Powerful Christian Testimony from Amina , in Afghanistan

 I HAVE DECIDED TO FOLLOW JESUS  

SHOT 20 TIMES 

SHE STILL STOOD 

A L I V E  ! 

BULLETS COULDN'T STOP HER! 

THEY SAW ANGELS OF GOD AND DROPPED THEIR WEAPONS IN FEAR!!! 

  READ NOW!!!  

 EX MUSLIM WOMAN TESTIMONY 

HOW THE TALIBAN SHOT ME 20 TIMES..And God Sent His Angels to Save Me • Powerful Christian Testimony 

Who can battle with the Lord God Almighty, the Great Creator and Savior of the world.

HOW THE TALIBAN SHOT ME 20 TIMES... 

And God Sent His Angels to Save Me 

• Powerful Christian Testimony 

In this unforgettable Christian testimony, Amina, a young woman from Kabul, Afghanistan, shares her harrowing journey of faith, survival, and redemption under Taliban rule. Once a Muslim girl raised under strict Islamic traditions, Amina encountered Jesus during the years of U.S. presence in Afghanistan-and everything changed. 

After secretly converting to Christianity and helping underground believers, Amina was captured by the Taliban, publicly accused of apostasy, tortured, and sentenced to death. Despite being shot 20 times, she survived the execution-and what followed Would shake even her executioners to the core. 

This is not just a story of survival. It's a story of faith tested in fire, of enemies becoming brothers, and of a revival quietly unfolding in the darkest places on earth.

What if I told you that in Afghanistan, the Taliban tried to kill me by sentencing me to death and firing 20 bullets into my body? Yet, she lived to tell the story. This is not folklore. This is not a rumor passed between villages. This is the voice of someone they couldn't silence. 

My name is Amina. I am 24 years old and I was born in Kabul, Afghanistan. I was raised in a strict Muslim home where Islam was not just a religion. It was the rule of life. Everything we did from what we wore to how we spoke was shaped by Islamic tradition. My father was a bus driver and my mother stayed at home like most women in our neighborhood. I grew up in a house where the Quran was read daily and the word of the imam at the mosque was never questioned. I was taught to pray five times a day, wear a headscarf, and never raise my voice in front of men. My mother used to remind me all the time. Amina, a good Muslim girl must be silent, respectful, and covered. We believe that was how Allah wanted it. I had never imagined a different life. I didn't know I could want more until I did. When I turned 12, something happened that changed the direction of my life. It was 2010. The United States military was still in Afghanistan. And for the first time, girls education was being encouraged in Kabul. A school opened not far from our home and it accepted girls. At first, my father refused to let me go. He believed it was a western idea that would corrupt me. And he thought it was against Islam for girls to sit in classrooms, learn science, or study English. But my uncle, who had worked as a translator for the American military, convinced him. He told my father, "Let her learn. she could get a job one day and help the family. After days of hesitation, my father finally said yes. I still remember walking into that school for the first time. I was nervous but excited. It was a small building with thin walls, broken windows, and a dirt floor. But to me, it felt like a palace. 

School opened my eyes. For the first time, I met other girls my age who dreamed of becoming doctors, teachers, and writers. I learned to read and write in Dari, (Dialect of the Persian language spoken in Afghanistan) then in English. My teacher was a young Afghan woman named Ila who had studied in India. She was kind and spoke gently. She treated us like we mattered. She didn't quote the Quran or shout like the mullas at the mosque. (Mullas is a Muslim man learned in Islamic theology and sacred law) 

She told us, "Your minds are not your enemy. Use them." That sentence stayed with me. At home, I kept silent, still pretending to be the quiet Muslim girl my family wanted. But in school, I started to ask questions. Why can't girls led prayers?  Why are we told to cover up when the Quran says Allah looks at the heart? Why do boys get freedom and girls get fear? I didn't speak these thoughts aloud, but they stirred inside me, slowly building a hunger for truth. That hunger led me to a conversation that would change everything. 

One afternoon after class, I stayed behind to ask Ila for help with my English homework. As she explained the lesson, I noticed a thin silver cross on a chain around her neck. I had never seen one before. In Afghanistan, Christians were often seen as enemies of Islam, and anyone caught with a Bible could be beaten or worse. I asked her, "Miss, what is that?" She hesitated for a moment, looked around, then whispered, "It's the sign of my faith." I was confused. "You're not Muslim?" I asked. She shook her head. " I follow Isa Al-Masih, Jesus the Messiah ." (In orthodox Islam, Isa al-Masih (عيسى المسيح usually translated as Jesus Christ) is believed to be a prophet, second in rank to Muhammad, and not the son of God.) My heart raced. I had heard his name in the Quran, but never like this. She said,"If you want, I can tell you more, but only if you  promise to keep it secret. It could cost us both everything." I nodded slowly. And so my secret journey began. 

Over the next few months, I began to meet with Ila in private. She gave me pages from the New Testament written in Dari. She told me stories about Jesus healing the sick people, loving the poor people, and forgiving even his enemies. Everything I read felt so different from what I  had learned  growing up. Islam taught me that Allah was distant and angry and that I had to earn his mercy by obeying rules. But this Jesus is Al-Masih, he was gentle, near and full of love. He called God as Father. He said things like, "Come to me all who are weary and love your enemies."  I couldn't stop reading. I would hide the pages inside my school  books and read them at night by the light of a small candle. My heart began to soften. I started praying  not to Allah, but to this Jesus.  I didn't understand everything yet, but I knew something deep was happening inside of me. Then one night, I had a dream. I was standing in the middle of a dry field, lost and thirsty. The sky was dark and I was afraid. Suddenly, a man in white appeared beside me. His face shone like the morning sun and he reached out his hand. He said, "'Amina, do not be afraid. I am the way." I fell to my knees in the dream and I felt peace like l had never known. When I woke up, I was crying. I told Ila the next day and her eyes filled with tears. She said, "Jesus has called you by name. This is how it begins." That was the moment I knew I had to follow him, not just learn about him, not just admire him. I had to surrender. That night, I whispered in the dark, "Jesus, I believe  are the son of God. I give you my life." And in that moment, something shifted in my soul. I felt free, but freedom came with fear. I knew what would happen if my family found out. Apostasy, leaving  Islam, is punishable by death in Afghanistan. If not by law, then by honor, my father would have killed me with his own hands. So I kept everything secret. I pretended to pray like a Muslim. I still wore my hijab and went to the mosque when I had to. But inside, I belonged to Jesus. I joined a secret group of other believers. Just six of us, all women, all afraid. We met in an abandoned basement in the outskirts  of Kabul once a week. We shared scripture, prayed in whispers, and cried together. We had no pastor, no church building, no cross on the wall, just our faith and our friendship. We knew we were risking everything, but we also knew we had found the truth. I stopped calling Allah's name in prayer. I began calling God "Abba", "Father", and I knew he heard me. 

For a few years, we lived between danger and joy. The Americans were still in control, and while things were tense, there was some protection. Schools stayed open and foreign aid organizations helped cover our underground meetings. I even started working part-time with a women's literacy program in Herat, (Capital of Herat Province, Afghanistan. Herat, also known as Harat or Hirat, and historically known as Hira, Harew, Haraiva, Areion, and Horeiva, is an oasis city and the third-largest city in Afghanistan.) helping girls learn to read. I felt like I was living two lives, one life as a Muslim daughter in public, and another life as a follower  of Christ in secret. But I told myself it was worth it. Jesus had said,  "Whoever loses their life for my sake will find it." I knew that following him meant  carrying a cross. But I never expected what came next. 

In 2021, everything began to fall apart. The Americans announced they were leaving Afghanistan.  And when they did, the Taliban moved quickly. Cities fell one by one. Kandahar, Mazar, Herat, then Kabul. And with them, our  fragile freedom disappeared almost overnight. I still remember the day the Taliban entered Kabul. I was in the market with my mother when the news came. People started running, shouting, crying. Within hours, the streets were silent except for the sound of gunfire and the roar of Taliban trucks. Banners with Islamic slogans replaced school signs. The black flag of the Taliban flew above government buildings. Armed men patrolled the streets shouting "Allahu Akbar"! and forcing women back into their homes. My school was closed the next day. Girls were banned from  attending classes beyond the sixth grade. Women were ordered to wear burkas again. (Burqa is singular; burkas is plural; is a long, loose garment covering the whole body from head to feet, worn in public by some Muslim women.) Music was banned . Internet cafes were raided. House churches were   hunted. Friends of mine from our underground fellowship vanished without a trace. One was arrested. One was killed. One simply disappeared. I knew it was only a matter of time before they found me, too. The walls were closing in, and I could feel it in my bones. My father, once open-minded because of my uncle's influence, changed overnight. He praised the return of real Islam and welcomed the Taliban on the television. He spoke of the days when Afghanistan would finally be clean of Western influence. I had to stop going to our secret meetings. I burned the pages of scripture I had hidden in my room. I deleted everything from my phone, but none of it could undo the truth I now carried inside me. I belong to Jesus and I knew that truth would cost me. The decision I had made to follow him. The dream, the peace, the freedom  was now leading me into the storm. The veil that had once been lifted from my eyes was now returning to my world. But I could not forget what I had seen. I could not unknow what I had learned. And I could not deny the one who had called me by name. The city of Kabul had changed completely. What used to be noise and movement became silence and fear. After the Taliban took control in August 2021, the first thing they did was close every girl's high school. We were told it was  temporary, but we knew better. They didn't believe girls had a right to study. At checkpoints, armed men watched every woman, forcing us to wear full burkas again. The freedom we had tasted was gone. Female doctors were fired from their position. Female teachers disappeared. Women were no longer allowed to walk without a male relative. Loudspeakers at mosques began preaching that Islam had been restored. They said this was the will of Allah. But for women, it felt like we were being erased. Step by step, our rights were taken away. I stayed inside most days, covering my windows and only going out when it was necessary. It was like being buried alive with your eyes open. 

The underground church we had belonged to had scattered. One sister named Sarah was caught with pages of the Bible in her home. No one saw her again. Another woman, Miriam, was taken from her workplace when a colleague reported that she didn't attend Friday prayers at the mosque. Some Christians fied to the mountais. Others tried to hide in plain sight. I burned the few remaining scripture pages I had left. Every time l walked past the mosque, I felt like I was being watched. The imams began warning the people. Anyone found leaving  Islam is a traitor and must face Allah's judgment. Everyone knew what that meant. 

I started praying in silence. No more whispers, no more songs, just thoughts to Jesus in my heart. I knew he could hear me even if I didn't speak. Every day I expected a knock at the door. Every night I dreamed of footsteps coming for me. The fear was constant. Still, even in fear, we continued to tryand help each other. We knew there were women in worse conditions. Widows, orphans, young girls who had been promised to Taliban fighters as wives. Some of the women who had once been part of our fellowship were in hiding. We tried to find ways to reach them. I began working secretly with two other believers to bring food, medicine, and scripture to women in need.  We used codes when we spoke. The book meant the Bible. White bread meant pages of encouragement.  Oil meant prayer. We never said Jesus name out loud. We carried everything hidden under burkas. Flatbread covering written prayers. Children's story books hiding psalms. We changed routes every time. We never moved in groups. I knew what would happen if I were caught. But l also knew that when Jesus said, "I was hungry and you fed me," he meant it. Every step I took in fear was a step in faith.

Then came the mission that changed everything. There was an older woman named Zara living near the edge of the city, close to an abandoned military outpost. She had once been part of our  prayer circle, but she was now completely alone. Her husband had died of illness months before.  Her son had vanished, possibly arrested, possibly  worse. We had tried reaching her through others, but no one had succeeded. One morning, I was told she was sick and starving. She had no food, no heat, and no medicine. I knew it was dangerous, but something inside me pushed me to go. I packed a small bag with bread, powdered milk, pain tablets, and a Bible hidden between packets of tea. I wrapped everything in cloth, dressed in my burka, and left at sunrise. I told my mother I was going to visit a cousin. She didn't ask questions. She knew  better than to question movements these days. Everyone was afraid. The streets were quiet that morning. The sky was gray and a cold wind moved through the alleyways. I walked slowly, heart pounding, trying to blend in. I had taken that road before, but things had changed. Taliban fighters now stood at random checkpoints, some are official, some are not official. They wore black scarves and carried rifles across their shoulders. Some had their faces covered, others looked young, barely older than me. About half way to Zara's home, I turned  a corner and saw a black pick-up truck blocking the street. Three armed men were stopping women and asking questions. My first instinct was to turn back, but it was too late. One of them saw me and waved me forward. "Where are you going? " He asked in Pashto. (Pashto is an eastern Iranian language. Spoken as a native language mostly by ethnic Pashtuns, it is one of the two official languages of Afghanistan alongside Dari) I kept my head low. "To visit my cousin," I said quietly. "She is sick."  He motioned for me to open my bag. I hesitated. "Do it," he shouted and I obeyed. As soon as he opened the bag, his expression changed. He pulled out the Bible from between the tea packets. "What is this?" he demanded. I froze. "It's just a book," I whispered. Another man stepped closer, took the Bible, and flipped through it.  He recognized what it was immediately. SHE IS A MURTAD. (renegade); (apostate). He said a defector. That word murtad meant someone who had left Islam. In Taliban language. It meant someone who should die. They pulled me aside and ordered me to lift my burqa. I tried to resist but one of them struck me across the shoulder. My face was revealed. "Do you know this woman?" One of them asked. The man with the rifle stared at me. "Yes. She was seen at the foreign school before it closed. She is one of them." That was all it took. I was grabbed, handcuffed roughly, and dragged toward the truck. I didn't scream. I knew there was no point.

Inside the truck, I was pushed to the floor. A piece of cloth was tied over my eyes. The men spoke quickly in Pashto, laughing at times, then switching to Arabic for certain words. I heard them mention cuff, unbelief and Isa Jesus. They were mocking him. One said, "We will see if her God saves her now." I tried to pray, but the fear was so strong it choked my thoughts.  I asked Jesus to be with me, to give me strength, to remind me of who I was. I felt like I was losing everything. My body shook from cold and shock, but I tried to stay calm. I remembered Ila once telling me, "Even in the fire, he is near."

 After a long drive, the truck stopped. I was pulled out and the cloth was removed from my eyes. We were in a compound. Tall walls, rusty gates, broken windows. I didn't know where l was, but I knew this was not a police station. One of the men dragged me into a small room. There was a dirty mattress on the floor and nothing else. The door slammed shut. I sat in silence trying to control my breathing. Hours passed. No food, no water, no one came. Finally, the door opened and three men entered. One was older with a long beard and cruel eyes. He said, "So you are the girl who left Islam." I didn't speak. He stepped closer. "You should have know  better. You chose the religion of the kafir," {Kāfir (Arabic: كَافِر; pl. كَافِرُون, kāfirūn)  is an Islamic term of Arabic origin used by Muslims to refer to non-Muslims who deny Allah, reject his authority, and do not accept the message of Islam as truth.} "the pigs, the enemies of Allah."  Then he hit me hard. My head snapped to the side and I fell to the floor. Another kick came. Then another. They were not trying to ask questions. They just wanted to hurt me. My ribs screamed with pain. I curled into a ball. The oldest man leaned over and whispered, "This is just the beginning. We will see how strong your Isa is." They left me on the floor, bleeding and shaking.  I tried to move, but my body didn't respond. My  mouth was dry, my face swollen. I began to cry, not from pain alone, but from the weight of everything. I remembered Zara, still waiting for the supplies that never came. I remembered the secret prayer meetings, the worship, the peace. I thought about my mother who had no idea where I was. I didn't even know if I would live through the night. But in that moment, lying broken in the dirt, I felt something. A warmth in my chest, a whisper in my heart. Not loud, not dramatic, just a presence, like a hand resting on my back, reminding me. "I AM with you." I began to whisper the name of Jesus under my breath. It was all I had left. The beatings had begun, but so had something else. 

The beginning of a testimony that no prison could silence. The pain didn't stop with the first beating. That night, I was left in the cold cell. My body aching and my clothes stained with blood.  I couldn't sit up. Every breath felt like it could be my last, but I was still alive. I whispered Jesus name in the dark again   and again, like a broken record in my chest. 

The next morning, heavy boots echoed in the hallway. The door opened with a loud creek and two men entered.  One of them was the older man with the beard. The other was younger, maybe  only a few years older than me.  They stood over me like I was nothing. "You think your Isa can save you?" The older man spat. "You were born a Muslim. You belong to Allah, not to the kafir." The younger man handed him a folder. Inside were photos, images of me at school in gatherings, and one with the hidden Bible. They began questioning me  without giving me water, rest, or even a chair. I stayed on the floor while they stood above me. "Why did you leave İslam? Who else have you been meeting? Where do you hide your Christian books? " I stayed silent at first trying to protect others. They didn't like that. The younger one grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up. "Answer or die !!," he shouted. I finally said, "I follow Jesus. I don't follow Islam. That was the moment everything changed.   The older man shouted, "Murtad, apostate!" He slapped me hard across the face and the folder dropped to the ground. They didn't want information anymore. They wanted to make an example out of me. I had brought shame to Islam, they said. I had betrayed my family, my country, and my religion. The accusations were loud and cruel. They planned to kill me publicly to show  others what happens to those who follow Christ. 

Later that day, they dragged me out of the room into a courtyard behind the compound. There were about ten of them. Some watched from windows. Others came close, mocking me. "You will die today, kafir." (The term "kafir" also comes from Arabic and signifies a disbeliever. "Kafir" is the singular form, while "kuffar" is the irregular plural form) One said, "Maybe your Isa will come to pick you up." I was forced to my knees. My burka was torn and covered in dirt and blood. They wanted me to renounce Jesus. "One last chance." "Say the Shahada," {The Shahada (Arabic: الشَّهَادَةُ aš-šahādatu; Arabic pronunciation: [aʃʃahaːdatʊ], 'the testimony'), also transliterated as Shahadah, is an Islamic oath and creed, and one of the Five Pillars of Islam and part of the Adhan. It reads: "I bear witness that there is no god worthy of worship but God, and I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God." The Shahada declares belief in the oneness (tawhid) of God and the acceptance of Muhammad as God's messenger.}  the bearded man demanded. "Declare there is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet."  I looked up at him, my face swollen and eyes barely open. "No," I said through cracked lips. "Jesus is my savior." "I belong to him." His face turned red with rage. He stepped back, raised his hand, and gave the order. One of the men lifted a rifle, aimed it at my chest, and fired. The sound was deafening. I felt the bullets rip through me, one after another. I don't know how many times I was hit before I blacked out. Later, they said it was 20 bullets. Twenty. Some bullets hit my chest. Others tore through my arms, my side, and my legs. I  collapsed onto the ground, unable to move, drowning in blood. But I was still breathing. I should have died in seconds, but I didn't. I didn't feel pain anymore, feel only peace.  I remember  laying there thinking, "Jesus, I'm ready if this is the end." But something strange was happening. I could still hear their voices around me. At first, they were laughing. Then their tone changed. Someone shouted, "She's still alive !" Another man cursed in disbelief. "No one survives that many shots." I tried  to open my eyes. Everything was blurry, but I could sense fear in their voices. Fear that did not come from me. One man whispered, "I saw something light fire around her." Another stepped back, "It's a curse," he said. Or something else. The men who had just tried to kill me were now shaking. One of them dropped his weapon and stepped away. Another stared at me like I was something out of a nightmare.  "She should be dead!," he yelled. "Why is she still alive?" The air in the courtyard felt different, like it was heavy, but holy. I still couldn't  move, but I felt a warmth around me. I wasn't afraid. It was like someone was standing between me and death, shielding me. The older man walked closer, gun still in his hand, but even he looked confused. "This is not natural," he whispered. "This is jin work or something worse." One of the others  interrupted. "No, not jin. This is something holy." That word holy coming from a Taliban soldier broke something in the air. For a moment, everything went still. The bird stopped. The wind held its breath. And I knew God was here. Despite the blood, despite the pain, despite the death sentence, I was alive. Not just breathing, but fully conscious, aware. I wanted to speak, but my lips were too dry. One of the younger soldiers stepped forward and said, "We cannot leave her here." The commander hesitated. He didn't want to admit what they had just seen. "Take her back   inside." He finally ordered. "We will decide later." I was lifted by two men, both shaking as they touched me. One of them whispered, "Forgive us." They placed me on a stretcher and carried me back into the building. As they moved me through the hallway, I could see the faces of other men, fighters, guards, watching with fear. Some crossed themselves in an Islamic gesture. (🤞‘fingers cross’)  Others whispered verses from the Quran. But no  one laughed. No one mocked anymore. Something had shifted. The woman they had shot twenty times was still breathing. And they didn't know why. They didn't treat me like a prisoner anymore. At least not in the same way.  I was no longer locked in the small room with nothing. They moved me to a slightly larger room with a mattress, a thin blanket, and a bottle of water. But it wasn't kindness. It was confusion. They didn't know what to do with me. I had become a mystery. Some thought I was cursed. Others believed I had some kind of evil power. But a few whispered that maybe it was something from heaven.

One of the guards came in late at night, sat at the edge of the mattress, and asked , "How are you still alive?" I didn't answer. My voice hadn't come back yet, but I looked him in the eyes, and nodded slowly. "You saw him, didn't you?" he said. "The man in white. They said they saw light around you." Then he left without saying another word. 

Days passed. My wounds began to close. The pain was there, but not unbearable.  I wasn't treated by a doctor, but somehow I didn't get an infection. My body began to heal against all logic, against every medical rule. I had nothing but water and a few bites of dry bread. But strength started to return. 

Some of the guards avoided me completely. Others came to the door just to look at me. One of them brought a blanket without saying anything.  Another left a small notebook and pen on the floor. I wrote down the only thing I could. JESUS IS ALIVE. I stared at that sentence for hours. I wanted them to see it. I wanted them to know that I had not survived because of luck or magic or jin. I had survived because Jesus had stood with me in that courtyard. Twenty bullets were meant to silence me. Instead, they became a testimony. Every night I asked Jesus the same question. Why am I still here? And every night I felt the same answer because l am not finished. I realized that my survival wasn't just about me. It was for them too. For the very men who had tried to kill me. They had seen  something that broke their understanding of the world. They had seen light in a place meant for darkness. I didn't know what would happen next. I didn't know if they would try again. But I knew one  thing for sure. They were no longer in control. The moment they fired those bullets and I did not die, the power shifted. And even though I was still a prisoner, I was no longer their victim. I was a witness, a living message, proof that Jesus saves, even in the middle of hell. And they were beginning to realize that truth whether they wanted to or not. I lost track of how many days passed after they took me back inside. 

 I drifted in and out of sleep, pain, and strange silence. My body was healing from the bullet wounds in ways I couldn't understand, but I was still weak. 

Then one morning, without warning, two men stormed into the room. They didn't speak. They grabbed me by the arms and dragged me across the hallway, down a narrow staircase that led  underground. The air changed the moment we descended, cold, damp, thick with mold. The walls were wet. The smell of urine and blood hit me like smoke. The men opened a thick steel door and threw me into a dark cell. I hit the floor hard. My skin scraped against something rough. I tried to lift myself up but couldn't. Chains rattled near the wall . I wasn't alone in that room. There were the shadows of others, maybe past victims or maybe ghosts.  My wrists were shackled to a metal hook on the wall. My ankles, too. The iron was cold against   my skin, digging deep into places already bruised. I couldn't stretch my legs or stand properly. My body began to shake from both fear and the sudden drop  in temperature. A few hours passed. No food, no water, no sound. Then the door opened again. 

This time the commander walked in. I had seen him before. Once during the beating and again in the  courtyard. His face was hard and narrow. His eyes showed no life, only control. He stepped toward me slowly like a lion walking around a trapped animal. "You are cursed," he said coldly. "A traitor to Islam, a dog of the West, a shame to your people and your God." He spat on the floor near my feet. "You think your Isa saved you." He hissed. "We will show you that nothing protects the filthy who turn against Allah." He left, but others came not to speak, not to ask questions, only to torture. I was denied food for two days. My lips cracked, my skin became dry, and my stomach felt like it was eating itself. The hunger was sharp at first, then dull, then became part of me. They threw cold water on me at night to keep me awake. Then came the electric wires. They tied crude metal points to my fingers and feet, laughing as they turned the power on. My whole body jerked as the shock hit me. My teeth  clenched so tight I thought they would break. Every time I screamed, they laughed louder. "Still think Isa will come for you," one of them shouted. I could hardly breathe. When they left, I collapsed into the chains like a puppet with cut strings. I cried for hours. Not because I wanted to die, but because I didn't know how much longer I could live. What made it worse was the humiliation. As a woman, they made sure I felt like nothing. They would walk in, kick the chain, and watch me scramble in fear. They would throw my water on the ground , and make me lick it off the floor.

One day, one of them held a Quran and said, "Kiss it. Say the words of the shahada or we will make this your grave." I refused. Even in pain, I knew I couldn't deny Jesus. "He is my Lord," I whispered. They slapped me across the mouth so hard that I tasted blood for hours. 

Another day, they brought in a speaker and began  playing Islamic prayers loudly. They ordered me to repeat after them. "Say the words," they shouted again and again.  I stayed silent. I let the sound hit  my ears, but I would not let it touch my heart. I belong to Christ. My body was chained, but my spirit wasn't. Then something happened that even I didn't understand.

 After one long day of torture, they left me half conscious on the floor. I must have passed out from exhaustion and pain. But while I was  unconscious, something poured out of me. I didn't see it, but I felt it. My lips 👄 began to move. Words came out that I didn't recognize. They weren't Dari. They weren't English. It was a language I had never learned. I spoke as if someone else was praying through me. I found out later that one of the guards had entered during this moment. He had frozen in fear. He said I was glowing , that my face was calm and my voice was like a river. He ran out of the room screaming. "She's possessed. She's casting a spell." Others came and watched, but none dared enter to the room. I woke up hours later, confused, weak, and thirsty. But I felt peace. I knew the Holy Spirit had spoken. 

The next morning, everything changed again. The  commander entered with two guards. They stood in silence. Then he threw something at my feet. It was orange in color. A dress, a thin, rough piece of clothing like the ones worn by prisoners before execution."Put it on," he said."It is time you see what is coming."  I didn't move. He walked over and held my chin. "We tried bullets. Now we'll try something slower." He dropped my head and  left. I stared at the dress for what felt like hours. The color hurt my eyes. It meant death. It meant that they were preparing to end me publicly, a warning for others, a punishment for betraying  Islam. My hands trembled as I reached out and slowly pulled the dress over my broken body. It stuck to my wounds, my blood mixed with the fabric. As I sat on the floor wrapped in death's color, I began to pray, not for rescue, but for strength. 

That night, the power in the building went out for a while.  It was the first time everything was quiet. No screams, no footsteps, just me and the darkness. I couldn't sleep. I felt cold and close to the end. But I remembered a psalm I had read many years ago in a torn piece of the Bible. Psalm 23. I began to recite it softly, my voice shaking. "The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures." My voice grew stronger as I continued. "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." I paused. My lips were dry, but the words burned inside me, "for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me." As I whispered those words, I felt like  heaven itself leaned close to to hear me. Even chained, I was not alone, never alone. I didn't know what would happen next. I didn't know if tomorrow would be the end, but I made peace with that. I had been beaten, electrocuted, starved, and humiliated. Yet, I was still his. They could take my body, but they couldn't take my soul. 

 I remembered how it all began. One classroom, one teacher, one dream, one whisper from Jesus. And now here I was, wearing the color of the condemned, sitting in the dungeon of men who didn't know the mercy of God. My face was bruised, my heart was tired, but my spirit was alive. I smiled even through cracked lips because I knew this was not the end of my story. It was the beginning of something no one could stop. They thought they had caged me. But in truth, they had only placed me where God's fire would burn brightest. And in that dark dungeon, I waited, not for death, but for whatever God would do next. 

I did not sleep the night before it happened. The chains were heavy around my ankles, and the  orange dress rubbed against my skin like  sandpaper. I could feel the tension in the air as if the walls themselves were waiting for something.  I was tired, too tired to feel fear. There was a calm  inside me that didn't make sense. I remembered the words from Psalm 23 and kept repeating them softly. "Even though I walked through the valley of the shadow of death." I had already walked through that valley, or so I thought. 

When the door opened just before dawn, I didn't flinch. Two men entered with covered faces. One unlocked the chain while the other watched me closely,with rifle in hand. "Stand up," one said. I tried, but my legs shook. They grabbed my arms and dragged me out. The hallway was dark and the only sound was my slow, steady breathing. As they led me through the narrow hall, I noticed the building was quieter than usual. No shouting, no  laughing, no torture sounds, just footsteps. 

The cold morning air hit my face as we stepped into the courtyard. The sky was still a deep blue, the stars fading into the light.  I saw the camera first, mounted on a metal tripod already recording. There were men around it adjusting the focus, checking the microphone. Behind them stood a group of Taliban soldiers, fully armed, standing like spectators. I was pushed forward onto the sand-covered floor and forced to kneel. 

The commander appeared from the shadows. He walked, slowly toward me, holding a sheet of paper in one hand. His expression was not angry. It was  blank, like he was trying to pretend this was normal. But I saw his hands shaking. He looked down at me and said nothing. Then he turned to the men and began reciting something in Arabic. I  didn't understand all the  words, but I recognized parts. Apostate, punishment, betrayal of Islam. He was giving the final speech, the last words before the execution. The camera was pointed at me. The orange dress made me feel exposed, like every eye could see my weakness. I heard one of the soldiers chamber a bullet. Another lifted a curved blade. The air was thick with tension. Dust rose with every step. And the morning light turned the sky from blue to gold. 

I lowered my head and whispered again. "The Lord is my shepherd."  I didn't expect a miracle. I just wanted to die knowing I had not denied Jesus. Then everything changed. Right in the middle of the  commander's speech, his voice broke. He stopped mid-sentence, his mouth open, his eyes wide. He looked at me, but not exactly at me, through me. He stumbled back, and then it happened. Light. 

It was not sunlight. This was something else. A brightness so strong it burned into the skin, but without heat. It filled the courtyard instantly. The camera's lens cracked. The microphone  sparked. The men around the platform began shouting. One dropped his rifle. Another shielded his face with both hands. The light pulsed like fire, but didn't consume anything. I felt something move around me. An energy, a presence. My hands, still shackled, began to tingle. I looked down and saw the chains fall off. Not broken, not unlocked, just gone. My body, which had been sore and weak, felt new.  I touched my side where the bullet wounds had been, but there was no pain. I looked at my arms. The bruises had faded. The cuts had closed. I stood slowly, not sure how or why I could. And when I looked up, I saw fear in their eyes. Not fear of me, but fear of what they couldn't explain. 

The commander stepped back, his face pale."What is this?"  he whispered. One of the guards fell to his knees, trembling violently. Another screamed and ran toward the gate, but he stopped suddenly as if hitting an invisible wall. He bounced back and fell, crying out in fear. The courtyard was no longer a place of execution. It had become something sacred, an altar of heaven. I could feel it in the air, as real as the dust on my skin. Some of the men were still frozen. Others began to mumble verses from the Quran, trying to protect themselves, but it didn't work. What they saw was beyond religion. They saw the truth. One man pointed at the space around me and shouted, "Fire! They're made of fire." I turned, but I saw nothing with my eyes. Still, I knew who had come. The angels, warriors of light, they had entered the place of death, carrying the glory of God . I could not see their faces, but I could feel them tall, powerful, holy. Their presence  filled every part of that courtyard. 

The soldiers, hardened men who had killed without mercy, now wept like children. One of them tried to pick up his weapon, but his hands would not close around the handle. Another fell flat on his face, sobbing, repeating over and over   astaghfirullah! astaghfirullah! asking Allah for forgiveness, but even he didn't know why. 

The commander dropped to his knees. His paper fell from his hand and the wind carried it away. "Your God," he said, looking at me with eyes wide and full of terror. "He is real. I saw him." His voice cracked. "He is here." He covered his face and began to cry. I stepped forward, my feet firm, my body strong. I was no longer the prisoner. I was no longer the victim. I was standing in the presence of my King. No one dared stop me. I walked across the courtyard slowly, my head lifted high. I felt the  power of God flowing through me like fire in my veins. The orange dress hung loosely around me. No longer a symbol of death, but a reminder that God had turned their evil plans into His glory. 

As I passed the camera, I noticed the screen. It was white, completely white. The light had erased everything. There would be no execution video, only silence and mystery. The men stepped aside as I walked. Some bowed, others couldn't look at me. One man whispered to himself. " She walks with the fire." 

I reached the gate and stopped. I turned to look back one last time. The place where I was supposed to die had become holy ground. Not because of me, but because God had shown up. In the middle of a Taliban stronghold, he had declared,"This one is mine!" 

I walked out of that compound untouched. No one stopped me. No one followed me. The sun was rising now, washing the sky in soft gold. My feet  were bare, but I didn't feel the stones. My steps were steady. I didn't know where I was going!  I didn't care.  I had seen heaven break into earth. I had seen men who once beat me, fall on their faces in terror. I had felt chains fall from me  without keys. I had watched wounds disappear from my skin as if they were never there. And most of all, I had seen the power of Jesus put fear into the hearts of men who had only known how to give fear to others. That courtyard, once a place of darkness, had become a stage for glory. 

I didn't know what would happen next. But I knew one thing without doubt. I would never be the same again. I was walking with God's fire. 

I didn't get far after walking out of the compound. Just beyond the outer gate, my body began to slow down. The iceshed over me. I collapsed near a  stone wall, breathing hard, unable to move another step. My legs felt weak again and my throat burned from thirst, but I was alive. I was free. 

A few hours passed. I wasn't sure if anyone was watching, but I didn't hear any footsteps behind me. Then, just as the sun reached its highest point, a shadow moved over me. I looked up and saw him, the commander. He was alone, not wearing his black uniform. Instead, he had on simple clothes, dusty and torn. In his hand was a small cloth bag. He sat beside me in silence and placed the bag on the ground. "I brought water," he said quietly. His voice was no longer hard. It sounded almost human. I didn't answer at first. I was still too stunned. He opened the bag, pulled out a bottle of water and some bread, and handed them to me. I took them slowly. "You should have run," I said with a weak voice. He looked away. "I couldn't," he   replied. "Not after what I saw," he paused. "My name is Yusuf."  

For the first time, I knew the name of the man who had ordered me to be beaten, tortured, and executed. The same man who now sat beside me, handing me bread like a brother. He looked at the ground and said, "Ever since that morning, I haven't slept. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. I looked at him."

"You saw the angels?" He shook his head. 

"No, I saw the man in white." His voice trembled. "He called my name," he said. "Yusuf, I have chosen you."  I thought I was losing my mind. "But it didn't stop."

He went on slowly, quietly, like someone confessing a secret for the fırst time. "The dream comes every night. The man in white is always there. He shows me my face. He shows me what I've done." "But he also shows me something else, forgiveness."

 I listened in silence, still too shocked to speak. Yusuf wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 

"I thought I was strong. I thought I was right, but I was blind." He looked at me, tears gathering. 

"When I saw you rise when the chains fell, I knew everything I believed was false. I knew he was real."  We sat in silence for a long time. 

Then he whispered,"Can he forgive even me?" I nodded slowly. "Yes, his mercy is greater than your sins." Yusuf let out a shaky breath. 

"Then I want to follow him. I don't want this life anymore." It was right there on that dusty path, he surrendered. 

We returned to the compound late that night. He didn't take me back to the dungeon. He led me to a small supply room near the back of the building and gave me a blanket. He told the other guards I had escaped and needed to be found. But secretly, he began visiting me at night. He brought food, water, and questions. 

Every night the same dream came to him. Every morning he woke up crying. "He calls me by name," he kept saying. "He tells me to come." 

After a few days, other guards began to behave strangely. One by one, they started coming to Yusuf in private. They spoke of dreams, visions, unexplained peace, and even burning hands. One said he had tried to pick up his rifle and couldn't. Another said he heard singing in the halls when no one was there. Yusuf brought them to me, one at a time after dark. We would sit on the floor barely whispering. They didn't know what was happening to them. They had lived their whole lives obeying Islam, serving the Taliban, believing violence was pleasing to Allah. But now their hearts were breaking open. 

"He keeps calling me." One guard said, "He tells me I am not too far gone." I told them all the same thing ,"That is Jesus, the man in white. " "Isa Al-Masih. He came for you like he came for me."  They cried. Some covered their faces in shame. Others asked to be forgiven right there in the room. We prayed. Not loud, never loud, just soft voices and trembling hands. They prayed in their own words. Not perfect, not scripted, just honest. And the peace that came was like warm oil on a wound. 

One night, Yusuf asked, "Can I be baptized?" We had no water basin, no church, just a bowl and a jug of water. It was enough. We closed the door, lit a single candle, and prayed. I poured water over his head and said, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Yusuf wept like a child. One by one, others followed. Tarik, who once beat me during interrogation, now knelt with shaking hands. Fawad, the youngest guard, could barely speak through his sobs. They had been enemies. Now they were brothers. 

But we knew the risk. We knew something so beautiful would never stay hidden. Word began to spread. Whispers among the fighters, rumors of dreams, betrayals, conversions. And then came the warning. 

Yusuf returned one night, pale and breathing fast. "They're coming," he said."The senior commanders from Kandahar. They heard about what happened. They want answers. I felt a wave of fear, but he placed a hand on my shoulder. "We can't stay. I won't let them take you again. We leave tomorrow. I have a plan." I didn't ask questions. 

I trusted him now, the same way I had once feared him. That night, we prayed with the others, seven in total. Yusuf brought forged documents stolen from a Taliban checkpoint. He had a map, a radio, and a plan to escape through the mountain roads near Salong Pass. The idea was dangerous, but we had no choice. 

The next morning, before dawn, we slipped out through the storage gate in the back of the compound. We wore civilian clothes. I covered my face with a scarf and kept my head down. The two vehicles Yusuf had prepared were old and dusty, perfect for blending in. We drove without headlights for miles. Every checkpoint we reached made my heart stop. But Yusuf spoke with confidence. He used the right phrases, the right dialect. His reputation got us through. We made it past Baglin, then through the snowy mountain road toward Parwan Province. But the hardest moment  came near a military checkpoint outside Charikar. The guard looked at me too long. I felt his eyes study my face.  My heart raced. Yusuf stepped forward. He spoke in a sharp tone, full of authority. "She is my sister. She was beaten. Keep your eyes to yourself."  The guard stiffened, saluted, and waved us through. I almost collapsed in the back seat, breathing heavily. "That was too close," I whispered. Yusuf nodded. We won't stop again. The road twisted through hills and valleys, cold wind  beating against the glass. We passed broken villages , rusted tanks, and signs of old battles. But no one spoke. Every mile was a prayer. After nearly 20   hours, we reached the border crossing near the walk-in corridor. 

It was dark and freezing. A local contact helped   bribe the final gatekeeper. And just like that, we crossed into freedom. No gunshots, no alarms, just silence and a long breath of cold air. 

We were in Tajikistan. From there we moved quietly through small villages avoiding major roads. In Dushanbe we stayed in a church safe house for a few nights. ...

[Dushanbe is the capital and largest city of Tajikistan. As of February 2023, Dushanbe had a population of 1,228,400, with this population being largely Tajik. Until 1929, the city was known in Russian as Dyushambe, and from 1929 to 1961 as Stalinabad, after Joseph Stalin. Dushanbe is located in the Gissar Valley, bounded by the Gissar Range in the north and east and the Babatag, Aktau, Rangontau and Karatau mountains in the south, and has an elevation of 750–930 m. The city is divided into four districts: Ismail Samani, Avicenna, Ferdowsi, and Shah Mansur.]

I slept on the floor surrounded by former enemies who now called me sister. Yusuf would sit by the window and read the Bible in Dari (here)  slowly carefully. Fawad kept a journal, writing down every verse that spoke to him. Tarik , once the cruelest of them now cried during prayer. I looked at them and saw what only God could do. He turned persecutors into protectors, turned Taliban executioners into his evangelists. We couldn't stay in Tajikistan for long. The Taliban had eyes there, too. 

With the help of a Christian aid network, we applied for asylum. Armenia agreed to receive us. None of us had ever been there, but we knew God was leading. When we landed in Yerevan, I stepped onto that ground with tears in my eyes. I was free. Fully free. 

  [Yerevan is the capital and largest city of Armenia, as well as one of the world's oldest continuously inhabited cities]

Armenia was not a place I ever thought I'd end up. I didn't speak the language. I didn't know anyone and had never imagined leaving my country. But when / stepped off the plane in Yerevan, I knew this was a different kind of FREEDOM, one l had never known before. The air was cold but clean. I didn't need to hide my face anymore. I didn't have to look over my should7er. I was safe, at least FOR NOW.

A small humanitarian organization had agreed to help us. They provided a secure building on the edge of the city, just outside the center. It had no signs, no flags, and no names on the doors. Just safety. 

I shared a room with two other women who had fled from Syria. Yusuf and the others stayed in a different section of the compound. It was quiet. At night, the silence felt heavy, but we were all learning how to breathe again. The local authorities visited 2 days after we arrived. Two men in black jackets, both Armenian nationals, came with translators and notebooks.They weren't unkind, but they were careful. They asked questions about who I was, where I had come from, how I had gotten out. They asked about my injuries, my time in Taliban custody, and the reason I had been  targeted. I answered honestly, but I could see they didn't believe everything. 

"And the men who helped you escape." One of them asked, "They were Taliban." I nodded. He raised his eyebrows. 

"And now they're Christians? I nodded again. 

The translator repeated it in Armenian. They wrote notes but said nothing. I could feel their doubt. To them, it didn't make sense. It didn't match the reports they were used to reading. 'How could the ones who once carried out violence now be sitting quietly with Bibles in their hands?' They didn't say it out loud, but I saw it in their faces. 

In the weeks that followed, we began to settle into a slow rhythm. The compound became a place of healing. We woke early, shared meals, cleaned our rooms, and tried to rebuild some kind of order. I spent most of my mornings reading scripture and writing down my memories. I knew I would need to tell my story someday. But it wasn't easy. There were days couldn't hold a pen. Some nights I woke up sweating, still hearing the sounds of the prison in my dreams. Yusuf spent his time quietly. He  stayed in the background, never demanding attention. He prayed, read, and sometimes sat in silence near the window for hours. Other guards who had escaped with us remained private. We all knew what we had come from. None of us were ready to talk much. We needed space. And the world outside the compound didn't know who we were. That anonymity was our protection and our peace. But silencer could only hold so much. 

The story began to spread in whispers. First among aid workers, then in nearby churches. People wanted to know what had happened. I was careful. I didn't want to become someone's headline. I didn't want the faces of the men who now followed Jesus to be used as trophies. They had come a long way from what they were, but they were still healing, rebuilding their identities, still carrying the weight of everything they had done, but some people couldn't look past their past. 

A few pastors in the area welcomed us warmly. Others kept their distance. One man, a local church elder, asked me quietly, "Do you really trust them?" I didn't blame him. He had lost family in a bombing years ago. Forgiveness is not something that comes easily, especially when the hands that hurt you now want to worship beside you. It's a strange and holy tension. 

But something else started happening. Quiet messages began arriving. Small handwritten notes passed through mutual contacts. Some came from Iran, others from Afghanistan. They were signed with initials, never full names. The messages were simple. "I had a dream of Isa." "I heard his voice in the night." Is it true others have followed him too? One message came folded inside a bag of rice sent to the compound. "Tell her the man in white still walks these  roads." Each letter was proof that the message was still moving, that the darkness hadn't stopped the light. Even in the places we had fled from, villages, prisons, border towns. Faith was growing in secret. And it wasn't loud. It wasn't big, but it was real. Some messages came from men we had never met. some came from women who said they had found scripture hidden floorboards. It was like rain falling quietly on dry soil. No storm, no thunder, just small faithful drops of hope. In one letter, a man said, "I used to believe fear was my power. Now I fear nothing but losing this truth." Another woman wrote, "They burned our Bibles, but I still remember the words. And now my daughter knows them, too."  These were not educated people. Many could barely read, but they had seen something, heard something, or felt something that they could not deny. They had found a truth they were willing to risk everything for. 

One note simply said,  "You are not alone." I kept that one folded in my pocket for days. It reminded me that this was bigger than me. It always had been. I wasn't the center of this story. I was just a voice, an echo of something older, deeper, stronger than anything the world could silence. The real story was not about survival. It was about a message that kept moving. Even through fear, even through betrayal, even through silence. 

Yusuf came to me one evening with a small notebook in his hand. "I've been writing down their names," he said. "The ones I hurt, the ones I want to pray for." I took the notebook and read a few lines. He had written first names and places. Some were from Kabul, some from Kandahar, some from the villages near the border. "I don't know if they're alive," he said. "But I want to believe they are alive, and I want to believe there's still hope for them, too." His voice cracked, "even after everything I've done." I didn't answer right away. I just nodded. 

Sometimes forgiveness doesn't come through words . Sometimes it just comes through listening, through staying near someone when they're trying to become someone new. That night, we prayed for every name on that list. Slowly, quietly, without forcing the emotion. Just a few names at a time, just a few drops of healing each day. Some people outside the compound didn't understand what was happening. 

A visiting missionary asked, "How can you trust them? They were the enemy." I looked at him and said, "So was I." He didn't reply. I wasn't trying to make a point.  I was just being honest. We all came from darkness. Some of us just carried it more visibly, and some wounds don't go away easily. There were still days when I avoided looking Yusuf  in the eyes. Still there were  days when Tarik, one of the former guards, kept his distance from women in the compound, ashamed of how he had once treated them. 

Restoration is not a straight line. It comes slowly in layers, and not everyone was ready. A few local believers refused to come near us at all. One said, "Not yet. l'm not ready to see them as brothers." We didn't pressure anyone. We knew how much it had cost people to survive. But in the small hidden spaces, restoration did begin. 

One evening, a woman whose husband had died in a Taliban raid asked to meet Yusuf. She sat across from him, silent at first. Then she said,"I won't say I forgive you. I don't know how, but I see what you are trying to become. And I will not stop you." That was enough. It wasn't a miracle. It was just mercy. A place to start again." 

After that meeting, Yusuf stayed up all night writing letters to people he might never be able to reach. Letters of repentance, letters of confession. None of them would be sent, but they were written. And maybe that was the point. 

The next day, I read one of his letters out loud to a small group, and that became something new. Once a week, we gathered quietly to read, pray, and remind ourselves that God was not done writing new stories. My voice began to spread, too. Not because I planned it, but because others asked. 

I began sharing my story with small groups. No microphones, no videos, just honesty. I told them what I had seen, what I had suffered, and what I had come to believe. Not everyone clapped. Some cried, some stayed quiet, some left before I finished, but others stayed behind and asked questions. One woman said, " "I didn't think faith could survive what you've been through."  I told her "faith is not what I carried. It is faith carried me." That became the sentence  I held on to. I wasn't here because I was strong. I was here because God had not let go of me. I wasn't a hero. I was a witness. That was all. And being a witness meant I had to speak. Not to be famous, not to be praised, but to remind the world that the light still shines even when no one is watching. 

Now when I look at the people around me, the ones who once hunted me, the ones who once feared me, and the ones who now pray beside me, I see something powerful. Not perfection, not instant healing, but movement, forward motion, step by step, heart by heart. What happened in that prison, on that road, in that escape? It planted something that cannot be uprooted. The pain is still there, but so is the promise. The silence is still heavy, but so is the peace. And as I write this, I know there are others reading in secret, praying in whisper, walking in fear, but not in darkness. To you, I say this, "you are not alone. The same God who walked with me through the shadowed halls of death walks with you now. Do not be afraid. " The light cannot be silenced. Not by hatred, not by war, not by the past, not even by SILENCE ITSELF.