answer came slowly, not in a burning bush or audible voice, but in a growing conviction that solidified over days of prayer and fasting.

I needed to tell the story not just to other believers in Yemen though that was important but to believers everywhere to people who were facing persecution and needed to know that God was still powerful still present still capable of miracles to people who were wavering in their faith and needed to see evidence that God was real and active to the church universal.

But how? I had no platform, no connections, no way to reach beyond the underground network I was part of.

I was just one man with an incredible story and no way to tell it to the world.

I should have known better than to limit God’s possibilities.

Within a month, a way opened through connections I didn’t know existed.

through believers helping believers across countries and continents.

I was put in touch with people who could help me leave Yemen.

Not permanently.

I hope to return one day, but for now to get out, to find safety, to have space to process and heal and figure out how to share what had happened.

The arrangements took time.

Weeks of waiting, of moving from safe house to safe house, of trusting strangers who were risking their own lives to help us.

But eventually papers were arranged, money was gathered, a route was planned.

3 months after the day, bullets stopped firing.

Amira the wood and I left Yemen.

We crossed borders illegally, hid in trucks and boats, bribed officials, and finally finally reached a country where we could claim asylum, where we could live openly as Christians without fear of execution.

The relief was overwhelming.

To walk down a street without checking over my shoulder constantly.

To say Jesus name out loud without whispering.

to hold a Bible in public without hiding it inside another book.

To attend a church service in a real building with music and raised voices and freedom.

But the relief was mixed with survivors guilt.

I was safe while Ahmed was still in prison.

I was free while believers across Yemen were still hiding, still risking everything, still living under constant threat.

Why me? The question persisted, why did I get out when they didn’t? I wrestled with this in counseling.

Yes, there were trauma counselors in our new country who understood religious persecution, who helped me process what I had experienced.

They told me I had PTSD, that the nightmares and flashbacks and hyper vigilance were normal responses to abnormal events.

They taught me coping mechanisms, ways to calm my raising heart when I heard the loud noises, ways to sleep without seeing gun barrels in my dreams.

It helped slowly.

The trauma didn’t disappear, but I learned to live with it, to function despite it.

And through it all, I held on to the core truth that kept me going.

God had saved me for a purpose.

This wasn’t random chance.

This wasn’t luck.

This was divine intervention with divine intention.

I started speaking first to small groups of believers in our new city, then to larger gatherings, then to churches.

I told the story exactly as it happened.

No exaggeration needed.

The truth was incredible enough.

I told them about my grandfather’s secret faith.

About growing up hiding who I was, about gathering believers in a basement, about the morning five guns failed to fire, about God’s power displayed in the most undeniable way.

And I watched faces change as I spoke.

Saw doubt transform into wonder.

So weak faith strengthened.

So skeptics forced to grapple with the impossible.

So believers weeping as they understood aresh that God was not distant or impotent but present and powerful.

This was why God had saved me.

Not because I was special but because the story was because testimony matters.

Because the church needs to hear that God still does miracles, still protects his servants, still intervenes in impossible situations.

Not always, not in every case.

I’m careful to say that when I speak, I always mention Ahmed arrested while I was spared.

I always mention Mariam’s husband executed while I survived.

I always acknowledge that God’s ways are mysterious and that many faithful believers die without miraculous rescue.

But sometimes sometimes God chooses to pull back the curtain and show his power clearly to leave no room for doubt to create a testimony that cannot be explained away.

And when he does, those who witness it have a responsibility to tell what they saw.

So I tell it over and over to anyone who will listen.

Not to glorify myself.

I was just a scared man standing in a basement.

No hero, no saint, but to glorify the God who can stop bullets, who can protect his people, who can take the weapons of the enemy and render them powerless.

A year after leaving Yemen, I stood before a large church in a western country and told my story to hundreds of people.

When I finished, there was silence, complete silence.

Then slowly people began to stand and weep and worship.

After the service, a young woman came to me.

She was Middle Eastern, and from her accent, I could tell she was from somewhere near Yemen.

She had tears streaming down her face.

“My family wants me to deny Jesus.

” She said, “They’ve threatened to disown me.

I’ve been so scared.

I was ready to give up, to just pretend to go back to Islam for the sake of peace.

” She paused, struggling with emotion.

But if God can stop bullets for you, he can protect me, too.

Maybe not the same way.

Maybe not with a miracle I can see, but he’s powerful enough.

He’s real enough.

I’m going to stay faithful.

I’m going to trust him.

That’s when I understood fully.

This was why God saved me.

Not just for me, for her.

For the countless others who would hear the story and be strengthened.

for the wavering believers who needed evidence for the doubters who needed to hear the impossible.

God had stopped bullets and in doing so he had given hope to his people.

The burden Fatima spoke of was real.

Carrying this testimony is heavy.

Living up to this moment is impossible.

I fail daily, hourly.

I’m still just a man with doubts and fears and weaknesses.

But the gift is real, too.

the gift of continued life, of seeing my son grow, of holding my wife, of serving God’s people, of telling the story that gives glory to him.

I don’t know why God chose to save me that day.

I may never know, but I know what he’s asking me to do with the life he preserved.

Tell the story.

Point to his power.

Give hope to the hopeless.

Strengthen the weak.

Show the world that God is not absent or uncaring, but present and powerful and worthy of our trust.

Even when we don’t understand his ways.

This is my calling now.

Refugee, survivor, witness, pastor to scattered believers, and seeker of those who need to hear that God is real.

I carry the weight of miracle and martyrdom both.

The miracle that saved me and the martyrdom of those like Ahmed who weren’t spared the same way but were faithful unto death.

And I carry this message.

Whether God delivers us from the fire or walks with us through it, he is worthy.

He is powerful.

He is present.

He is real.

I know because I saw him stop bullets.

It has been 5 years now since that morning in the basement.

5 years since I stood facing death and watched God intervene.

5 years of carrying this testimony across countries and continents sharing it with whoever will listen.

Sometimes I still can’t believe I’m alive.

I’ll be doing something ordinary.

Making breakfast.

playing with Dawood, who is now a bright, active six-year-old, helping Amira with groceries, and suddenly I’ll stop.

I’ll remember standing in that basement.

I’ll remember the gun barrel pointed at my face.

I’ll remember that I should be dead, but I’m not.

I’m here alive, breathing, given more time for reasons I’m still trying to understand.

Life in our new country has been both easier and harder than I expected.

Easier because we’re safe.

We can worship openly.

We can raise our son as a Christian without hiding it.

We can own Bibles, attend church services, pray out loud.

The freedom is intoxicating after a lifetime of secrecy.

But harder too.

Harder because we’re refugees.

foreigners always slightly outside looking in.

Harder because I speak the language imperfectly.

Harder because people here don’t understand what it’s like to live under persecution.

They’re kind, but they can’t fully grasp what we’ve been through.

Harder because part of my heart is still in Yemen with the believers who remain.

The underground network still exists.

We stay in contact when we can, though it’s dangerous and communications must be careful.

Coded infrequent news filters through slowly.

Updates come in pieces, sometimes months apart.

Ahmed was released from prison after 18 months.

18 months of interrogation, pressure, torture.

But he did not break.

He did not recent.

When he finally walked out of that prison, he was thinner, scarred, changed by what he had endured.

But his faith was stronger than ever.

He sent me a message through the network.

Just a few words.

God was with me in the prison just as he was with you in the basement.

Different miracles, same God.

I wept when I received that message.

Wept from relief that he was alive.

Whipped from guilt that I was safe while he suffered.

Wept from pride in this young man who had proven more faithful than I could have imagined.

Ahmed is still in Yemen, still gathering believers in secret, still shephering the flock.

The work I started, he continues.

The torch has been passed and he carries it well.

Hassan died two years ago.

old age and the complications from the beating he received that day.

The underground church gave him a secret burial and believers risked everything to attend.

They told me he died praising God, grateful for every day he had been able to serve.

Fatima is still alive, still worshiping in secret somewhere in Yemen.

She must be nearly noniti now.

Occasionally, word comes through the network that she’s led another person to Christ, that she’s still bold, still fearless, still shining light in darkness despite her age and the danger.

Mariam continues to lead the women’s group.

It has grown, I’m told.

Quietly, carefully, but it has grown.

Seeds scattered sometimes take root and multiply.

The work goes on.

The church in Yemen has not been destroyed, just dispersed.

Like the early church after persecution in Jerusalem, scattering has led to spreading.

There are now underground churches in cities that had none before.

Believers in regions that were once completely unreached.

From my distant vantage point, I watch and pray and sometimes wonder if I should return.

Could I go back? Should I? My face may no longer be remembered.

Five years is a long time.

Wanted posters fade.

Informants forget.

Maybe I could slip back in.

Resume the work.

Serve my people again.

But then I look at Dawood and I know I can’t.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

I have a son who is growing up free who will never have to hide his faith or live in fear the way I did.

How can I take that from him? How can I risk his life to pursue my calling? So I stay.

I serve the believers here, particularly other refugees who have fled persecution.

I tell my story.

I write it down.

I pray for Yemen constantly.

And I trust that God has me exactly where he wants me.

The nightmares have listened over the years.

I used to wake up several times a week in a cold sweat.

Sure, I heard boots on stairs.

Now it’s maybe once a month.

The hyper vigilance has eased.

I can hear a loud noise without immediately thinking gunfire.

I can see a police officer without feeling my heart race.

Trauma fades, though it never fully disappears.

I’ve learned to live with the scars, the invisible ones that mark my mind and soul.

They’re part of my story now, part of the testimony.

I speak at churches, conferences, gatherings of believers, sometimes to hundreds of people, sometimes to small groups.

The audience size doesn’t matter.

What matters is that people hear what God did and are strengthened in their faith.

I’ve learned to tell the story in a way that glorifies God without glorifying me.

It’s a delicate balance.

People want to make me a hero.

The brave pastor who faced down militants.

But I wasn’t brave.

I was terrified.

I closed my eyes waiting to die.

The heroism was God’s, not mine.

The power was God’s.

The glory belongs to him alone.

After one speaking engagement, a young man approached me.

He was from Syria, another refugee, another survivor of persecution.

He had tears in his eyes as he shook my hand.

He told me that his father had been executed by militants for his faith, shot in front of the family, killed for being a Christian.

I’ve struggled with anger, he said.

Anger at God for not saving my father, for not stopping those bullets the way he stopped yours.

I felt like God played favorites, like he loved you more than my dad.

His pain was raw and real and I understood it.

I had wrestled with the same questions about Ahmed, about Mariam’s husband, about all the martyrs who didn’t receive miraculous deliverance.

I didn’t have easy answers for him.

I couldn’t explain why God intervened for me and not his father.

But I could share what I had learned through my own wrestling.

Your father’s death doesn’t mean God loved him less.

I said it means God trusted him more.

Trusted him to be faithful unto death.

Trusted him to finish his race with courage.

God could have saved him the way he saved me.

But he chose to honor him with martyrdom instead.

Both are gifts.

Both are miracles in their own way.

My miracle was visible.

Everyone could see the guns fail.

Your father’s miracle was invisible but no less real.

The grace to stand firm in the face of death.

The strength to die well.

The faith to trust God even when deliverance didn’t come.

I paused making sure he was hearing me.

I got more years on earth.

Your father got immediate entrance into paradise into the presence of Jesus.

I’m still here struggling with sin and fear and doubt.

He’s there free from all of that, seeing face to face what we can only glimpse.

Which of us got the better miracle? I honestly don’t know.

The young man was crying openly now and so was I.

We held each other.

Two survivors of persecution.

Two men marked by violence.

two believers trying to make sense of God’s mysterious ways.

Tell your father’s story, I urged him, the same way I tell mine.

Tell how he stood firm.

Tell how he chose Jesus over life.

Tell how he was faithful to the end.

That’s a testimony worth sharing.

That’s power worth seeing.

This has become part of my mission.

Not just telling my own story but helping others tell theirs.

Every believer who has survived the persecution has a testimony.

Some survived through miraculous intervention.

Others survived through quiet endurance.

Both are valuable.

Both need to be heard.

I’ve connected with a network of other survivors and refugees.

Continue reading….
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