I thought about the believers I had served throughout the Middle East and prayed for their safety.

I thought about brother Camran and wondered if he knew what had happened to me.

I thought about Ashkan and struggled to forgive him for his betrayal.

On the third day after the doctor’s visit, the cell door opened again.

A god motioned for me to stand up and follow him.

My legs were weak, but I managed to walk.

He led me through the corridors of the prison, past other cells where I could hear prisoners crying and moaning.

We climbed a flight of stairs and emerged into a courtyard where a military vehicle was waiting.

The guard pointed at the vehicle and told me to get in.

I obeyed without question.

I had no idea where they were taking me, but I knew that God was in control.

Whatever happened next was part of his plan.

The military vehicle drove through the night for hours without stopping.

I sat in the back with a hood over my head, unable to see where we were going.

Two guards sat on either side of me, but they did not speak a single word throughout the entire journey.

My mind was racing with the questions and fears.

Were they taking me to another prison? Um, were they taking me to be executed in some remote location where no one would find my body? Were they transferring me to Thran to face a public trial and hanging? I had no answers.

I had only the promise Jesus had given me in my dream.

He had said he was opening doors that no man could shut.

He had said my story was not over.

I clung to those words like a drowning man clinging to a rope.

Whatever was happening, I had to believe that God was still in control.

I had to believe that this journey was leading somewhere other than death.

I prayed silently beneath the hood, asking God to guide me and protect me.

I asked him to give me courage for whatever lay ahead.

I asked him to complete the miracle he had started when he sent that doctor to my cell.

The vehicle finally stopped and the guards pulled me out roughly.

Um, I stumbled on weak legs and nearly fell to the ground.

They grabbed my arms and steadied me.

Then one of them removed the hood from my head.

I blinked in the darkness, trying to adjust my eyes.

We were standing on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

There were no buildings or lights visible in any direction.

The stars above were bright and countless.

The air was cold and carried the smell of dust and dry grass.

I looked around in confusion, trying to understand where I was and why they had brought me here.

One of the guards pointed toward the horizon where I could barely make out the silhouette of mountains against the night sky.

He spoke to me in broken English.

He said, “Turkey is that way.

” He said, “Walk and do not look back.

” He said, “If I ever returned to Iran, I would be killed on site, though.

” Then he climbed back into the vehicle and the other god followed.

The engine roared to life, and the vehicle turned around and drove away.

Within minutes, the sound of the engine faded into silence.

I was alone standing on a dirt road in the middle of the night somewhere near the border of Turkey.

I stood there for a long time, unable to move.

My brain could not process what had just happened.

3 days ago, I was dying in a prison cell with my hand cut off, an infection spreading through my body.

Now, I was standing free on a road pointing toward Turkey.

No explanation had been given.

No documents had been signed.

No negotiations had been announced.

They had simply taken me from my cell and driven me to the border and released me into the night.

It made no sense from a human perspective.

The Iranian regime did not release prisoners, especially foreign prisoners accused of espionage.

They held them for years and used them as bargaining chips in international negotiations.

They put them on trial and paraded them before cameras to humiliate their home countries.

They did not drive them to the border in the middle of the night and let them walk free.

But that is exactly what had happened to me.

The only explanation was the one Jesus had given me in my dream.

He had opened doors that no man could shut.

He had done for me what he had done for Peter 2,000 years ago.

He had sent his angels to set me free.

I began walking toward the mountains that the god had pointed to.

My body was weak and every step was painful.

My left arm throbbed constantly, reminding me of what I had lost.

But I was alive and I was free and that was all that mattered.

I walked through the night using the stars to guide my direction.

I prayed as I walked, thanking God for his miraculous deliverance.

I sang worship songs under my breath to keep my spirits up.

I recited scriptures that spoke of God’s faithfulness to his people.

The hours passed slowly, and the terrain grew more rugged as I approached the mountains.

Several times I stumbled and fell, scraping my knees and elbows on the rocky ground, but I got up each time and kept moving forward.

I could not stop.

I could not rest.

I had to reach Turkey before the sun rose, and Iranian patrols spotted me near the border.

I pushed my body beyond its limits, fueled by adrenaline and faith.

And sometime in the early hours of the morning, I crossed an invisible line on the ground and entered Turkish territory.

I collapsed onto the dirt and wept with relief.

I was out of Iran.

I was safe.

God had rescued me.

The next few hours were a blur of exhaustion and confusion.

I wandered through the Turkish countryside until I reached a small village near the border town of Van.

The villagers looked at me with suspicion and concern.

I was a foreigner with their torn clothes and a bloody bandage on my arms, stumbling into their community at dawn.

But when they saw my condition, they took pity on me.

They gave me water and bread and let me rest in one of their homes.

One of them spoke enough English to understand that I needed medical help.

He drove me to a hospital in Van where doctors examined my arm and treated my wounds properly for the first time.

They were shocked at the crude amputation and the infection that had nearly killed me.

They said I was lucky to be alive.

I told them luck had nothing to do with it.

I told them God had saved me.

From then I contacted the Swiss embassy in Anara.

They arranged for me to be transported to the capital where I could receive better medical care and begin the process of returning home.

The embassy officials asked me many questions about what had happened, but I was too exhausted to give detailed answers.

I told them I had been arrested in Iran and tortured and released without explanation.

They looked at me with disbelief, but they did not press further.

They simply helped me get on a plane to Sururik where I would begin my long journey of recovery.

The months that followed were difficult in ways I had not anticipated.

The physical wounds healed slowly, but they did heal.

Doctors in Switzerland fitted me with a prosthetic hand that allowed me to perform basic tasks.

I underwent physical therapy to learn how to live with my new limitations.

But the emotional and spiritual wounds were harder to address.

I suffered from nightmares that woke me up screaming in the middle of the night.

I experienced flashbacks that transported me back to that interrogation room where they had cut off my hand.

I struggled with anger and bitterness toward Ashkan and toward the men who had tortured me.

I questioned why God had allowed this to happen even though he had ultimately rescued me.

and I wrestled with doubts that I had never faced before in my faith journey.

Why had God not prevented the torture? Why had he let them take my hand? Why had he waited until I was near death before sending help? These questions haunted me for months as I tried to rebuild my shattered life.

But slowly through prayer and counseling and the support of fellow believers, I began to find answers.

I began to understand that God’s ways are not our ways.

He does not always prevent suffering, but he always redeems it.

My scars would become my testimony.

My pain would become my platform.

My story would bring glory to his name in ways I could never have imagined.

I returned to Israel in early 2026 to reconnect with my father’s side of the family and to find a new home base for my life.

One, I settled in Tel Aviv in a small apartment overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

I spent my days praying and recovering and slowly rebuilding my strength.

I stayed in contact with the underground church networks I had served for so many years.

I continued to raise funds and support for persecuted believers.

Even though I could no longer travel to dangerous countries myself, I mentored younger missionaries who were willing to take the risks I could no longer take.

I shared my testimony with the churches and Christian organizations who wanted to hear what God had done.

My story spread through the global Christian community and I received messages from believers around the world who said my experience had strengthened their faith.

I was humbled and amazed at how God was using my suffering for his purposes.

Uh the hand that had been taken from me had become a symbol of sacrifice and faith that inspired others to stand firm in their own trials.

What the enemy meant for evil God was turning to good.

On February 28th, 2026, I sat in my apartment watching the news of Ali Kam’s death.

The Supreme Leader who had ruled Iran with an iron fist for nearly four decades was gone.

The regime that had tortured me and taken my hand was crumbling before my eyes.

I watched the footage of the destroyed compound in Thran and I felt no joy or satisfaction.

I felt only a deep sadness for the Iranian people who had suffered so much under his rule.

And I felt an overwhelming urge to share my story with the world.

The time had come.

The door had opened.

I could no longer remain silent about what God had done for me.

And I picked up my phone and began recording a video testimony.

I held up the stump of my left arm and showed the world what the Iranian regime had done to me.

I told them about my arrest and torture and miraculous release.

I told them about the dream where Jesus showed me Peter’s escape from prison.

I told them that the same God who rescued Peter and rescued me was ready to rescue anyone who called on his name.

I told them that Jesus is alive and he saves.

I want to speak now to everyone watching this testimony.

I do not know what prison you are trapped in right now.

It may not be a physical prison with bars and chains.

It may be a prison of addiction or depression or fear or shame.

It may be a prison of past trauma that you cannot escape.

It may be a prison of religious legalism that has stolen your joy and freedom.

Whatever prison you are in, I want you to know that Jesus can set you free.

He is still in the business of opening doors that no man can shut.

He is still sending his angels to rescue his children from the darkest dungeons.

He did it for Peter.

He did it for me.

and he will do it for you if you call on his name.

I also want to speak to my Iranian brothers and sisters who may be watching this in secret.

I know the risks you are taking just by viewing this video.

I know the persecution you face every day for following Jesus.

I want you to know that you are not alone.

The global church is praying for you.

Heaven is watching you.

Your faith is precious in the sight of God.

Do not give up.

Do not lose hope.

The regime that has oppressed you is falling apart.

The kingdom of Jesus is advancing and nothing can stop it.

And one day soon, you will worship openly in the streets of Thran and Isvahan and Shiraz.

One day soon, the name of Jesus will be proclaimed from every rooftop in Iran.

Hold on to that promise.

It is coming.

I have one final thing to say before I end this testimony.

I want to talk about forgiveness.

For many months, I struggled to forgive Ashkan for betraying me.

Every time I looked at my missing hand, I thought of him.

Every time the nightmares came, I saw his face.

I wanted him to suffer the way I had suffered.

I wanted justice for what he had done.

But God kept speaking to my heart about forgiveness.

He reminded me that I was once his enemy and he forgave me through the blood of Jesus.

He reminded me that unforgiveness was a prison of its own that would keep me trapped long after I had been released from Iran.

So, I made a choice.

I chose to forgive Ashkan.

I do not know why he betrayed me.

Maybe he was threatened.

Maybe he was tortured.

Maybe he was weak.

Maybe he was never a true believer at all.

But whatever his reasons, I have released him into God’s hands.

I have let go of my anger and bitterness.

I have chosen freedom over revenge.

And I pray that one day Ashan will encounter the true Jesus and experience the forgiveness that I have experienced.

If you are watching this testimony and you have been betrayed by someone you trusted, I want to encourage you to forgive.

Not because they deserve it, but because you deserve to be free.

Forgiveness is not a feeling.

It is a choice.

Choose freedom today.

Now, I want to ask everyone watching to do something for me.

Y if this testimony has touched your heart in any way, I want you to write in the comments, Jesus is alive and he saves.

Let it be a declaration of faith.

Let it be a statement of hope.

Let it be a testimony that reaches people who are searching for truth.

Share this video with someone who needs to hear it.

Share it with someone who is trapped in their own prison.

Share it with someone who has given up on God.

Together we can spread the message that no prison can hold those whom Jesus sets free.

Thank you for listening to my story.

May God bless you and keep you and make his face shine upon you.

And may you experience the same miraculous rescue that I experienced when I cried out to Jesus in my darkest hour.

He heard me.

He will hear you, too.

Amen.

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[Music] Today’s testimony is shared with us by Zanob, a young lady whose life has been marked by unimaginable hardship and extraordinary resilience.

Forced into marriage at the tender age of nine, she endured years of brutality as a child bride, condemned to a life of suffering under a cruel imam who despised her very existence.

Her hands, now trembling with the weight of memory, bear the scars of a past in which she gave birth to children she could barely raise only to lose them.

Zanob has a powerful message for everyone, and I urge you to listen until the end.

This is a testimony of redemption you won’t want to miss.

Listen and be blessed.

My name is Zob.

I am 21 years old, but when I look in the mirror, I see eyes that have lived a thousand lifetimes.

Sometimes I trace the faint scar above my left eyebrow.

A reminder of a life I escaped.

A life that began ending when I was only 9 years old.

As I sit here in this small, safe room, preparing to share my story with you.

My hands tremble.

Not from fear anymore, but from the weight of memories that still visit me in the quiet hours before dawn.

I want you to know that what I’m about to tell you is true.

Every word, every tear, every moment of darkness, and every glimpse of light.

I share this not for pity, but because somewhere a young girl might be living my yesterday.

And somewhere someone needs to know that there is hope beyond the deepest darkness.

I was born in a suburb outside Damascus, Syria, in a neighborhood where the call to prayer punctuated our days like a heartbeat.

Our house was small, two rooms shared by seven people.

My father worked in a textile factory.

My mother kept house and I was the third of five children, the second daughter.

This detail matters because in my world, daughters were currencies, not children.

My earliest memories smell like jasmine and cardamom, like the tea my mother made every morning before the sun painted the sky pink.

I remember being happy.

I remember laughing.

I remember the weight of my favorite doll, Amamira, with her dark yarn hair that I would braid and rebraid until the strands came loose.

I was 9 years old and my biggest worry was whether my handwriting was neat enough to earn a star from my teacher at school.

The day everything changed started like any other.

It was late spring and the air was heavy with the promise of summer.

I had just come home from school, my hijab slightly a skew from playing tag in the courtyard when I noticed the shoes at our door.

men’s shoes, expensive and polished, not like the worn sandals my father wore.

Inside, I found my parents sitting with a man I recognized but had never spoken to, the imam from our local mosque.

He was 47 years old, though I didn’t know this then.

I only knew that his beard was more gray than black and that his eyes never seemed to blink enough.

My mother’s face was strange, frozen in a expression I couldn’t read.

She gestured for me to sit, but her hand shook as she smoothed her dress.

The imam looked at me and I remember feeling like a piece of fruit at the market being examined for bruises.

My father spoke about arrangements, about honor, about God’s will.

The words floated around me like smoke, shapeless and choking.

I didn’t understand until my mother came to my room that night.

She sat on my small bed and for the first time in my life, I saw her cry without sound, tears sliding down her face while her mouth stayed closed.

She helped me understand in the simplest, most horrible way.

I was to be married.

The imam had chosen me.

It was arranged.

It was done.

My child’s mind couldn’t comprehend what marriage meant.

I knew married women cooked and cleaned, but I already helped my mother with these things.

I knew they lived with their husbands, but surely I was too young to leave home.

When I asked if I could bring Amira, my doll, my mother’s composure finally cracked.

She pulled me so tight against her chest that I could feel her heart racing.

And she whispered something I’ll never forget.

though I didn’t understand it then.

May God forgive us all.

The wedding, if you can call it that, happened two weeks later.

There was no white dress, no flowers, no singing, just papers signed in a room that smelled like old books and men’s cologne.

I wore my best Friday dress, dark blue with small white flowers, and my mother had braided my hair so tight it made my head ache.

The Imam’s other wives were there.

Yes, I was to be his fourth wife.

The youngest of the other three was 28.

And she looked at me with eyes full of something I now recognize as pity mixed with relief.

Relief that it was me, not her daughter.

I remember the ring being placed on my finger, too big, sliding around when I moved my hand.

I remember the prayers, Arabic words washing over me while I stared at a spot on the carpet where someone had spilled tea and left a stain.

I remember my father not meeting my eyes as he handed me over, using words about protection and provision and honor.

But mostly, I remember the moment my mother let go of my hand.

The physical sensation of her fingers sliding away from mine feels burned into my palm.

Even now, 12 years later, the Imam’s house was only 15 minutes from my family’s home by car, but it might as well have been on another planet.

It was larger with a courtyard and separate quarters for each wife.

My room, I was told to call it my room, was small and bare except for a bed, a prayer mat, and a small dresser.

The window looked out onto a wall.

I sat on the bed that first night, still in my wedding dress.

A mirror hidden in the small bag of belongings I’d been allowed to bring.

When the imam came to my room that night, I hid under the bed.

My 9-year-old mind thought if I made myself small enough, invisible enough, maybe this strange game would end and I could go home.

But large hands pulled me out.

And what happened next is something I cannot fully speak about even now.

Some wounds are too deep for words.

What I can tell you is that childhood ended in those moments, replaced by a kind of split existence where my body was present.

But my mind fled somewhere else, somewhere safe, where little girls could still play with dolls and worry about handwriting.

The days that followed blurred together in a routine that felt like drowning in slow motion.

I was woken before dawn for prayers, then sent to help the first wife, um Hassan with breakfast preparations.

She was not unkind, but she was tired, a exhaustion that lived in her bones.

She showed me how to make the imam’s tea just right.

Two sugars stirred counterclockwise, served in the blue glass cup.

She taught me which days he expected, which meals, how to iron his clothes with the creases just so, how to be invisible when his mood was dark.

I was pulled out of school immediately.

The imam said education was wasted on females, that it would only fill my head with dangerous ideas.

The loss of school felt almost as violent as everything else.

I loved learning.

Loved the order of numbers.

The way letters became words became stories.

Now my days were measured in tasks.

Washing, cleaning, cooking, serving, enduring.

The other wives operated in a strict hierarchy.

Um Hassan, the first wife, managed the household.

She had given the imam three sons, securing her position.

The second wife, Om Khaled, had produced two sons and a daughter.

She spent most of her time in prayer, her lips constantly moving in silent supplication.

The third wife, Zara, was beautiful and bitter.

She had no children after 5 years of marriage.

And this failure hung around her like a shroud.

She was the crulest to me, perhaps seeing in my youth everything she had lost.

I learned to navigate their moods like a sailor reads weather.

Um, Hassan’s kindness came in small gestures.

An extra piece of bread slipped onto my plate.

A lighter load of washing on days when the bruises were fresh.

Um, Khaled ignored me mostly, lost in her own world of prayer and resignation.

But Zara would pinch me when no one was looking.

tell me I was ugly, stupid, worthless.

She would spoil food and blame me, ensuring I face the Imam’s anger.

The Imam’s anger was a living thing in that house.

It could be triggered by anything.

Tea too hot or too cold, a crease in his shirt, a baby crying during his afternoon rest, dust on his books, the wrong verse recited during evening prayers.

When angry, he would quote scripture about obedience, about discipline, about a husband’s rights and a wife’s duties.

His hands were large and heavy, and he knew how to hurt without leaving marks that others would see.

But sometimes he didn’t care about hiding it.

The scar above my eyebrow came from a day when I accidentally broke his favorite tea glass.

The edge of his ring split the skin and blood ran into my eye, turning the world red.

I tried to run away once, about 3 months after the marriage.

I waited until everyone was asleep and crept out barefoot to avoid making noise.

I made it to my family’s house just as dawn was breaking.

My father answered the door, saw me standing there in my night dress, saw the bruises on my arms, the desperation in my eyes.

For a moment, just a moment, his face softened.

Then he looked behind me, saw the imam’s car approaching, and his face became stone.

He handed me back like a piece of lost property.

The punishment for running was 7 days locked in a storage room with only water and bread.

In the darkness of that room, I learned that hope could be more painful than despair.

Hope made you try.

Made you believe things could change.

Despair at least was honest.

By the time they let me out, something in me had shifted.

I stopped looking out windows.

I stopped crying.

I became what they wanted, a ghost of a girl moving through the motions of living without actually being alive.

My mother was allowed to visit once a month, always supervised.

She would bring small treats, sesame cookies, dried apricots, and news from home.

My younger sister had started school.

My baby brother was walking.

Life was continuing without me.

During one visit, when I was almost 10, she saw fingershaped bruises on my neck.

I watched her face crumble and rebuild itself in the span of seconds.

She took my face in her hands and said words that haunted me for years.

This is your test from God.

Be patient.

Be obedient.

Your reward will come in paradise.

But what paradise was worth this hell? what God demanded the suffering of children as proof of faith.

I found ways to survive.

I created a world in my mind where I was still nine, still in school, still learning multiplication tables and Arabic poetry.

When the imam came to my room, I would recite geography lessons in my head.

Damascus is the capital of Syria.

The Euphrates River flows through the eastern part of the country.

The Mediterranean Sea borders us to the west.

Facts became anchors, keeping some part of me tethered to who I had been.

I hid a mirror, my doll, beneath a loose floorboard in my room.

Sometimes when I was alone, I would take her out and whisper to her.

I told her about my days, about the books I would read someday, about the places we would travel.

She became my confessor, my companion, the keeper of the child I was supposed to be.

Her yarn hair grew more frayed from my constant handling, but she remained steady, unchanging, safe.

The season cycled through, marked more by religious observances than weather.

Ramadan was especially difficult.

Fasting from dawn to sunset, then serving elaborate ifar meals while my own stomach cramped with hunger.

The imam would eat first, then his sons, then the wives in order of seniority.

By the time I was allowed to eat, the food was often cold, and Zara would ensure my portions were smallest.

I’ should have been joyful, but celebration in that house was performance.

New clothes that felt like costumes, forced smiles for visiting relatives who pretended not to notice how young I was, how hollow my eyes had become.

Some of the women would pat my head and tell me how blessed I was to be married to such a pious man.

I wanted to scream that piety and cruelty should not share the same bed.

But I had learned that silence was safer than truth.

One day I overheard Umhasan talking to her sister.

They didn’t know I was listening from behind the kitchen door.

Her sister asked how she could bear it.

Having a child for a co-wife.

Um Hassan’s response was simple and devastating.

We all were children once.

This is how it has always been.

This is how it will always be.

But even then, even in my darkest moments, some small part of me refused to accept this.

Maybe it was the memory of my teacher showing us a globe, telling us about places where girls grew up to be doctors, teachers, leaders.

Maybe it was the books I had read before they were taken from me.

stories where heroes overcame impossible odds.

Or maybe it was just a stubborn spark that exists in every human spirit.

The part that refuses to be completely extinguished no matter how many tried to snuff it out.

As my 10th birthday approached, though no one would celebrate it, I had been the imam’s wife for nearly a year.

I had learned to cook elaborate meals I was too anxious to eat.

I could recite lengthy prayers I no longer believed were heard.

I knew which cleaning products removed blood from fabric, how long bruises took to fade from purple to yellow to nothing, how to smile when relatives visited, and asked why such a blessed wife had not yet become pregnant.

The pregnancy questions were their own source of terror.

The other wives whispered about my duty to provide children, about how the Imam’s patience wouldn’t last forever.

But my body was still a child’s body, no matter what had been done to it.

Each month that passed without pregnancy was both a relief and a source of mounting dread.

I didn’t understand then what I know now.

That my body was protecting itself, refusing to create life in a place where childhood was being systematically destroyed.

The imam began taking me to different doctors.

Convinced something was wrong with me.

Each examination was another violation.

Another stranger’s hands on a body I had learned to vacate.

The doctors would speak to him, not to me, discussing my body as if I wasn’t there.

One younger doctor, I remember, looked directly at me with something like horror in his eyes when he realized my age, but he said nothing.

No one ever said anything.

It was around this time that the nightmares began.

I would dream of drowning in fabric, suffocating under the weight of a wedding dress that grew larger and heavier until it swallowed me whole.

I dreamed of my voice being pulled from my throat like thread, leaving me unable to scream.

I dreamed of turning into stone, starting from my feet and working upward until even my thoughts became frozen.

I would wake gasping, disoriented, sometimes not remembering where I was until the call to prayer reminded me.

The worst part wasn’t the physical pain or the loss of childhood.

It was the slow erosion of self, the way I began to forget who I had been before.

I would try to remember my teacher’s name and draw a blank.

I couldn’t recall the taste of my mother’s soup without the overlay of fear.

Even happy memories became tainted, viewed through the lens of knowing how they would end.

But I held on to small things.

The way sunlight looked through the kitchen window at exactly 300 p.

m.

The smell of jasmine that sometimes drifted over the courtyard wall.

The sound of children playing in the distance.

Their laughter carrying on the wind like a messages from another world.

These fragments became precious, proof that beauty still existed somewhere, even if I could only observe it from afar.

As that first year came to an end, as summer prepared to turn to fall, I felt myself splitting into multiple selves.

There was the body that moved through daily tasks.

There was the voice that responded when spoken to.

There was the face that arranged itself into appropriate expressions.

And somewhere buried deep was the real me.

The one who still believed this couldn’t be all there was.

That somewhere beyond these walls, life was waiting.

I didn’t know then that things would get worse before they got better.

I didn’t know about the pregnancies that would come, the children I would bear before my body was ready, the divorce that would leave me with nothing, or the faith that would eventually save me.

All I knew was that I was 10 years old, and I had already learned more about suffering than any child should know.

Sometimes now when I see girls the age I was then with their backpacks and braided hair and innocent laughter, I have to turn away.

Not from anger or pain, but from a grief so profound it feels like drowning.

They are what I should have been.

They are walking, laughing, living reminders of the childhood that was stolen from me.

But I also look at them with hope because they are free in ways I wasn’t.

They are proof that the world can be different.

That Hassan was wrong.

This is not how it has always been.

And this is not how it must always be.

Change is possible.

Escape is possible.

Healing is possible.

As I prepare to tell you about the years that followed, about becoming a mother while still a child myself, I want you to understand that the 9-year-old girl who hid under the bed that first night never really left.

She’s still here, still part of me.

But now, instead of hiding, she stands in the light.

Instead of silence, she speaks.

Instead of fear, she chooses faith.

Not the faith that was forced upon her, but the faith she found in the darkest moments.

The faith that promised that suffering was not the end of the story.

This is only the beginning of my testimony.

The road ahead in my story is long and painful, but I promise you there is light at the end.

There is redemption.

There is a love greater than any darkness.

But first, I must tell you about the babies.

About becoming a mother at 12.

About nearly dying to bring life into a world that had shown me so little kindness.

About loving children I didn’t know how to raise.

About protecting them even when I couldn’t protect myself.

That little girl with a doll named Amamira thought her story was ending when she was 9 years old.

She was wrong.

It was only beginning.

And though the chapters that followed were written in pain, the ending, oh, the ending was written in glory.

The human body is remarkable in its ability to adapt to the unthinkable.

By the time I turned 11, my hands had stopped shaking when I served tea.

My feet had memorized every creaking board in the house, knowing which ones to avoid when trying to move silently.

My body had learned to make itself small to occupy the least amount of space possible.

But there were some things my body could not adapt to.

Some changes that would mark me forever.

I first realized something was different when the morning sickness began.

I didn’t know to call it that then.

I only knew that the smell of cooking oil, which had never bothered me before, suddenly sent me running to vomit.

Um, Hassan found me one morning heaving into the kitchen sink, my thin body shaking with the effort.

She placed a hand on my forehead, then on my stomach, and her face went very still.

She knew before I did.

The confirmation came from the same doctor who had examined me months earlier, the young one with horror in his eyes.

This time, he couldn’t hide his expression.

He spoke to the Imam in medical terms I didn’t understand, but I caught fragments.

Too young, high risk, complications likely.

The Imam waved away his concerns.

This was God’s will, he said.

God would protect what he had ordained.

But would God protect an 11-year-old girl whose body was barely beginning to understand itself, let alone capable of creating another life? The pregnancy was a special kind of torture.

My body, already small and underdeveloped, struggled against the growing life inside it.

I was hungry all the time, but could keep nothing down.

My bones achd in ways that made me feel ancient.

I would catch glimpses of myself in mirrors and not recognize the swollen, pale creature.

Looking back, the other wives treated me differently now.

I had proven my worth, my functionality.

But their kindness felt hollow when I could barely stand from exhaustion.

Um, Hassan took charge of my care with a efficiency born from experience.

She made me special tees that helped with the nausea, showed me exercises to help with the back pain, rubbed my swollen feet when they became too painful to walk on.

During one of these sessions, as she worked oil into my stretched skin, she told me quietly that she had been 14 when she had her first child.

“At least I had begun my monthly bleeding,” she said, not meeting my eyes.

At least my body had started to become a woman’s body.

The unspoken hung between us.

Mine had not.

The imam treated my pregnancy as his personal victory.

He would parade me in front of visitors.

His young fertile wife proof of his verility despite his age.

I would sit there, hands folded over my growing belly, while men congratulated him.

And women looked at me with expressions I couldn’t decipher.

Some seemed pitying, others envious, most simply uncomfortable.

Nobody asked how I felt.

Nobody wondered if I was afraid.

I was terrified.

As the months passed and my belly grew, the baby’s movements became stronger.

The first time I felt it, a flutter like a trapped bird, I thought something was wrong.

But then it happened again.

and again until I realized this was the life inside me making itself known.

It should have been a moment of wonder.

But all I felt was invaded.

My body, which had already been taken from me in so many ways, now house another being I hadn’t chosen to create.

Sleep became impossible.

I couldn’t lie on my back because the weight pressed on something that made me dizzy.

I couldn’t lie on my stomach for obvious reasons.

My sides achd no matter which one I chose.

I would prop myself up with cushions, half sitting, half lying, drifting in and out of exhausted half sleep.

In those dark hours, I would whisper to the baby, not words of love, but questions.

Who are you? What will you become? Will you hate me for bringing you into this world? The traditional midwife, Amrashe, began visiting in my eighth month.

She was ancient with hands like leather and eyes that had seen everything.

She examined me with those rough hands and made clicking sounds with her tongue.

Too small, she told Um Hassan when she thought I couldn’t hear.

The baby is too big and she is too small.

She left herbs and instructions for tea that would prepare the body.

But I could see the doubt in her eyes.

When the labor began, I thought I was dying.

It started as pressure in my lower back, then spread like fire around my middle.

I had seen cats give birth in the alleys behind our old house, had watched them pant and strain, but I had also seen them curl around their kittens afterward, purring with satisfaction.

I felt no instinct except fear, no knowledge except pain.

For 3 days, my body fought against itself.

The contractions would build to a crescendo that made me scream into pillows, then fade to a dull ache that never quite disappeared.

Um, Rasheed came and went, each time looking more concerned.

The imam paced outside, angry at the inconvenience, at the noise, at the disruption to his ordered household.

He never once came to see me.

Um, Hassan stayed by my side, feeding me sips of water, wiping sweat from my face during one particularly bad contraction.

When I begged her to make it stop, she gripped my hand and said, “You are stronger than you know.

We women always are.

” But I didn’t feel strong.

I felt like I was being torn apart from the inside.

The second wife, Om Khaled, prayed constantly in the corner, her prayer beads clicking in rhythm with my contractions.

Zara appeared once, looked at my writhing body, and said, “Now you know what it means to be a woman, as if this suffering was a right of passage, a necessary evil to be endured rather than a tragedy that should never have happened.

” On the third day when my strength was nearly gone, Umrashe made a decision.

She sent for her daughter who had some modern medical training.

Between them, they managed what Umrashid alone could not.

But the baby was stuck, turned wrong, and every push felt like it was ripping me in half.

I remember the exact moment I gave up when I stopped pushing and decided it would be easier to die.

Um, Hassan must have seen it in my eyes because she grabbed my face and forced me to look at her.

Not yet, she said fiercely.

You don’t get to leave yet.

When the baby finally came, it was in a rush of blood that wouldn’t stop.

I heard him cry, a sound that should have been triumphant, but seemed thin and angry to my exhausted ears.

They placed him on my chest for a moment.

This red, wrinkled creature covered in white paste and my blood.

I looked at him and felt nothing.

No rush of love, no maternal instinct, just a hollow exhaustion and the growing cold that came with blood loss.

The hemorrhaging was severe.

Um, Rashid and her daughter worked frantically, packing me with cloths, massaging my stomach to encourage the womb to contract.

Someone gave me something bitter to drink that made the room spin.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes aware of the baby crying, sometimes floating in a space that was neither life nor death.

I survived though for days afterward.

I wondered if that was a blessing or a curse.

The baby, they named him Hassan after the Imam’s father, was given to Om Hassan to nurse as my body could barely produce milk.

I was too weak to protest, too broken to care.

I lay in bed, bleeding still but slowly now, and stared at the ceiling where a water stain looked like a bird in flight.

Recovery was slow and incomplete.

Things inside me had torn that would never properly heal.

I walked differently now, slowly, carefully, like an old woman.

The doctor was called again, and this time his conversation with the imam was heated.

I heard fragments.

Permanent damage should not happen again.

Criminal to allow.

The Imam’s response was predictable.

God’s will supersedes medical opinion.

When I was finally strong enough to hold Hassan properly, I studied his face for signs of myself.

But he looked like his father.

The same broad forehead, the same thin lips.

Only his eyes, dark and questioning, seemed to hold something of me.

I tried to feel what mothers were supposed to feel.

I tried to summon love for this creature who had nearly killed me coming into the world.

But all I could manage was a protective pity.

He hadn’t asked to be born any more than I had asked to bear him.

The Imam celebrated the birth of his son with a feast.

Men came to congratulate him on his verility, on his young wife’s success.

I was displayed briefly, pale and weak, holding the baby like a prop in a play I didn’t understand.

Then I was dismissed back to my room where I could hear the celebration continuing without me.

The man who had planted this seed in my child’s body was praised, while I, who had nearly died bringing it to bloom, was forgotten.

Caring for Hassan was beyond my capability, but it was expected nonetheless.

I fumbled with diapers, my child’s hands, trying to clean another child.

His cries at night sent panic through me.

I didn’t know how to soothe him, how to understand what he needed.

Um, Hassan often took over.

Her experience making up for my ignorance.

But the imam insisted the baby sleep in my room.

said it would help me learn to be a proper mother.

Those nights were the loneliest of my life.

I would sit in the darkness, this crying bundle in my arms, and wonder how this had become my existence.

12 years old, holding my son in a house that was not a home, married to a man who saw me as property.

I would think of girls my age asleep in their childhood beds, dreaming of school and friends and futures that belong to them.

The contrast was so sharp it felt like being cut.

My body had barely begun to heal when the imam resumed his visits to my room.

The doctor had said to wait, had warned of dangers, but the imam quoted verses about a wife’s duty and ignored my tears.

Um, Hassan found me bleeding again one morning and quietly helped me clean up, her face grim.

Men do not understand, she said.

They never do.

When Hassan was 6 months old, I realized I was pregnant again.

This pregnancy was different from the first, worse in its familiarity.

My body, still recovering from the trauma of Hassan’s birth, protested violently.

I bled frequently, sharp pains shooting through my abdomen.

Um, Rasheed visited more often, each time looking graver.

She spoke of babies born too soon, of mothers whose bodies simply gave out.

But the imam forbade any talk of ending the pregnancy.

This was God’s blessing, he insisted.

To refuse it would be sin.

I carried the second child in a haze of exhaustion and pain.

Hassan still needed care I could barely provide, and my growing belly made even simple tasks monumental.

I would sit on the floor to play with him, then be unable to get up without help.

My back achd constantly, and my legs swelled so badly that walking became agony.

13 years old and feeling like my body was failing me completely.

The other wives helped more this time.

Perhaps seeing how close to breaking I was.

Even Zara, still bitter about her own childlessness, would sometimes take Hassan so I could rest.

But rest was relative when your body is fighting a battle it’s too young to win.

The second birth came early as Omar Shid had predicted.

7 months and suddenly I was gripped by pains that made the first labor seem gentle.

This time there was no 3-day buildup.

The baby wanted out and my body, too damaged to resist, complied.

She came in a rush of fluid and blood so small she fit in Um Rasheed’s palm.

She didn’t cry at first, and the silence was terrible.

They worked on her for what felt like hours, but was probably minutes.

Finally, a weak mule, more kitten than human.

She was purple and struggling, her lungs not ready for air.

Um, Rashid’s daughter said she needed a hospital, needed machines to help her breathe.

The imam refused.

If God meant for her to live, she would live.

She lived three days.

I held her for those three days.

This tiny girl who looked more like a baby bird than a baby human.

Her skin was translucent, showing the map of veins beneath.

Her fingers were impossibly small with nails like rice grains.

She would open her mouth like she was trying to cry, but only the smallest sounds emerged.

I called her Amira in my mind after my doll, though the imam named her Fatima.

When she stopped breathing on the third night, I was alone with her.

I watched her tiny chest still, her purple lips part slightly, her perfect miniature hands relax.

I should have called for help, but I didn’t.

I sat there in the darkness holding her cooling body and felt something inside me break that would never fully mend.

When Um Hassan found us in the morning, she had to pry a mirror from my arms.

The burial was quick, efficient, a small wrapped bundle in a small hole.

The Imam led prayers while I stood silent, Hassan on my hip, feeling nothing and everything simultaneously.

Some of the women cried.

I couldn’t.

My tears had dried up somewhere between her birth and death, leaving only a salt burned emptiness behind.

After air, something in the imam changed toward me.

Perhaps I had proven defective in some way.

Or perhaps he’s simply tired of my youth and sadness.

His visits to my room became less frequent, though no less violent when they occurred.

I was grateful for the reprieve even as I knew it meant my value in his eyes was diminishing.

Hassan grew despite my inadequacy as a mother.

He learned to crawl then walk then run.

His first word wasn’t mama but um directed at Hassan who had become more his mother than I ever could be.

I felt relief rather than jealousy.

He was safer with her, better cared for.

I could love him better from a distance where my brokenness couldn’t infect him.

Just before my 15th birthday, a date that passed unagnowledged by anyone, including myself, I discovered I was pregnant for the third time.

The familiar nausea, the exhaustion, the sense of my body being hijacked once again.

But this time, there was a dull acceptance.

This was my life now.

This was all it would ever be.

The third pregnancy was easier physically but harder emotionally.

I had learned to disconnect from my body almost entirely.

To observe its changes like a scientist studying a specimen.

My belly grew.

The baby moved.

My body prepared for another trauma it would somehow survive.

Um, Rasheed checked on me regularly, always with that same concerned expression, but said little.

This baby came on time after a labor that was mercifully shorter than the first.

Another boy, healthy and loud.

The imam named him Khaled.

I held him, nursed him when my body cooperated, changed him, soothed him.

But the maternal feelings everyone expected never came.

I cared for my children like I completed my other household duties mechanically, efficiently, emptily.

By the time I was 16, I had Hassan who was four and Khaled who was one.

My body had been permanently altered by pregnancies it had been too young to bear.

I walked with a slight limp from hips that had separated wrong.

My stomach stretched and scarred would never be flat again.

I had lost several teeth from the pregnancies leeching calcium my young body needed.

I looked in mirrors and saw a stranger wearing my face, age beyond recognition.

The fourth pregnancy came when Khaled was barely walking.

This time I knew before any symptoms appeared.

I had become so attuned to my body’s betrayals that I could feel the moment of conception like a door closing.

The pregnancy progressed normally.

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