Why were they like this? Why did they not hate us? We had arrested them, beaten them, starved them, humiliated them.

We might kill them.

Yet they showed us kindness.

I started asking myself questions I had never asked before.

Questions that felt dangerous.

What if we were wrong about them? What if they were not the snakeshib said they were? What if their religion taught them something we did not understand? I tried to push these thoughts away.

I reminded myself of everything my father taught me.

I reminded myself of my brothers who died in the drone strike.

I reminded myself that these people worshiped a man instead of the one true God.

But the questions kept coming back.

After about two months of night watch, my curiosity became too strong.

I did something I was not supposed to do.

I started talking to them.

It started small.

I would ask a simple questions.

Where are you from? How long have you been here? Normal things.

They would answer politely, briefly.

Then one night, I asked Rashid, the man who sang, a real question.

Why do you pray to a dead prophet? I said it harshly, trying to sound like I was challenging him, but really I wanted to know.

Rashid was sitting on his mat, his back against the wall.

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he spoke.

Jesus is not dead.

He rose from the grave on the third day.

He is alive.

I laughed.

That is impossible.

Dead men do not come back to life.

Rashid nodded slowly.

You are right.

Dead men do not come back to life.

But Jesus is not just a man.

He is the son of God.

He has power over death.

I shook my head.

This is a sherk.

You are committing the worst sin.

Rashid did not argue with me.

He just said, “I understand why you think that.

I thought the same thing once.

I was Muslim for 37 years.

This surprised me.

” “You were Muslim?” He nodded.

Born and raised.

My father was an imam in Mazari Sharif.

I memorized the Quran.

I prayed five times a day.

I fasted during Ramadan.

I did everything right.

Then why did you leave? I asked.

He was quiet for a moment.

Because I met Jesus, he said simply, and everything changed.

I did not know what to say to that.

I walked away from his cell troubled.

Over the following weeks, I asked more questions.

I told myself I was just gathering information that I was trying to understand the enemy but something else was happening.

I was genuinely curious.

I asked David why he did not hate us for beating him.

I asked Miam why she blessed Ysef when he abused her.

I asked another prisoner, a middle-aged man named Ilas, why he was willing to die for his beliefs.

They all answered with patience, with gentleness.

They never mocked my questions.

They never became angry when I said harsh things about their faith.

They just answered honestly.

David told me that Jesus taught his followers to love their enemies and pray for those who persecute them.

This was a direct commandment, he said, not a suggestion.

Miriam told me that she had experienced God’s forgiveness for her own sins.

So how could she not forgive others? She had been shown so much mercy.

She said she had to give mercy in return.

Elas told me that this life was temporary.

But eternity with Jesus was forever.

Why should he fear death when something so much better was waiting? I listened to all of this.

I did not believe it.

Not yet.

But I could not stop thinking about it.

The other guards started noticing that I talked to the Christians too much.

One of them, Ysef, pulled me aside one night.

Be careful, he said.

The commander is watching you.

He thinks you are becoming soft.

I am not soft.

I said quickly.

I am gathering information.

understanding the enemy.

Ysef looked at me doubtfully.

Just be careful, he repeated.

I knew he was right.

I needed to be more cautious, but I could not stop myself.

Every night on my shift, I would find myself drawn back to their cells.

I would listen to them pray.

I would watch how they treated each other.

I would ask questions when no other guards were around.

Something was happening inside me.

Something I did not understand and could not control.

It felt like a crack had formed in the foundation of everything I believed.

A small crack but growing.

There was one night that I remember clearly.

It was during my third month as a guard.

David had been taken for interrogation again.

They brought him back after midnight.

He was worse than before.

He could barely stand.

The guards dragged him to his cell and threw him inside.

He collapsed on the floor.

I was standing nearby, watching.

After the other guards left, I walked over to his cell.

He was lying on his side, breathing hard, blood running from his nose.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

I do not know why, I asked.

It was a stupid question.

Obviously, he was not all right.

David opened his eyes and looked at me.

Even in pain, even barely conscious, he smiled slightly.

I am blessed, he whispered.

“Blessed,” I stared at him.

“How can you say that? Look at what they did to you.

” He struggled to sit up, leaning against the wall.

His breathing was ragged.

They can hurt my body, he said quietly.

But they cannot touch my soul.

I have Jesus.

I am blessed.

I stood there not knowing what to say.

This man had just been tortured.

He was bleeding and broken and he said he was blessed.

I walked away from his cell and went to the guard room.

I sat down heavily on the bench.

I put my head in my hands.

What is wrong with these people? I thought, why are they not normal? Why do they not break? But I knew the answer, even if I was not ready to admit it.

They had something I did not have, something that made them different.

Something that gave them a strength I could not understand.

It terrified me.

That night, Mariam called out to me as I walked past her cell during my final round before dawn.

Her voice was soft.

I did not turn around, but I stopped walking.

God sees you, brother, she said.

He knows your heart.

He is calling you.

I felt a chill run down my spine.

I walked away quickly, my heart pounding.

I did not sleep well that day.

I kept thinking about what she said.

God sees you.

He’s calling you.

No, I told myself.

No, I am a Muslim.

I am a Taliban fighter.

I serve Allah.

This is just confusion.

This is just the whispers of Shayan trying to lead me astray.

But deep down, I knew something had changed.

The crack in my foundation was getting wider.

I just did not know yet that it was about to break completely open.

The questions would not stop.

Every night when I went on duty, I told myself I would not talk to the Christian prisoners anymore.

I would just do my job, watch them, keep them secure, nothing more.

But every night I failed.

It was like something was pulling me toward them, toward their cells, toward their strange peace that I could not explain.

I began to notice details I had missed before.

small things that most guards would not pay attention to.

But I was paying attention now even though I did not want to.

I noticed that they prayed at odd hours, not just at set times like we did in Islam.

Sometimes I would pass their cells at midnight and hear whispering or at 3:00 in the morning or just before dawn.

They prayed constantly short prayers, long prayers.

Sometimes just a few words whispered to the ceiling.

I asked Rashid about this one night.

Why do you pray so much? Do you think God does not hear you the first time? He smiled slightly.

We pray because we want to stay close to God.

Prayer is not just about asking for things.

It is about relationship.

Relationship I did not understand.

God is not our friend.

God is the mighty, the powerful, the judge.

We submit to God, we obey God.

But relationship, Rashid leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees.

Jesus calls us his friends.

He said he wants to know us.

He wants us to talk to him about everything.

Our fears, our joys, our struggles, everything.

This was completely foreign to me.

In Islam, we had a clear structure.

Five prayers at five specific times, specific words to say, specific movements to make.

It was about submission and obedience.

But these Christians talked to God like like he was right there with them.

Like he cared about every small detail of their lives.

I walked away from that conversation deeply unsettled.

Another thing I noticed was how much they talked about love.

The word came up constantly.

God loves you.

Jesus loves you.

We must love one another.

Love your enemies.

Love seemed to be at the center of everything they believed.

This bothered me because I had been taught that the most important thing was obedience, following the rules, doing what was commanded.

Love was fine, I suppose, but it was not the main point.

The main point was submission to Allah’s will.

But for these Christians, love was everything.

One night I asked Mariam about this.

She was sitting in her cell braiding the long hair of the younger woman who shared her space.

The woman’s name was Parisa.

She was maybe 22 years old.

I arrested for attending a house church.

Old woman, I said through the bars.

You talk about love all the time, but what about justice? What about punishment for sin? Does your God not care about these things? Miam looked up at me.

Her eyes were kind.

Of course, God cares about justice, she said.

He cares about it more than we can imagine.

That is why he sent Jesus.

I do not understand, I admitted.

She set down Parisa’s hair and moved closer to the bars.

“We all deserve punishment,” she said.

“Every person has sinned.

Every person has done wrong things.

The punishment for sin is death, separation from God forever.

” I nodded.

This I understood.

This sounded like what I had been taught in Islam.

But God loves us so much, Mariam continued, that he did not want us to face that punishment.

So he sent his son Jesus to take the punishment for us.

Jesus died in our place.

He took our sins on himself.

He paid the price we should have paid.

Her voice was steady, certain.

Because of that, anyone who believes in Jesus and accepts his sacrifice is forgiven.

Completely forgiven.

That is love and justice meeting together.

I stared at her, but that makes no sense.

How can someone else take your punishment? Each person is responsible for their own deeds.

She nodded.

I understand why you think that, but this is the heart of our faith.

God himself became a man and died for us.

It is the greatest act of love in all of history.

I walked away troubled.

The idea seemed wrong to me, illogical.

Yet these people believed it with absolute certainty.

And somehow that belief made them different, made them able to forgive, made them able to love people who hurt them.

I started comparing them to other prisoners.

We had thieves, murderers, political prisoners, drug dealers, all kinds of people.

And their behavior was what you would expect.

They were angry, bitter, afraid.

They fought with each other.

They cursed the guards.

They looked out for themselves first.

But the Christians were different.

They looked out for each other.

I saw Ilas, the middle-aged man, give his blanket to an old man in the cell next to his, who was shivering through a cold night.

Ilas himself had no blanket.

Then he sat awake all night, arms wrapped around himself, quietly praying.

I saw David use his small water ration to wash the wounds of another prisoner who had been beaten.

I saw Parisa, the young woman, singing hymns to comfort Miam when Miam was sick with fever.

They shared everything they had even though they had almost nothing and they forgave constantly.

I watched Ysef mocked David one day, calling him filthy name, spitting at him through the bars.

David just looked at him calmly and they said he would pray for him.

No anger, no resentment, just quiet acceptance.

This made Ysef even angrier.

He grabbed his stick and beat it against the bars, shouting at David.

David did not respond.

He just turned away and knelt down to pray.

Later that night, I heard David praying.

I stopped outside his cell to listen.

He was praying for Ysef, asking God to open Ysef’s eyes, asking God to show Ysef love, asking God to forgive Ysef.

I felt something twist in my chest.

This man was praying for someone who had just abused him.

Actually praying, asking God to bless him.

I had never seen anything like this in my entire life.

The contrast became more and more obvious.

My fellow guards were cruel.

Not all of them, but most.

They enjoyed having power over the prisoners.

They would find small ways to make their lives harder.

Kicking their food bowls, denying them water, beating them for small infractions or for no reason at all.

I had done these things, too.

I am ashamed to admit it.

But I had before I started really paying attention to the Christians, I had been just like the other guards.

Maybe not as bad as Ysef, but not good either.

Now I found myself unable to do those things anymore.

When I saw a guard about to beat a prisoner for no reason, I would feel sick.

When I saw food being kicked over or the water wasted, I would feel angry.

what was happening to me.

The other guards noticed.

Hhabib the commander called me into his office one afternoon before my shift started.

He did not invite me to sit.

I have been hearing reports about you.

He said his voice was hard.

You are spending too much time talking to the Christian prisoners.

I am trying to understand them.

I said know your enemy, right? He stared at me for a long moment.

There is nothing to understand, he said.

They are apostates.

They have rejected the truth.

They deserve what they get.

Your job is to guard them, not become friends with them.

I understand, I said.

I hope you do, he replied.

Because if I think you are becoming sympathetic to them, you will be removed from your position.

Or worse.

Do you understand that? I nodded.

Yes, commander.

He dismissed me.

I left his office with my hands shaking.

I knew I was in danger now.

If I kept talking to the Christians if I kept asking questions, I would be discovered.

I might be arrested myself.

The Taliban did not tolerate sympathy for apostates.

I should have stopped then.

I should have kept my head down and just done my job, but I could not.

The pull was too strong.

One night, about 4 months into my duty, something happened that I still remember clearly.

There had been a particularly brutal interrogation that day.

David had been taken again along with Rashid.

They brought them both back in terrible condition.

David’s face was so swollen I barely recognized him.

Rashid was limping, favoring his left leg.

They had beaten the souls of his feet.

The guards threw them back in their cells and left.

I was on duty that night.

After the other guards went to sleep, I did my rounds.

When I passed David’s cell, I looked in.

He was lying on his mat.

I curled on his side.

He was crying softly, not loud, just quiet tears running down his broken face.

I stopped.

I do not know why.

I should have kept walking, but I stood there watching him cry.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and saw me.

I expected him to look away to hide his tears, but he did not.

He just looked at me.

“Why do you stay here?” I asked it quietly.

Why do you not just say you were wrong? Say you renounce Christianity.

They would let you go.

David slowly pushed himself up to sitting.

It took him a long time.

Every movement caused him pain.

When he finally sat up, leaning against the wall, he looked at me.

Because it would be a lie, he said.

His voice was horsearo.

And I cannot deny Jesus.

He gave everything for me.

How can I deny him to save myself? But they might kill you, I said.

He nodded.

Maybe, but this life is not all there is.

Jesus promised me eternal life, real life that never ends.

Why would I trade that for a few more years in this world? His certainty shook me.

He meant every word.

He was willing to die for this belief.

I looked over at Rashid’s cell.

He was sitting up too, I realized listening.

His feet were bloody and swollen, but he was alert.

You feel it, Rashid said quietly to me.

You feel the truth pulling at your heart.

I stepped back from the bars.

No, I am just doing my job.

I am just You can lie to us, Rashid interrupted gently.

You can lie to your commanders, but you cannot lie to God.

He sees you.

He knows you and he is calling you to himself.

I felt anger flash through me.

How dare he speak to me like this.

I was the guard.

He was the prisoner.

I had all the power here.

But even as I felt the anger, I knew he was right.

Something was happening to me.

Something I could not control or stop.

I walked away quickly, my heart racing.

For the rest of that night, I could not focus on anything.

I sat in the g room staring at the wall.

My mind was spinning.

I thought about my father, about my brothers who died, about everything I had been taught my entire life, about my identity as a Taliban fighter, as a Muslim, as a servant of Allah.

And then I thought about these Christians, about their peace, their love, their forgiveness, their willingness to die for their beliefs, their absolute certainty that Jesus was real and that he loved them.

I thought about the contrast between what I had been taught about Christians and what I was actually seeing.

I had been taught they were weak, arrogant, enemies of Islam.

But these people were not weak.

They had a strength I could not explain.

They were not arrogant.

They were humble and kind.

And they were not my enemies.

They prayed for me.

They blessed me.

They treated me with more kindness than my own brothers in arms did.

What if everything I had been taught was wrong? The thought terrified me.

I tried to pray that night after my shift ended.

I went back to my small room and performed my ablutions.

I unrolled my prayer mat and knelt facing Mecca.

I began the familiar words.

But for the first time in my life, the words felt empty.

I was saying them, but I did not feel anything.

It was like praying to an empty room.

I stopped halfway through and sat back on my heels.

What is happening to me? I whispered.

No answer came.

I lay down on my mat and stared at the ceiling.

Sleep did not come for a long time.

Over the next few weeks, things got worse for me internally.

I was carrying around a constant anxiety, a sense that I was standing on the edge of a cliff.

And any moment I might fall, I kept watching the Christians.

I kept asking questions when I could do so safely.

And every answer they gave me made sense, not according to what I had been taught, but according to something deeper, some truth I was beginning to recognize.

They spoke about Jesus like he was alive, like he was with them right there in their cells, like he was real and present and active in their lives.

I had never felt that way about Allah.

Allah was distant, powerful, unknowable.

We submitted to his will, but we did not know him.

We could not know him.

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