I said I am looking for brothers and sisters who follow Jesus.

More silence.

I could hear whispered conversation inside.

Then the door opened a crack.

A man’s face appeared.

He was maybe 50 years old with a gray beard and cautious eyes.

How do we know you are not Taliban? He asked.

I do not know how to prove it.

I said honestly, but I was a Taliban guard.

I was guarding Christian prisoners in Herat.

One of them, his name was Rashid.

He taught me about Jesus.

I gave my life to Jesus 6 weeks ago.

I had to flee.

I need help.

The man stared at me for a long moment.

Then he opened the door wider.

Now come in quickly.

I stepped inside.

It was a small room, maybe 20 people gathered there, men and women, old and young.

They all looked at me with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

The man who let me introduced himself as Pastor Hamid.

This was an underground house church, he explained.

Afghan Christians who met in secret to worship and pray.

I started crying again.

I could not help it.

I had found them.

I had found my people that night.

They questioned me carefully.

They had to be cautious.

The Taliban had infiltrated churches before, sending spies to identify believers so they could be arrested or killed.

But I told them everything.

My background, my time as a guard, the Christians I watched, the dreams, my conversion, my flight from Afghanistan.

I left nothing out.

When I finished, several people were crying.

Pastor Hamid put his hand on my shoulder.

“Welcome, brother,” he said.

“You are home now.

” Those words broke something open inside me.

“Home.

I was home.

Not the home of my childhood, not Afghanistan, but something deeper.

I was with my spiritual family.

People who knew Jesus.

People who understood.

They took me in.

They found me better housing.

They shared their food with me.

They taught me.

They prayed with me.

They became the family I had lost.

In the following weeks, I learned what it meant to be part of the body of Christ.

These believers were poor.

Most were refugees like me.

They had very little, but they shared everything.

When one person was in need, the others helped.

When one person suffered, they all suffered together.

When one person celebrated, they all celebrated.

It was beautiful.

It was exactly what I had seen in the prison.

But now I was part of it instead of just observing it.

Pastor Hamid arranged for me to be baptized.

It happened at night in secret in a bathroom.

Not a river or a church, just a small bathroom with a bucket of water.

But it was one of the most important moments of my life.

As the water poured over my head, I felt like the old wasim was truly being washed away.

Everything I had been before, the hatred, the violence, the blindness, all of it gone.

I was new, clean, reborn.

After I came up from the water, everyone hugged me.

They were all crying and smiling.

I was officially their brother now.

Not just in spirit, but in baptism.

I belonged.

Over the next several months, I grew in my faith.

I read the Bible constantly.

I attended every meeting of the house church.

I learned to worship, to pray corporately, to study scripture with others.

I also learned about the cost of following Jesus in a Muslim country.

Several people in our church had been beaten by family members for converting.

One woman had been poisoned by her husband and barely survived.

One man’s son had been kidnapped by relatives who were trying to force him to return to Islam.

These were not just stories from the past.

This was our reality.

Following Jesus here meant danger, real danger.

Every time we met for church, we risked arrest.

Every time we spoke about our faith, we risked violence.

But no one was turning back.

They had found something worth dying for.

They had found Jesus, and nothing could make them deny him.

I thought often about Rashid and the others.

I had no way of knowing what happened to them after I left.

Had they been executed as planned? Had the unlocked doors given them a chance to escape.

I would probably never know.

But I carried them with me.

Their witness, their faithfulness, their love.

They had planted seeds in my heart that were now bearing fruit.

In a way they were still teaching me even though we were separated about four months after I arrived in Pakistan.

Pastor Hamid called me aside after a church meeting.

There is a network of ministries that work with persecuted Christians.

He said they help people get to safe countries.

They can arrange asylum, travel documents, settlement support.

I think you should apply.

I was surprised.

Leave Pakistan, go where.

He explained that there were organizations in Europe and North America that specifically helped Christian converts from Islam, places where I could live openly without fear, places where I could worship freely.

But you need me here.

I said, I am part of this church.

He smiled.

Yes, you are.

But God may have other plans for you.

Your story is powerful was him.

What happened to you? How Jesus revealed himself to you.

How you left everything to follow him.

This story needs to be told.

It can encourage persecuted believers.

It can challenge those who persecute them.

It can show people that Jesus is real and active.

I had not thought about this.

I was just trying to survive, to grow, to learn.

But pastor Hamid saw something else, a purpose.

Pray about it, he said.

Ask Jesus what he wants.

I did pray about it for weeks and slowly I felt a sense that this was the right path.

Not because I wanted to leave.

I did not.

I had found a home with this church.

But because there was a larger purpose.

God had brought me out of darkness into light.

He had rescued me from death and given me life.

He had shown me himself when I was his enemy.

That story needed to be shared.

I applied to one of the organizations Pastor Hamid mentioned.

The process took almost a year, interviews, background checks, waiting, but eventually I was accepted for asylum in a western country.

I cannot say which one.

It is safer that way.

The day I left Pakistan was bittersweet.

I was grateful for the opportunity, but I was leaving behind the first Christian community I had ever known.

These people had taken me in, taught me, loved me.

We prayed together one last time.

Pastor Hamid gave me his own Bible, the one he had used for 20 years.

I tried to refuse, but he insisted.

Carry it with you.

He said, “Remember us.

Remember what we taught you.

And remember that you are never alone.

Wherever you go, our Jesus is with you.

” The flight to my new country was surreal.

I had never been on a plane before.

I sat by the window and watched Afghanistan, then Pakistan, disappear beneath the clouds.

Everything I had ever known was down there.

I was leaving it all behind.

But I was also flying towards something new.

A new life, a new beginning, a chance to live openly for Jesus.

When I arrived, the organization that sponsored me, helped me get settled.

They found me housing, helped me learn the language, connected me with a local church.

It was overwhelming at first.

The culture was so different.

The language was hard.

I felt lost.

But the church welcomed me.

They were not Afghan.

They did not understand my background.

But they knew Jesus and that was enough.

We were family.

I started sharing my testimony in that church.

Just a small groups at first.

Then larger gatherings.

People were deeply moved by my story.

Many had never heard about persecution of Christians in places like Afghanistan.

Many had never met someone who had actually encountered Jesus in such a dramatic way.

One pastor asked me to speak at his church.

Then another then another.

Slowly I began traveling to different churches sharing what God had done in my life.

I also connected with organizations that work with persecuted Christians worldwide.

They asked me to share my story in their materials, their conferences, their advocacy efforts.

My story became a tool, a way to encourage believers who were suffering for their faith, a way to challenge those who took their freedom for granted.

A way to demonstrate that Jesus is still revealing himself to people, still calling them out of darkness, still transforming lives.

But telling my story over and over also meant reliving it.

The pain of leaving my family, the fear of being caught, the guilt over my past actions, the grief over Rashid and the others.

There were many nights when I would finish speaking somewhere and go back to my room and weep.

The cost of following Jesus was not just something I paid once.

I kept paying it.

Every day I woke up in exile.

Every day I remembered my family who thought I was dead or damned.

Every day I carried the reality that I could never go home.

Sometimes I would get messages from back home through complicated networks.

My father had indeed declared me dead.

He held a funeral for me.

He told everyone that his son had died.

It was easier for him than admitting I had converted.

My mother grieved quietly.

She never spoke my name, but some relatives said she still cried for me at night.

My brothers joined the search for me at first, but eventually gave up.

I was gone.

Whether literally dead or just dead to them, the result was the same.

These things hurt.

They still hurt.

I wish I could say that following Jesus takes away all pain.

It does not.

The pain is real.

The loss is real.

The cost is real.

But so is Jesus.

So is the peace.

So is the joy.

So is the purpose.

I would make the same choice again every time, a thousand times.

Jesus is worth everything I gave up and more.

Now I live a quiet life in my adopted country.

I work a normal job during the week.

I attend church on Sundays.

I have made friends in the Christian community.

I am learning to build a new life.

But I also continue to tell my story whenever I am given the opportunity.

Not because I think I am special, not because I want attention, but because my story is not really about me.

It is about Jesus.

Jesus is the one who came into that prison.

Jesus is the one who revealed himself to a Taliban guard who hated Christians.

Jesus is the one who loved me when I was unlovable.

Jesus is the one who freed me from chains.

Jesus is the one who gave me new life.

My story is just one example of what he does.

He is still doing it.

Still revealing himself.

Still calling people out of darkness.

still transforming lives.

I want people to know this, especially people who think they are too far gone, too sinful, too broken, too lost.

If Jesus can save a Taliban prison guard, he can save anyone.

I also want to encourage believers who are suffering for their faith right now.

People in prisons like the one where I worked.

People being beaten for refusing to deny Jesus.

People living in constant fear because they follow Christ.

Your witness matters more than you know.

You may never see the fruit of your faithfulness.

The Christians in that prison inherat probably never knew that their guard was watching them learning from them being drawn to Jesus by their example.

Rashid never knew that I converted.

He died not knowing.

Or maybe he did know in heaven.

Maybe Jesus told him.

I like to think so.

But whether he knew or not, his faithfulness was not wasted.

His suffering was not meaningless.

His witness bore fruit.

I am the fruit.

And there may be others I do not know about.

Seeds planted that will grow in God’s timing.

So keep being faithful.

Keep loving your enemies.

Keep forgiving those who hurt you.

Keep praying for those who persecute you.

Keep showing the world what Jesus looks like, even when it costs you everything.

Your life is a testimony whether you can see the results or not.

And to those who do not yet know Jesus, who are skeptical or curious or searching, I want to say this.

I understand doubt.

I fought against this truth with everything in me.

I resisted.

I argued.

I tried to explain it away.

But I cannot deny what I experienced it.

I cannot deny what I saw in those Christians.

I cannot deny the dreams.

I cannot deny the transformation in my own heart and life.

Jesus is real.

He is not just a historical figure or a prophet or a good teacher.

He is alive.

He is present.

He is active in the world today and he loves you no matter who you are.

No matter what you have done, no matter how far you think you are from God, he loved me when I was his enemy.

When I was complicit in persecuting his followers, when I was full of hatred and violence and sin, he still loved me.

He still came for me.

He still saved me.

He will do the same for you if you let him.

All you have to do is turn to him, believe in him, accept what he did for you on the cross, give your life to him.

It will cost you something, maybe everything.

It is not an easy path.

Jesus never promised it would be easy.

He promised it would be worth it.

And it is.

It truly is.

My name is Wasim.

I was a Taliban prison guard.

I was raised to hate Christians.

I participated in their persecution.

I was blind to truth.

Dead in my sins, lost in darkness.

But Jesus came for me anyway.

He revealed himself to me.

He loved me.

He saved me.

He gave me new life.

I am no longer who I was.

The old wasim is gone.

I am a new creation in Christ, a follower of Jesus, a child of God, a member of his family.

I have lost everything the world values.

My country, my family, my identity, my security.

But I have gained something far more valuable.

I have gained Jesus.

I have gained eternal life.

I have gained purpose and meaning and hope.

This is my testimony.

This is my story.

But it is really his story.

The story of what Jesus does when someone surreners to him.

He is still writing his story in lives around the world, in prisons and palaces, in darkness and light, in the hearts of those who seem most unlikely.

Maybe he is writing it in you right now.

Maybe you feel him calling.

Maybe you sense that pull toward truth, toward love, toward him.

Do not resist.

Do not run.

Turn to him.

He is waiting for you with open arms.

arms that still bear the scars of what he did to save you.

Come to him.

He will never turn you away.

Jesus is real.

He is alive and he loves you.

This is my testimony of this is the truth.

This is what happened to me.

May God use my story for his glory.

May it bring hope to the hopeless, courage to the fearful, and faith to the doubting.

And may everyone who hears it know that nothing is impossible with God.

No one is beyond his reach.

No heart is too hard for him to soften.

No darkness is too deep for his light to penetrate.

He came for me.

He will come for you too.

All glory and honor to Jesus Christ.

The one who was dead but is alive.

The one who saved me and is saving countless others.

This is my testimony.

I pray it points you to him.

 

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