Instead, I sank to my kne again, drawn by something I could not name.

Something older than time, deeper than fear.

One of my friends whispered, trembling.

Khaled, we should go.

This This isn’t right.

His voice was sharp, panicked, but I could not answer.

My eyes were fixed on the figure whose presence made the air vibrate with calm and power at the same time.

Every instinct I had to resist, to run, to fight, faded in the warmth that filled the space.

He looked at me and smiled, though it was not just a smile.

It was a message, a promise, a question all at once.

I felt it deep in my chest as if he were speaking directly to my soul.

“Do not fear,” he said softly.

And though the words were simple, but they carried the weight of everything I had ever longed for.

My friends stepped back, their hands raised, unsure, and I knew they were seeing what I could not explain.

The bread and wine on the altar seemed to shimmer.

The light from the windows catching the edges of the chalice.

My eyes were drawn there and my hands itch to touch, to take, to do what we had come to do.

But the pull of my heart was stronger than any plan I had made.

I knew that taking it now would not satisfy anything.

It would leave me empty, hollow.

I wanted more than the bread.

I wanted understanding.

I wanted change.

I wanted truth.

Suddenly, one of my friends lunged forward, grabbing a chalice.

My stomach dropped, panic rushing through me like fire.

“Stop!” I shouted, my voice breaking in a way it never had before.

I ran forward, catching his arm, feeling the weight of his strength, the force of his panic.

He struggled, his eyes wild, but I held firm.

The figure in white stepped closer, hands raised, and the silence fell so heavy that even the sound of breathing seemed loud.

“You cannot take what is not given,” the voice said, calm and steady.

The words struck me like lightning.

I felt the heat of truth wash over me, filling every part of me I had tried to hide from.

My friend froze, his eyes wide as he realized what he had done.

and slowly he let go of the chalice.

It clattered to the floor, but the sound did not seem harsh.

It felt like release.

The figure looked at each of us one by one voice and I felt my knees buckle under the weight of what I was seeing.

I had expected anger, punishment, judgment, but instead there was mercy, patience, a love that I could not understand.

I wanted to speak, to ask why, to demand an answer, but the words stuck in my throat.

All I could do was bow my head and feel.

My friends started to retreat, glancing at me, glancing at the figure, unsure of what to do next.

I could hear their footsteps against the stone floor, the scrape of shoes, the quickened breaths.

Part of me wanted to follow them, to escape, to deny what I had seen.

But another part, a deeper part I had never acknowledged, pulled me closer.

I could not leave.

I would not leave.

He stepped even closer.

The light surrounding him brighter now.

Soft but commanding.

I could feel it in my bones, a vibration that made my hands tremble.

The warmth in my chest expanded, filling my lungs, my arms, my legs.

Every fear, every plan, every lie I had told myself fell away.

Piece by piece, I was exposed, vulnerable, and yet safer than I had ever been in my life.

“Follow me,” he said, and the words were a bridge, a doorway.

I wanted to ask questions, to beg for proof, to demand understanding, but my voice was gone.

All I could do was move step by step toward the altar, toward him, toward the change that had been waiting for me all along.

I glanced at my friends one last time.

Their eyes were full of questions, fear, and hesitation.

They had not felt the warmth, the certainty, the quiet power that pulled at me.

I knew I could not force them.

They had to choose their own path, their own truth.

I swallowed hard, feeling the kn of fear in my stomach.

Could I leave them behind? Could I trust what I was about to embrace? He reached out a hand, and I took it without hesitation.

The warmth was immediate, searing, comforting, terrifying all at once.

My mind raced, my heart pounded, but my body obeyed.

I felt something shift inside me.

A breaking open of walls I had built for years.

I was not afraid anymore.

Not really.

I was exposed, yes, but alive.

The light around him seemed to pulse as if breathing with me, as if the church itself were alive.

I felt every corner, every shadow, every creaking floorboard as if it were part of me.

I wanted to kneel, to fall, to dissolve in the presence of this force I could not name.

But I could not stop moving forward.

Step by step, I felt myself surrender.

And then the question struck me, the one that burned hotter than fear or doubt.

Could I truly leave my old life behind? Could I trust that following this presence, this love, this light would give me everything I had been searching for? Could I walk away from the path I had chosen, the friends I had brought, the life I had known, and step fully into what I was seeing now? The answer was not clear.

I felt the pull of everything I had known, everything I had believed.

But the warmth, the light, the presence before me was stronger.

It held me, cradled me, challenged me all at once.

I could not turn back, but I could not yet see the full way forward.

And so I knelt at the altar, hands pressed together, head bowed, heart open, trembling with fear and hope.

I waited, listening to the silence, listening to the warmth, listening to the question I could not yet answer.

Could I surrender completely and trust what I had never understood before? I felt the warmth pull me forward, stronger now, like the sun spilling into my chest.

My friends froze at the doorway, eyes wide, unsure if they should follow or run.

I dropped to my knees at the altar, hands trembling, and the figure in white knelt with me.

His presence calm, steady, full of quiet power.

The bread and wine glimmered in the soft light, untouched, holy, waiting.

I reached out, heart pounding, and as my fingers brushed the chalice, a piece unlike anything I had known washed over me.

I could feel every lie, every fear.

Thy every plan I had carried dissolve in that moment.

The warmth seeped into my bones, into my mind, and I knew this was real, bigger than anything I had ever believed.

My friends hesitated, then slowly stepped closer.

They looked at me at the light and their fear softened into wonder.

I could not speak, but my eyes said everything.

The presence enveloped us all.

And in that quiet holy space, I understood something I had never imagined.

[clears throat] Mercy comes at the perfect time.

Like an even heart set on taking can be touched, changed, and made whole.

I looked up and the figure smiled.

Could it really be this simple? Trust and surrender everything to

 

 

 

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.

I recited the familiar words in Arabic, words I had said thousands of times before.

I asked Allah to protect my family, to give me strength, to accept my efforts, to grant me paradise.

After prayer, I sat and read from the Quran until the others began to wake.

Aliyah made breakfast, bread with olive oil and zatar, tea with too much sugar, the way I liked it.

The children ate quickly, excited about something that had happened at school a day before.

I was not really listening to their chatter.

I was thinking about the work ahead.

We had received materials for a new type of rocket.

It would fly farther and carry a larger payload than the ones we usually made.

The design was complex.

I had been studying the plans for days.

Today we would begin assembly.

Ila tugged on my sleeve.

She wanted me to look at a drawing she had made.

It was of our family, all stick figures holding hands.

She had drawn a big sun in the corner with a smiling face.

I told her it was beautiful.

I kissed her forehead.

Continue reading….
« Prev Next »