The tall, dry grass bent and swayed.

The moon slid behind thick clouds, making the night darker, almost like the sky itself wanted to hide us.

We stepped into the field.

Each step crushed dry grass under our feet.

The sound seemed loud in my ears, but the wind covered it.

We walked quickly, following the light.

Halfway across the field, I heard something that froze my blood.

Voices, men shouting again.

I turned back.

Several men from the crowd had moved around the side of the village.

They carried torches and the sticks.

One of them pointed into the field.

There, I see them.

My heart dropped.

They escaped the fire.

The men began running toward us.

Ila gasped.

They will catch us.

The children clung to us in fear.

The light stopped again.

For a moment it stood very still in the dark field, while the men ran closer and closer.

Their torches bounced wildly as they ran.

The flames lit their angry faces.

One man shouted, “Do not let them reach the hills.

” They were less than 100 steps away now.

My chest felt like it might burst.

I looked at the light in front of us.

The voice spoke one more time, calm and strong.

Stand still.

The men were almost upon us now.

Their torches burned bright.

Their footsteps thundered across the dry field.

I held my family close as fear shook my body.

But then something happened that none of us expected.

The wind suddenly roared across the field.

Dust lifted from the ground.

The torches flickered wildly.

The men slowed down, shouting in confusion, and the light in front of us began to grow brighter than before.

So bright that the entire field turned white like day.

The men stopped running.

One of them screamed in fear.

What is that? The light expanded, shining stronger and stronger until the men covered their eyes and stumbled backward.

My heart raced.

Were they about to run away from us, or would they push through the light and finally catch us anyway? The light burst across the dark field like the sun rising all at once.

The dry grass turned white under its glow.

I had to lift my arm to shield my eyes.

Ila pulled the children close to her side.

Behind us, the men shouted in fear, “What is that? I cannot see.

” The wind howled across the open land.

Dust lifted from the ground and spun through the air.

The torches in the men’s hands shook wildly.

One torch went out with a sharp hiss.

Another flickered and died.

The men slowed their run.

Then they stopped.

The bright light stood between us and them like a wall.

I could hear their feet shuffle in the grass.

One man cursed loudly.

“Move forward!” Another shouted, but none of them stepped closer.

The light grew even stronger.

It spread across the field like water spilling across the ground.

The men covered their eyes.

“I can’t see,” one of them cried.

Another man stumbled and fell to his knees.

His torch dropped and rolled into the grass.

its flame dying in the wind.

My heart pounded as I watched them.

The voice spoke again, calm and steady.

Walk.

The light moved toward the hills once more.

I grabbed Leila’s hand and nodded.

We began to move again, fast but quiet.

Karim held my shirt tight while Hannah clung to her mother.

Behind us, the men shouted in anger, “They are getting away.

run.

But when they tried to move forward, the light flared brighter again.

They cried out like men staring straight into the sun.

One man screamed, “My eyes!” Another yelled, “I cannot see the ground.

” Their voices were full of fear now.

We walked faster across the field.

The wind pushed against our backs as if it wanted to help us move.

The hills grew closer with every step.

Da and the ground began to slope upward.

The dry grass gave way to rough dirt and scattered stones.

My feet slipped once, but I kept moving.

Behind us, the men’s voices grew faint.

Finally, I looked back.

The field was dark again.

The light that blocked the men had faded, and the wind had come.

The men stood far behind us now.

Some were still rubbing their eyes.

Others searched the dark field with their torches, but their lights were small and weak.

They could not see us anymore.

Ila breathed out slowly.

They lost us.

Karim looked back, too.

Are they coming? I shook my head.

No.

The light in front of us moved slowly up the hill.

We followed it along a narrow path between rocks and thin trees.

My legs burned from the long run.

My chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

The children were tired, too, but they kept walking.

The hill path curved around a large rock wall.

At the top stood a small cave opening, dark and quiet.

The light stopped there.

We reached the cave and stepped inside.

The air was cool and smelled of stone and damp earth.

The light filled the cave softly, making the rough walls glow pale gold.

Ila sat down on a flat rock and pulled the children close.

Karim whispered, “Father, we are safe.

” I looked back toward the village.

From the hill, we could see flames still rising where our home once stood.

The fire burned bright in the night sky.

A deep pain filled my chest.

Everything we owned was gone.

But my family sat beside me alive.

“Yes,” I said softly.

“We are safe.

” The light moved deeper into the cave and stopped again.

For the first time, I could see the shape inside it more clearly.

It was the shape of a man, tall, still.

Peace flowed from the light like warm water.

My knees grew weak.

Slowly, I stepped forward.

“Are you Jesus?” I asked.

The cave was silent for a moment.

Then the voice spoke.

“I am with you.

” The words were simple, but they filled my heart with a peace I cannot explain.

Tears filled my eyes.

Ila watched quietly.

Even the children were still.

I thought about the night before.

I had whispered one small prayer.

I had not even known if anyone heard me.

Yet here we were alive, saved from fire, saved from the angry crowd.

I fell to my knees on the cold stone floor.

Why did you save us? I whispered.

The light shone gently around us.

For this, the voice said, I did not understand.

For what? The light began to fade slowly like the last glow of sunset.

Tell them, the voice said, my heart beat faster.

Tell who? The cave grew darker as the light pulled away.

Tell them I live.

The words echoed softly against the stone walls.

Then the light vanished.

The cave fell quiet again.

Only the faint sound of the wind outside touched the entrance.

Ila walked over to me slowly.

“You, [sighs] what did he mean?” she asked.

I stared out toward the burning village far below.

My mind raced with questions.

“The men who tried to kill us still lived there.

The same people who had been our neighbors.

The same men who believed we died in the fire.

My hands trembled.

If we return to tell them what happened, they might try to kill us again.

But the voice had spoken clearly.

Tell them.

Kareem tugged my arm.

Father, will we ever go back home? I looked at my children, then at the dark village below.

Fear sat heavy in my chest.

But something else was there, too.

a new courage I had never felt before.

If Jesus truly saved us from the fire tonight, then why would he send us back to the very people who tried to burn us alive? Morning light crept into the cave in thin gold lines.

Smoke still rose from the village below.

My house was gone.

Only blackwood and gray ash remained.

Leila stood beside me, holding Karim and Hana close.

My heart beat hard, but the fear was not the same now.

The words from the cave still echoed in my mind.

Tell them I live.

I looked at my family and took a slow breath.

If Jesus saved us from fire and from the men who hunted us, then I could not stay silent.

I turned toward the path down the hill and whispered, “Will they hear the truth?

 

 

 

Ex-Muslim Hamas Commander from Gaza Dies and Returns With a SHOCKING Message for all Muslims

thumbnail
My name is Abdel.

For 12 years, I made weapons designed to kill people.

I mixed chemicals that would tear bodies apart.

I assembled devices that would end lives in seconds.

I did this with my own hands and I believed I was doing the right thing.

I believed I was serving God.

Today, I sit in a small room in a place I cannot tell you about.

My life depends on staying hidden.

But I am alive to tell you what I saw when I died.

And I am alive to warn you about what is waiting for many people when their last breath comes.

This is my story.

Every word of it is true.

I need you to understand something before I begin.

I was not an evil man who enjoyed hurting people.

I was not a monster.

I was a man who loved his family.

I prayed five times every day.

I memorized long passages from the Quran.

I fasted during Ramadan.

I gave to the poor.

I believed with all my heart that I was on the right path.

That is what makes my story so important.

Cuz if I could be so wrong about something so serious, then maybe you need to examine what you believe too.

Let me take you back to the beginning.

Hello viewers from around the world.

Before Abdul continues his story, we’d love to know where you are watching from and we would love to pray for you and your city.

Thank you and may God bless you as you listen to this powerful testimony.

I grew up in Gaza City in a neighborhood called Alimal.

Our apartment building was old with cracks in the walls that grew wider every year.

My father sold vegetables from a cart.

My mother stayed home with us children.

We were not rich, but we had enough.

Gaza is not like other places.

War is part of normal life there.

You grow up with the sound of explosions in the distance.

You learn to recognize the different sounds.

The whistle of a rocket going out.

The boom of an Israeli air strike coming in.

The rattle of gunfire that could be close or far away.

When I was 7 years old, I was playing soccer with my friends in the street.

We used a ball made of rolled up plastic bags tied with string because we could not afford a real one.

We were laughing and shouting the way children do everywhere.

Then we heard the sound.

It was different from the usual background noise of war.

It was closer, louder, coming toward us.

My friend Mahmud looked up at the sky.

I remember his face.

His eyes went wide.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Then there was a flash of light and a noise so loud it felt like my head would split open.

When I could see again, Mahmud was on the ground.

There was blood everywhere.

Too much blood.

Other children were screaming and running.

Adults came rushing out of buildings.

Someone picked me up and carried me away.

But I kept looking back at Mahmud lying there in the street.

He died before they could get him to a hospital.

He was 8 years old.

That was my first real memory of death.

It would not be my last.

By the time I was 12, I had been to 17 funerals.

Most of them were for people younger than 30.

Some were for children.

You learn to recognize the sound of women wailing.

You learn to watch men cry quietly with their faces turned away.

You learn that death can come at any moment for any reason without warning.

You also learn to be angry.

I was angry at Israel.

I was angry at America for supporting Israel.

I was angry at the world for not caring about us.

I was angry at God.

Sometimes though I felt guilty for those thoughts and would pray extra to make up for them.

The anger grew inside me like a living thing.

It fed on every new death, every new destroyed building, every new family left homeless.

And there was always something new to feed it.

When I was 16, our building was hit.

We had warning.

Someone ran through shouting that we needed to evacuate.

Israeli jets had fired warning shots at the roof.

We had minutes to get out.

We ran down the stairs, my father carrying my youngest sister, my mother grabbing what she could.

We made it to the street just before the real missiles came.

I watched our home collapse into rubble and dust.

Everything we owned was inside.

my clothes, my school books, the photo albums with pictures of my grandparents, all of it gone in seconds.

We stayed with seconds relatives after that.

12 people crammed into three rooms.

My father tried to to start over, but his cart and all his vegetables had been in the storage room of our destroyed building.

He had nothing.

We had nothing.

That is when the men came to talk to me.

They were from Hamas.

They came to the mosque where I prayed.

They were always respectful.

They never pushed.

They just talked to me about dignity and resistance and faith.

They told me that Allah honored those who fought against oppression.

They told me that I could make a difference, that I could protect my people, that I could be more than just another victim.

I listened and slowly over months I began to believe them.

They started by giving me small tasks, delivering messages, standing watch, nothing dangerous at first.

They paid me a little money which I gave to my father.

They made me feel important like I mattered, like I was part of something bigger than myself.

By the time I was 18, I was fully committed.

I had been trained.

I had been taught and I had been given my specialty.

I was good with my hands.

I had always been good at taking things apart and putting them back together.

As a child, I used to fix broken radios and clocks for neighbors.

This skill, the men told me, could be used for the cause.

They taught me chemistry.

They taught me electronics.

They taught me how to build devices that would explode.

I became a bomb maker.

Looking back now, I can see how carefully they shaped my thinking, how they took my anger and my pain and my desire to matter and turned it into something they could use.

But at the time, I could not see it.

I thought I was choosing this path.

I thought I was serving God.

My workshop was beneath a residential building in the Shajaya neighborhood.

You reached it through a hidden entrance in a basement storage room.

The room below was small, maybe 4 m by 5 m.

It had a workbench, shelves with materials, and a ventilation system that brought in air from outside through hidden pipes.

I spent hours there, sometimes entire days.

The work required complete focus.

One wrong measurement, one careless moment, and I could blow myself up.

I lost two friends that way in the early years.

They made mistakes.

They died instantly.

I was careful.

I was precise.

I took my time and um I became known for my skill.

The devices I made were used in many operations.

I did not usually know the details.

Someone would give me specifications.

I would build what they asked for.

They would take it away.

Later I might hear about an explosion on the news, an Israeli checkpoint, a settlement, a military vehicle.

I would know that my work had been used.

I told myself that I was only targeting soldiers and settlers, combatants, people who had chosen to be part of the occupation.

I told myself this made it different, made it justified.

But I knew deep in a place I did not like to look that sometimes civilians died too.

Children sometimes I would feel a twinge of something uncomfortable when I heard about those deaths.

But I would push it away.

I would remind myself of Mahmud dying in the street, of my home being destroyed, of all the Palestinian children who had died.

I would tell myself that our cost was just and in war terrible things happen.

This is how you live with yourself.

When you do terrible things, you build walls in your mind.

You create justifications.

You stop thinking too deeply about certain questions.

I prayed five times a day.

I never missed a prayer.

Before I began work each day, I would pray and ask Allah to guide my hands.

I would recite verses from the Quran.

I believed completely that I was doing holy work.

On Fridays, I went to the mosque.

I listened to the sermons about jihad and paradise, about the rewards waiting for martyrs, about the evil of our enemies.

These sermons reinforced everything I believed.

They made me feel righteous.

I had respect in the community.

People knew I was involved in the resistance.

Though they did not know exactly what I did.

Men would nod to me in the street.

Older women would smile at me and call me a good Muslim boy.

Young men looked up to me.

I had purpose.

I had identity.

I had a place in the world.

When I was 23, I married Aliyah.

She was 19, beautiful with dark eyes and a gentle spirit.

She knew I was involved in the resistance.

Her brother was a fighter.

Her father had been killed in an is an an Israeli raid years before.

She understood the life.

We had a small wedding.

Everyone was happy despite the circumstances we lived under.

For one night, we forgot about the war and just celebrated.

Aliyah moved into the apartment I shared with my parents and siblings.

It was crowded, but we made it work.

A year later, our first child was born, a son.

We named him Tariq.

Then came our daughter, Leila, and then another son, Omar.

Those children were everything to me.

When I held my newborn son for the first time, I cried.

I promised him I would make the world better for him.

I promised I would fight so he could grow up free.

I loved being a father.

At home, I was not a fighter or a bumbo maker.

I was just Abu Tarik, the father who played with his children and made them laugh.

Tariq loved it when I would chase him around the apartment pretending to be a monster.

Ila would braid my short beard and giggle.

Little Omar would fall asleep on my chest while I read the Quran.

Aliyah was a good wife.

She made our crammed space feel like home.

She cooked good food with whatever we could afford.

She kept the children clean and well behaved.

She prayed constantly for my safety.

She worried about my work.

She knew it was dangerous.

Sometimes I would come home with burns on my hands from chemicals.

Once I was caught near an explosion when an Israeli strike hit nearby.

I came home covered in dust and blood that was not mine.

She cried and begged me to find other work.

But I would tell her this was my duty.

This was how I protected her and the children.

This was what Allah wanted from me.

She would nod and accept it.

But I could see the fear in her eyes every time I left.

I lived two lives.

At home, I was gentle and loving.

At work, I built machines of death.

I kept these two worlds completely separate in my mind.

I had to otherwise I do not think I could have continued.

The morning of the explosion started like any other morning.

I woke before dawn for fajar prayer.

The apartment was quiet except for Omar’s soft breathing.

He was sleeping between me and Aliyah.

I carefully moved him aside and got up.

I performed my ablutions in the small bathroom, washing my hands, face, arms, and feet.

The water was cold.

We rarely had hot water.

I did not mind.

I was used to it.

I prayed in the corner of the main room facing toward Mecca.

Continue reading….
« Prev Next »