My husband divorced me when he found out.

The house came after.

Her story broke my heart.

She’d lost everything for Jesus, just like me.

But she wasn’t angry.

She was strong.

He’s worth it, Fatima, she whispered.

He’s with us, even here.

Miam became my light in that dark place.

We’d talk at night when the compound was quiet except for the wind rattling the barbed wire.

She told me about her life before, how she’d been a teacher, how her son loved drawing birds, how she’d found Jesus through a secret radio program.

She taught me a new hymn.

What a friend we have in Jesus.

And we’d sing it so softly the guards couldn’t hear.

Her voice was shaky, but it held me together.

I told her about Aisha, how I missed her giggle, how I wished I could explain why I chose this path.

Mariam listened, then said, “God sees your heart, Fatima.

He’ll carry your love to her”.

I cried then, not from pain, but from hope.

The guards didn’t like us talking.

They’d bang on the walls, shouting, “Shut up, Kufar”.

But we found ways, tapping codes, passing notes on bits of cloth.

Mariam gave me a verse to memorize.

The Lord is my shepherd.

I shall not want.

I’d repeat it when the guards came.

When the pain was too much, it was like Jesus was walking beside me, leading me through that valley of death.

Miam and I prayed together, not out loud, but in our hearts.

I felt her strength and it made me stronger.

But Omar wasn’t done with me.

One day he came to my cell, his face different, not angry, but proud like he’d won something.

“You’re stubborn, Fatima,” he said, leaning close.

“But I’ll fix you”.

He told me I’d marry him, that it would cleanse my sin, make me his.

My stomach twisted.

In our town, marriage was sacred, a bond of love or family.

But this was a chain, a way to own me.

I wanted to scream, to fight, but I was so tired, so weak.

You can’t refuse, he said, smiling.

It’s Allah’s will.

The marriage was no wedding.

It was a nightmare.

They dressed me in a white abaya, not the embroidered ones girls wore at home, but plain like a shroud.

They took me to a room with a few men, their rifles slung over their shoulders.

An imam read words I didn’t hear, my mind numb.

Omar stood beside me, his hand heavy on my arm.

I thought of mama, how she dreamed of my wedding day with henna on my hands and music in the air.

This was nothing like that.

I felt like a ghost trapped in my own body.

But inside I prayed, “Jesus, you’re my true husband.

Don’t let me forget”.

After they took me to a new room, not a cell, but still a cage.

It had a bed, a curtain, and Omar’s things.

Books, a prayer rug, a knife on a table.

He came at night, and I won’t tell you what happened.

It’s too heavy, too raw.

I’ll only say I felt like my soul was being torn apart, like I was no longer me.

But even then, I whispered to Jesus, “Stay with me”.

And he did in a way I can’t explain.

A piece that didn’t make sense, a strength that kept me breathing.

I decided then I wouldn’t let them win.

They could hurt my body, take my honor, but they couldn’t take my faith.

I started watching, listening.

The guards talked when they thought I wasn’t listening about raids, supplies, fights with government forces.

I noticed one guard, Bilal, younger than the others, maybe 20.

He was different.

His eyes weren’t as hard.

Once he slipped me an extra piece of bread, his hand shaking.

I hid it, not eating it, but keeping it like a treasure.

I started talking to him.

small things like thank you or is it sunny outside?

He’d nod looking away, but I saw something in him.

Doubt maybe or guilt.

Mariam noticed too.

Be careful, Fatima, she whispered one night.

He could help or he could hurt you.

But I felt a pull like Jesus was guiding me.

I kept the bread, wrapping it in a cloth and started hiding other things.

A spoon from a meal.

A nail I found in the dirt.

They were small, useless maybe, but they felt like hope.

I’d hold them at night, praying.

Show me a way out.

Miam and I made a plan, whispering through the crack.

We’d watch for a chance, an open gate, a distracted guard, anything.

We’ll escape together, she said, her voice fierce.

I believed her because she believed in me.

The days blurred, each one a battle to stay whole.

The guards kept coming, their fists and words bruising me inside and out.

Omar kept talking about saving me, but his eyes were hungry, not kind.

I felt like a bird in a cage, wings clipped, but still dreaming of the sky.

Marryiam was my strength, her whispers my lifeline.

We’d pray together silently, our hearts joined.

He leads me beside still waters, I’d think, picturing a place where pain couldn’t reach me.

One night after Omar left, I lay on the bed, my body aching, my heart heavy.

I thought of Aisha, wondering if she missed me, if she felt guilty for telling Baba.

I thought of Mama’s coffee, the way she’d hum while cooking.

I wanted to hate them for giving me up, but I couldn’t.

I loved them too much.

Instead, I prayed for them, asking Jesus to soften their hearts.

It was hard, forgiving them, but it made me feel lighter, like I was letting go of a stone.

The chapter of my life in that compound was the darkest, but it taught me something.

Faith isn’t just believing.

It’s choosing to believe.

Even when everything screams at you to give up.

I was bruised, broken, shamed.

But I wasn’t defeated.

I had Miam, my sister in faith, and I had Jesus, my savior.

And I had a spoon, a nail, a scrap of hope.

I didn’t know how, but I knew I’d fight to see the light again.

I learned in that dark compound that hope can be as small as a spoon, as fragile as a whispered prayer, but strong enough to pull you through hell.

It was 2024, and I was 18, maybe 19.

I’d lost track of time in that cell.

The world outside was a war with bombs and hunger tearing Yemen apart.

But inside me, a different war raged.

I was fighting to stay alive, to keep my faith, to hold on to the light I’d found.

The compound was a cage, its barbed wire glinting under the sun, its guards watching every move.

Miam and I had been planning for weeks, whispering through the crack in our cell’s wall.

We had a spoon, a nail, a cloth wrapped piece of bread.

Small things, but they felt like weapons.

Balal, the young guard, was our hope.

He was different, his eyes softer, like he didn’t belong with Omar’s men.

I’d thank him for water, ask about his day, anything to make him see me as human.

Once he lingered, muttering, “This isn’t right”.

I saw a crack in him like light through a broken wall.

Miam warned me to be careful, but I prayed, “Jesus, use him.

Show us away.

The chance came on a night when the sky roared.

Air strikes, government forces hitting Houthy targets shook the compound, dust falling from the ceiling.

The guards were shouting, running, their radios crackling, I heard Bal’s voice outside my door, nervous.

“Fatima,” he whispered, slipping me a key through the bars.

“Go now.

The gates open”.

My heart raced.

I didn’t know if I could trust him, but I felt Jesus nudge me like a hand on my back.

I grabbed the spoon, the nail, my courage, and waited for the next explosion.

When it came, the ground shook, and I heard boots fading down the hall.

I unlocked my door, the key trembling in my hand, and ran to Marryiam’s cell.

She was ready, her face pale but fierce.

We do this together, she whispered, gripping my hand.

Her fingers were cold, but her eyes burned with hope.

We crept through the shadows, past rooms filled with guns and crates, the air thick with smoke.

The open gate was ahead, unguarded, just like Bilal said.

I wanted to thank him, but there was no time.

We ran into the night, the desert stretching before us, vast and terrifying.

The air was cold, the sand sharp under my bare feet.

I’d lost my shoes somewhere in the compound, and Miam Zabaya was torn.

We didn’t speak, just ran, our breaths loud in the silence.

The air strikes lit the sky, orange flashes guiding us, but also showing us to anyone watching.

I prayed, “Jesus, hide us”.

We ducked behind rocks, hid in dry rivereds, moving when the bomb stopped.

My legs burned, my lungs achd, but Miriam kept me going.

“We’re free,” she whispered, her voice shaking with joy.

“I wanted to believe her, but fear was heavy, like a stone in my chest.

We didn’t get far before we heard them.

Trucks, their engines growling, the house were coming”.

Miam pulled me down behind a dune, her hand tight on mine.

“Stay low,” she hissed.

Headlights swept the desert and I heard Omar’s voice sharp and angry.

“Find the Kufar!” he shouted.

My heart stopped.

“If they caught us, it’d be worse than before.

Death maybe, or something slower, cruer.

I thought of Mama, her hands neater bread, and Aisha, her giggle like music.

I’d never see them again, but I couldn’t go back”.

I whispered to Miam, “We keep going”.

She nodded, her eyes wet but strong.

We ran again, the desert endless, the stars cold above us.

Miriam started to slow, her breaths ragged.

I’m fine, she lied, clutching her side.

I saw blood on her abaya, dark in the moonlight.

She’d been hurt.

Maybe in the compound, maybe from a fall.

Miam, let me look, I begged, but she shook her head.

No time, she said.

Keep moving.

I wanted to scream, to stop, but she was right.

The trucks were closer, their lights like eyes hunting us.

I put her arm around my shoulder, half carrying her, my own body screaming with pain.

Jesus, give me strength.

I prayed.

We reached a village at dawn, a cluster of mudhouses, quiet except for a rooster crowing.

Mariam was heavy now, her steps stumbling.

I knocked on a door, my heart pounding.

An old woman answered, her face wrinkled like a dried date.

I begged for help, my voice breaking.

Please, they’re after us.

She hesitated, then pulled us inside, hiding us in a back room with sacks of rice.

“The house has come here,” she whispered.

“Stay quiet”.

She gave us water and a rag for Miriam’s wound, but her eyes were scared.

I knew she was risking everything for us.

A stranger’s kindness in a world of fear.

Miam’s breathing was weak, her face gray.

I cleaned the wound, a deep cut on her side, oozing blood.

You’ll be okay, I lied, tears falling.

She smiled, faint but real.

Fatima, you’re my sister, she said.

Jesus brought us together.

She hummed our hymn.

What a friend we have in Jesus.

So soft I barely heard it.

I sang with her, our voices trembling, holding each other in that tiny room.

I prayed for a miracle, but her hand grew cold in mine.

“Go on without me,” she whispered.

“Live for him”.

I shook my head, sobbing.

“No, we’re together”.

But her eyes closed and she was gone, her face peaceful like she’d found the still waters she loved.

I don’t know how long I held her, crying into her abaya.

The old woman touched my shoulder.

“You must go,” she said.

“They’re coming”.

I didn’t want to leave Miam, but I heard trucks outside, men shouting.

I kissed her forehead whispering, “I’ll see you in heaven”.

The woman gave me a scarf to cover my face and pointed to a path behind the village.

There is a man, a smuggler, 2 mi north, she said.

He helps people like you.

I nodded, my heart breaking, and ran.

Miam’s hymn echoing in my head.

The desert was cruel, hot by day, freezing at night.

I walked for hours, my feet bleeding, my stomach empty.

I had no food, no water, just the nail and spoon in my pocket, useless now.

I thought of Miam, her strength, her love.

I thought of Aisha, wondering if she prayed for me.

I prayed for her, for Mama, for Baba, even for Bilal, who’d risked everything to help us.

“Jesus, lead me,” I whispered, my voice dry as the sand.

I felt him, not in a big way, but small, like a breeze telling me to keep going.

The smuggler was waiting in a ravine, a thin man with a truck that looked ready to fall apart.

“You’re the Christian girl,” he said, not unkindly.

I nodded, too tired to speak.

He drove me through back roads, past checkpoints, hiding me under blankets when soldiers passed.

He didn’t ask questions, but he gave me water and dates, sweet and sticky like the ones Baba used to bring.

I wanted to cry to thank him, but I was numb.

At one stop, another man joined us, saying the house were close, searching for a runaway.

I prayed harder, “Hide me, Jesus”.

The journey took days, maybe a week.

We crossed mountains, slept in caves, moved only at night.

Once a smuggler betrayed us, demanding more money we didn’t have.

I thought we’d be caught, but the first man argued, shoving him away.

She suffered enough, he said.

I don’t know why he fought for me, but I saw Jesus in him, in his rough hands and tired eyes.

Finally, we reached the border with Jordan.

A line in the sand that meant freedom.

The smuggler stopped, pointing to a camp in the distance.

“Go,” he said.

“You’re safe now”.

I stumbled across the border, my legs giving out.

I fell to my knees, the ground hard under me, and sobbed.

I was free, but I’d lost so much.

Miam, my family, my home.

The camp was crowded, full of refugees like me, their faces hollow with stories I’d never know.

A woman in a headscarf gave me bread and a blanket, her smile kind but sad.

I sat under a tent, the desert wind cold, and prayed, “Thank you, Jesus, for saving me, but why not marry him?

” I didn’t understand, and maybe I never will, but I felt him there in my tears in the sunrise, painting the sky gold.

I was in Jordan, alive, but my heart was heavy with grief.

Mariam’s face, her voice, her faith.

They were with me like a light I’d carry forever.

I’d escaped the compound, the house, Omar’s chains, but I hadn’t escaped the pain.

I thought of Aisha, wondering if she’d ever forgive herself for telling Baba.

I thought of Mama’s coffee, Baba’s laugh, the life I’d never have again.

But I also thought of Jesus.

How he’d walked with me through the desert, through the dark.

I was broken, but I was his, and that was enough to keep going.

I’m safe, but safety doesn’t erase the scars.

I carry Yemen in my heart.

The smell of mama’s cardamom coffee.

Aisha’s giggle.

The desert wind that carried me to freedom.

I carry Mariam, too.

Her voice singing hymns in that dark cell.

I’m telling you my story because I want you to know how I found light again.

How Jesus held me when I thought I’d break.

And how I learned to live even after losing everything.

When I crossed into Jordan, I collapsed.

My body empty, my heart heavy.

The refugee camp was a maze of tents filled with people like me, eyes hollow, stories silent.

A woman named Hana, her headscarf bright with flowers, gave me bread and a blanket.

You’re safe now, she said, her smile soft.

I nodded, but I didn’t feel safe.

I felt lost, like a leaf torn from a tree, floating nowhere.

I’d escaped Omar, the house, the compound, but I couldn’t escape the memories.

Miam’s cold hand, Baba’s angry eyes, Aisha’s tears.

At night, I’d wake up screaming, seeing Omar’s face, feeling the ropes on my wrists.

I’d pray, “Jesus, take this away”.

But the pain stayed, sharp as a knife.

Hana took me to a church, a small building hidden in a back street of Aman.

I was scared to go.

After the compound, any place felt like a trap.

But when I stepped inside, I heard singing, soft and warm, like the hymns Mariam taught me.

What a friend we have in Jesus.

The sound wrapped around me like mama’s arms when I was little.

The pastor, a man with kind eyes named Sami, welcomed me.

You’re home here, he said.

I didn’t believe him at first.

Home was Yemen with its markets and minouetses.

But that home was gone.

Still, I kept going to church, sitting in the back, listening to stories of Jesus healing the broken.

Each time I felt a little less alone.

The church became my family.

There were others like me.

Yemen refugees, some Christians, some not.

A woman named Ila, who’d fled the war, taught me to sew, her fingers quick with needle and thread.

She’d laugh, saying, “Fatima, you’re better at praying than stitching.

I’d smile.

My first real smiles in months.

A boy, Ysef, who’d lost his parents drew pictures of birds like Mariam’s son.

I’d watch him remembering her, my heart aching but grateful.

These people didn’t know my story, but they loved me.

And that love felt like Jesus’s hands holding me up.

But healing wasn’t easy.

Some days I’d sit in my room, a tiny space with a mattress and a cracked mirror, and see a stranger staring back.

My face was thinner, my eyes older, like they’d seen too much.

I’d dream of the compound of Omar’s voice, of Miam’s blood on my hands.

I’d wake up crying, my prayers shaky.

Why her, Jesus?

Why not me?

I felt guilty for surviving, for breathing when she wasn’t.

I felt angry too at Baba for turning me away.

At Aisha for telling, at the house for stealing my life, but anger was heavy, and I was tired of carrying stones.

Pastor Sammy noticed my quietness.

One day after church, he sat with me a cup of mint tea between us, the steam curling like smoke.

Fatima, he said, Jesus carried your pain on the cross.

Let him carry it now.

I shook my head, tears falling.

I can’t forget.

I said, Miam, my family, they’re gone.

He nodded, his eyes gentle.

You don’t forget, you forgive.

It’s not for them, it’s for you.

His words stayed with me like a seed planted in hard ground.

I didn’t know how to forgive, but I wanted to try.

I started working with an aid group helping refugees like me.

We gave out food, blankets, sometimes just a listening ear.

I met a woman, Zara, a Yemen Christian who’d converted years ago.

She’d been beaten, disowned, but now she smiled, her faith bright as the Jordan sun.

God uses our pain.

She told me, “Your story can help others”.

I didn’t believe her at first.

My story felt like shame, not strength.

But I started sharing it bit by bit with women in the camp.

I told them about Jesus, how he’d walked with me through the desert, how he’d loved me when I felt unlovable.

Their eyes would light up or they’d cry and I’d feel Miam’s spirit with me urging me on.

One night I sat down with a pen and paper, something I hadn’t done since Yemen.

I wrote a letter to Aisha, my hand shaking.

Dear Aisha, I began.

I miss you.

I miss your laugh, the way you’d steal my honey.

I know you told Baba because you were scared.

Because you love me.

I’m not angry anymore.

I’m a Christian now and Jesus taught me to forgive.

I pray you’ll understand one day that you’ll know he loves you, too.

I’m far away, but you’re still my sister.

I didn’t send it.

How could I?

I didn’t know where she was, if she’d even read it.

But writing it felt like letting go of a weight, like breathing after holding my breath too long.

Forgiving Baba and Mama was harder.

I’d lie awake remembering Baba’s slap, Mama’s silence when the Houthies took me.

I wanted to hate them, but I couldn’t.

I saw Mama’s hands rough from washing clothes and Baba’s smile when he brought me dates.

They’d acted out of fear, not hate.

I prayed for them night after night, asking Jesus to soften their hearts, to let them know I was alive.

Continue reading….
« Prev Next »