I saw her bracelet.

I need to talk to believers.

I’m serious.

Another long pause.

Then you could be anyone.

You could be Hamas trying to find us.

Why should we trust you? I thought about what to say.

Then I typed, I am the bomb maker who survived the explosion in Shajaya two weeks ago.

You probably heard about it.

Two died, one lived.

That was me.

I lived because Jesus sent me back.

I saw hell.

I saw him.

I need to know more.

I need help.

This pause was even longer.

I waited, barely breathing.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it would wake someone.

Finally, tomorrow, 3 pm, there is a market near Alsha Hospital.

Go to the fruit stand in the northeast corner.

Buy apples.

Someone will approach you.

I typed back.

How will I know them? The response.

They will know you.

Come alone.

Tell no one.

If you are not alone, they will not show.

If you bring danger, may God forgive you.

I typed I understand.

I will be alone.

Thank you.

One more message came.

If you are a genuine brother, welcome.

We have been praying for you.

Then the conversation ended.

I sat there in the bathroom for a long time staring at my phone.

This was really happening.

I was going to meet other believers, people who knew the truth, people who could help me.

But I was also terrified.

What if it was a trap? What if Hamas had already discovered me and this was their way of confirming my apostasy? What if I was walking into my death? Then I remembered Jesus’s words.

Many will not believe.

They will threaten you.

They will hate you, but some will believe.

And for those who believe, it will be worth everything you suffer.

I had to trust.

I had to have faith.

Jesus had sent me back for a reason.

He would not abandon me now.

The next day moved slowly.

I went through my routine in a days.

I ate breakfast with my family.

I played with my children.

I pretended everything was normal.

But inside, I was counting down the hours until 300 pm When it was time, I told Aliyah I needed to go buy some things at the market.

She offered to come with me.

I said, “No, I would be quick.

She should stay with the children.

” She looked at me oddly, but agreed.

I walked it through the streets of Gaza toward Alshifa Hospital.

The city looked different to me now.

I saw people rushing about their daily lives and I knew that most of them were heading toward hell just like I had been.

Just like I would have been if not for Jesus’s mercy.

The market near the hospital was crowded and noisy.

Vendors called out their wares.

Women haggled over prices.

Children ran between the stalls.

Normal life in a place that was anything but normal.

I found the fruit stand in the northeast corner.

An old man sat behind piles of apples and oranges and dates.

I approached and began examining the apples, picking them up and putting them down like I was looking for the best ones.

I waited 5 minutes, 10 minutes.

I started to think no one would come.

That maybe it had been a test and I had failed it somehow.

Then a man appeared beside me.

He was maybe 40 years old, dressed in ordinary clothes.

He picked up an apple and examined it carefully.

Without looking at me, he spoke quietly.

He said, “These are good apples, fresh, sweet, worth the price.

I did not know what to say.

Was this the person or just another customer?” Then he said, “Sometimes the best fruit is hidden.

You have to know where to look.

You have to be willing to dig beneath the surface.

I realized this was the code.

I said feeling foolish, “Yes, I am looking for something beneath the surface, something real.

” He finally looked at me.

His eyes were kind but cautious.

He studied my face for a moment.

Then he nodded slightly.

He said, “Buy your apples, then follow me.

” Not closely.

Stay back about 10 meters.

If I stop suddenly, keep walking past me and go home.

Do you understand? I said, I understand.

He said, “What is your name?” I hesitated.

Names were dangerous.

Then I said, “Abd,” he said, “I am Yousef, but that is not my real name.

You will understand why soon.

” He walked away.

I quickly paid for a bag of apples, my hands shaking slightly.

Then I followed him.

keeping the distance he specified.

We walked through the market, then down several side streets.

Ysef was careful.

He doubled back twice.

He led me through a building and out another entrance.

He was checking to make sure we were not being followed.

Finally, after about 15 minutes of walking, he turned into an alley and opened a door that looked like it led to a storage room.

He glanced around once, then gestured for me to come quickly.

I followed him inside.

The door closed behind us.

We were in a small room with concrete walls.

There was a table and some chairs.

A single light bulb hung from the ceiling.

Nothing else.

Yousef turned to face me.

His expression was serious but not unfriendly.

He said, “You told my contact that you are the bomb maker from Shajaya, that you survived, that you saw Jesus.

” I said, “Yes, all of that is true.

” He said, “Tell me what happened.

Everything.

Do not leave anything out.

” So I told him, I told him about the explosion, about dying, about hell, about seeing the multitudes there, about the fighters and clerics, about their desperate warnings, about Jesus appearing in light and glory, about his scars and his eyes and his words, about him sending me back, about the message I was supposed to share.

I told him everything while Yousef listened in silence.

When I finished, there were tears on my face.

Yousef was quiet for a long moment.

Then he spoke.

He said, “I believe you, Abdul.

Not just uh because of your words, but because I have heard similar stories before.

Jesus is revealing himself to many Muslims in these days.

through dreams and visions and encounters like yours.

He’s calling his people out of Islam and into truth.

Relief flooded through me.

He believed me.

I was not crazy.

This was real.

I said, “What do I do now? I cannot go back to my old life.

But I cannot tell my family.

They would not understand.

They would turn me in.

What do I do?” Yousef sat down and gestured for me to do the same.

I said, “First, you need to understand clearly what it means to follow Jesus.

This is not another religion.

This is not about replacing Islamic rules with Christian rules.

This is about relationship with God through faith in Jesus’s sacrifice.

” He explained it carefully how Jesus was fully God and fully man.

How he lived a perfect life.

How he died on the cross to pay the penalty for human sin.

How he rose from the dead on the third day.

How anyone who believes in him and accepts his sacrifice is saved.

Not by works, not by religious observance, simply by faith.

He said, “Have you believed this? Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” I said, “Yes, I saw him.

I know he is real.

I know he is the only way.

I believe.

Yousef smiled.

Then a real smile full of joy.

He said, “Then you are my brother.

You are saved.

You are a child of God.

Welcome to the family.

” He prayed with me.

A simple prayer.

I declared my faith in Jesus.

I acknowledged my sins and my need for a savior.

I thanked to Jesus for dying for me and for saving me from hell.

I committed my life to following him.

When we said amen, I felt something, a piece that I cannot fully describe, like a burden being lifted, like chains falling off, like coming home after being lost for a very long time.

Yousef said, “You should be baptized.

It is an important step, a public declaration of faith.

But public is dangerous here, so we do it in secret.

with witnesses from the underground church.

Underground church.

I had not realized there were enough believers in Gaza to call it a church.

But Yousef explained that there were several dozen secret believers, maybe more.

They met in small groups.

They were very careful.

They had to be.

He said, “We will arrange your baptism, but first you need to understand the danger.

You have left Islam.

That makes you an apostate.

If your identity as a believer is discovered, you will be killed.

Not maybe you will be killed.

Your family might be killed too or at minimum they will be shamed and persecuted.

Do you understand this? I said I understand.

I am already in danger because I refuse to return to bomb making.

They are getting suspicious.

How long before they force the issue? Ysef nodded grimly.

He said, “You will need to disappear eventually.

We can help with that.

We have ways of relocating believers who are in danger.

But first, let us make sure you are grounded in your faith.

Let us teach you.

Let us baptize you.

Then we will plan your next steps.

” Over the next two weeks, I met with Yousef and other believers several times, always carefully, always in secret locations, never the same place twice.

They taught me about the Bible, about the differences between Islam and Christianity, about grace and law and faith.

They answered my questions.

They prayed with me.

They became my family.

There were more believers than I had imagined.

I met a doctor, a teacher, a shop owner, a university student, even a former imam who had converted years before.

All of them living double lives.

All of them risking everything.

They told me about other converts throughout the Muslim world, about underground churches in Saudi Arabia and Iran and Afghanistan, about satellite TV channels and secret websites and encrypted apps that were spreading the gospel in places where it had been banned for centuries.

They said that more Muslims had come to Christ in the last 20 years than in the previous thousand years combined.

That Jesus was moving powerfully in the Islamic world despite the persecution.

That the blood of martyrs was producing a harvest.

I met other converts who had similar experiences to mine.

One man had seen Jesus in a dream.

A woman had been healed supernaturally after praying in Jesus’s name.

A young man had been saved from a violent death by an intervention he could only explain as angelic.

Each story strengthened my faith.

I was not alone.

This was real.

This was happening everywhere.

My baptism was held in the middle of the night in a hidden basement room.

About 15 believers were there.

They sang hymns quietly in Arabic.

They read from the Bible.

Then Ysef baptized me in a large container of water.

He said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Buried with Christ in death, raised with him in new life.

He lowered me under the water.

For a second, I was back in that moment of dying, back in the darkness.

But then I came up out of the water and there was only light and joy and the faces of my brothers and sisters in Christ smiling at me.

They hugged me.

They welcomed me.

They called me brother.

I cried.

I had not felt belonging like this since before the explosion.

Maybe I had never felt belonging like this at all.

One older woman, maybe 60 years old, said to me, “You have been given a great gift.

Jesus revealed himself to you in a powerful way.

That gift comes with responsibility.

You must share what you have seen.

You must warn others.

This is your calling now.

I knew she was right.

” I thought about the souls in hell begging me to tell people.

I thought about Jesus commanding me to share the message.

I thought about my family still on the wrong path.

I said, “How? How do I share safely? How do I reach people without being killed immediately?” Yousef said, “The internet, social media, blogs, storys, all anonymous.

You can reach millions without revealing your identity.

Others have done it.

You can too.

” The idea terrified me, but it also excited me.

I could fulfill Jesus’s command.

I could warn people.

I could tell the truth about hell and about Jesus and about salvation.

I said, “I will do it.

Teach me how.

” They taught me about VPNs and encryption, about anonymous accounts and secure communication, about how to speak the truth while protecting my identity.

It took time, but I learned.

Meanwhile, the pressure from Hamas was increasing.

They were no longer patient.

They were demanding that I return to work.

They were sending people to check on me.

They were watching my family.

Yousef said, “You need to leave Gaza soon.

We are working on arrangements.

It will take a few weeks.

Can you hold on that long? I said, I have to.

I have no choice.

But it was getting harder.

Aliyah knew something was very wrong.

She asked me constantly what was going on, why I was acting so strange, why I refused to work, why I spent so much time on my phone.

One night, she found me reading something on my phone.

Before I could hide it, she saw it was a website about Jesus, about Christianity, about conversion from Islam.

Her face went white.

She looked at me with horror and disbelief.

She said, “What is that? Why are you reading that?” I said, “Aaliyah, please let me explain.

” She said, “Explain what? Explain why you are reading about Christianity.

explain why you have turned your back on Islam.

She was crying now, loud enough that she might wake the children or alert the neighbors.

I said, “Please keep your voice down.

Let me tell you what happened to me.

” But she would not listen.

She was hysterical.

She said I had gone crazy, that the explosion had damaged my brain, that I needed help, that I was putting us all in danger.

I tried to tell her about my experience, about hell, about Jesus.

But she put her hands over her ears like a child refusing to hear something.

Finally, she said, “I cannot live with an apostate.

Do you understand what you are doing? They will kill you.

They will kill all of us.

How can you do this to your family? I said, I am trying to save you.

You are on the wrong path.

You are heading to hell.

All of you, I have seen it.

I have been there.

Jesus is the only way.

She slapped me hard across the face.

Then she ran into the bedroom and locked the door.

I stood there in the darkness, my cheeks stinging, my heart breaking.

I had lost her.

I had lost my wife and probably my children, too.

This was the cost.

This was what Jesus had warned me about.

I would lose everything.

But it was worth it if even some would be saved.

I contacted Yousef that night.

I said, “I need to leave now.

Today, it’s not safe anymore.

” He said, “Give us 2 days.

We are almost ready.

two days and we can get you out.

Those were the longest two days of my life.

Aliyah would not speak to me.

She kept the children away from me.

She was talking to her family, to my family, to people at the mosque.

She was telling them something was wrong with me.

I knew it was only a matter of time before Hamas came.

On the second night, Yousef sent a message.

Tonight, midnight, be ready.

Bring nothing.

Come to the location I send you.

Do not be followed.

I looked at my sleeping children one last time.

TK with his mouth open, breathing softly.

Ila curled up with her favorite doll.

Omar with his thumb in his mouth even though he was getting too old for that.

I wanted to wake them, to hold them, to tell them I loved them, but I could not risk it.

They might cry out.

They might alert Aliyah.

So I just kissed their foreheads while they slept.

I whispered that I loved them, that I was doing this for them, that someday they would understand.

Then I left.

I walked out of my home and my old life forever.

At midnight, I met believers who had arranged my escape.

They smuggled me out of Gaza through tunnels and safe houses and bribes and risks I did not fully understand.

They passed me from one contact to another like a relay race.

After 3 days of traveling, I arrived in a small town far from Gaza.

A place where no one knew me, where I could start over.

They set me up in a safe house, a single room with a bed and a table and a computer.

Everything I needed to begin my mission.

I created accounts, multiple platforms, all anonymous, all secure.

I began to write my story to share my testimony to warn people about hell and tell them about Jesus.

The first blog post was the hardest.

I wrote it and deleted it a dozen times.

I was terrified.

But finally I hit publish.

The title was simple.

I was a Hamas bomb maker.

Jesus saved me from hell.

Within hours the responses started coming in.

Hundreds then thousands.

Some were death threats.

Some called me a liar and a traitor and a tool of the West.

But some were different.

Some said, “Is this true? Tell me more.

I need to know.

” And I knew then that Jesus was working, that my story was reaching people, that some would believe, and that made everything worth it.

The first few months in hiding were the hardest time of my life.

Not because of physical danger, though that was always present.

Not because of the conditions of the safe house, though they were basic and lonely.

The hardest part was the separation from my family.

Every night I would lie awake thinking about my children, wondering what they were doing, if they missed me, if they understood why I had left.

If Aliyah had told them I was dead or just gone, if they hated me now.

I had photos of them on my phone.

Hundreds of photos.

I would look at them in the dark and cry silently.

Tariq at his seventh birthday party, smiling with cake on his face.

Leila dancing in the living room to music from my phone.

Omar taking his first steps while we all cheered.

I had left them to save them, but the cost of that choice was almost more than I could bear.

The safe house was in a town I cannot name.

The room was on the third floor of a building that housed several refugee families.

My cover story was that I was a refugee from Aleppo, displaced by the Syrian civil war.

No one questioned it.

There were thousands of Syrian refugees scattered throughout the region.

One more made no difference.

The room was small, maybe three meters by four meters.

a single bed, a small table with a chair, a hot plate for cooking, a bathroom down the hall that I shared with three other families.

The walls were thin.

I could hear conversations and arguments and children crying through them at all hours.

But I had a computer, an old laptop that the believers had provided and I had internet access through a secure connection.

That was all I needed.

I spent hours every day writing blog posts, articles, testimonies.

I wrote about my experience in hell with as much detail as I could remember.

I wrote about seeing Jesus.

I wrote about the message he gave me.

I wrote about salvation and grace and the urgency of choosing Christ before death comes.

I wrote in Arabic.

My people needed to hear this message in their own language.

But I also had friends translate my posts into English and other languages.

The message needed to go everywhere.

The response was overwhelming.

Within weeks, my blog had thousands of followers, then tens of thousands.

My story was being shared across social media platforms.

People were discussing it, debating it.

Some believed it, many did not.

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