My name is Jacob Nazar and what I’m about to share with you is a living testimony of how God can reveal himself even in the midst of the greatest terror.
It all began on a hot June morning in 2021 just outside Mosul, Iraq.
The fine desert dust danced around my feet as I delivered medicine and food to Kurdish families who had been forced to flee their homes because of the war.
I had been in that region for 3 years, dedicated to helping rebuild what the war had destroyed, bringing a little hope to those who seem to have lost everything.
Out in the west, many thought I was dead, but those who work closely knew that the threats had not disappeared.
The sleeper cells were still lurking, ready to emerge from the darkness at any moment.
In our country where the freedom to follow one’s faith is a luxury that few have, being a Christian in certain areas is almost like signing your own death warrant.
From an early age, my father taught me to have courage, but also to be careful.
I remember the nights we studied the Bible together in the basement of our home in Herville when he would say, “If one day you have to choose between denying Christ or losing your life, never forget that this life is fleeting compared to the eternity that awaits us.
” I never imagined that these words would sustain me during the darkest 17 days of my existence.
Friends, if you have ever doubted that God can work in the darkest places, if you have ever questioned his faithfulness in the face of the most cruel persecution, this story is for you.
I am here to prove that there is no darkness, no terrorists, no threat that can separate us from the love of Christ.
In the ISIS dungeons near Mosul, I reached the limit of what a human being can bear.
The line between life and death became as thin as a strand of hair.
But it was in that very place of darkness that God’s light shone with a power I had never felt before.
I want you to follow me through this story, not as a tale of fear, but as a testimony of faith and transformation.
The dusty streets of Herville in Iraqi Kurdistan have been my home for much of my adult life.
I grew up in a Calaldian Christian family at a time when being a Christian in the Middle East meant living in a constant storm.
My father, Elas Naza, was a doctor at a small community hospital, and my mother, Mariam, taught English at the local school.
Unlike many who left the country in search of safety, my parents chose to stay.
“This land needs light,” my father would say when I asked why we didn’t follow the path of so many who went to Europe or America.
My journey into humanitarian work has not been easy.
I studied civil engineering at the University of Baghdad, where the religious climate was always tense.
I learned to be discreet, to measure my words, to know when to reveal my faith.
But everything changed in 2014 with the rise of ISIS.
Seeing Christians being massacred, churches reduced to rubble and entire families uprooted from their homes made my heart burn with a calling I could not ignore.
I could no longer just build buildings while watching my people suffer around me.
It was in 2018 that I decided to join an international humanitarian organization using my engineering background to help rebuild war torn villages.
My work focused mainly on the CEDA region where the situation was somewhat calmer but still required extreme caution with every step we took.
Each day began the same way with prayer, Bible reading, and a thorough security assessment with our local team.
Never travel the same route twice, Farid, our security coordinator, warned us.
The eyes of the enemy are always watching.
Despite the constant danger, those 3 years before my abduction were marked by moments of great significance.
I have seen churches rise from the ashes, communities find hope again, and families return to homes they thought were lost forever.
I have also quietly organized small prayer and Bible study meetings for local Christians, always changing the location and using codes so that no one would find out.
Among so many stories, one stood out for me.
That of Sarah, a young woman who had left Islam to follow Christ.
When her family discovered her new faith, they rejected her completely.
It was at that moment that she found shelter in our network of brothers and sisters.
Your compassion showed me Christ even before your words,” she once told me over a simple but meaningful breakfast.
“At the time, I didn’t know that her testimony would be one of the pillars that would sustain my hope during the captivity that would follow.
The night before my abduction, I had a disturbing dream.
I saw myself locked in a dark cell surrounded by hooded men.
However, instead of feeling fear, a strange peace came over me.
When I woke up, I shared the dream with Rashid, a Christian colleague who worked with me.
“Maybe this is a warning,” he said, concerned.
“You should cancel the trip to Mosul tomorrow.
But I knew I couldn’t back out.
Many families were waiting for supplies that only I could bring since I had permission to pass through several checkpoints along the way.
Fear does not come from God,” I replied, remembering 2 Timothy 1:7.
“If I must face the darkness, let me take the light with me.
” Rashid nodded silently.
And that night, we prayed longer than usual, as if we sensed that this might be our last time together.
The morning of June 12th, 2021, arrived calm and dense.
The sun was rising shily over the dusty horizon of central Iraq, and I was loading the old white pickup truck with boxes of medicine, dehydrated food, and school supplies for the children.
Jasan, our regular driver, was sick, so I decided to take over the driving.
Later, I would understand that this coincidence was part of God’s plan.
If Hassan had been with me, he might have been captured or even lost his life.
As I drove toward Mosul, I silently repeated Psalm 91.
A thousand may fall at your side and 10,000 at your right hand, but it will not come near you.
At that moment, I had no idea how I would need to cling tightly to those words in the days to come.
The road to Mosul was lined with checkpoints.
Some were run by the Iraqi army, others by local militias.
Near the city, on a particularly deserted stretch, I noticed a black car parked on the side of the road.
It looked like a makeshift checkpoint, a common site in the area.
So, I slowed down carefully.
My left hand automatically reached for the briefcase where I kept my documents and authorizations while I mentally repeated my story.
Humanitarian worker delivering medical supplies with no political affiliation whatsoever.
When I was about 30 m from the vehicle, my safety instincts went into red alert.
There were no flags or official uniforms, just four men with their faces covered by bandanas holding rifles.
One of them was pointing an AK-47 straight at me.
Within seconds, I was considering my options.
Turn around and risk being shot in the back, accelerate, and try to force my way past or stop and trust in God.
Before I could decide, a controlled explosion went off right in front of my car, sending up a cloud of dust and debris that forced me to break suddenly.
Get out of the vehicle with your hands up.
The order came in Arabic, but with a strange accent that didn’t fit the place.
Maybe Saudi, maybe Syrian.
My heart raced as I slowly opened the door.
I’m an aid worker, I said in Arabic, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear that gripped me.
I’m taking medicine to displaced families.
The tallest man, who was clearly in charge of the group, walked over and snatched my ID from my shirt pocket.
Jacob Nazar, he read with disdain.
A Christian name.
He spat on the ground and glanced into the van.
It seems we’ve caught a crusader missionary trying to contaminate Muslim lands.
The others burst out laughing, a cruel laugh that would echo in my mind for days.
It happened quickly and mercilessly.
They hit me in the back of the head with the butt of a rifle.
And when I came to, I was shrouded in darkness.
My hands tied behind my back and a throbbing pain pounding in my head.
The strong smell of damp and mold gave it away.
I was trapped underground, probably in one of the tunnels ISIS had dug during its occupation of Mosul.
I tried to move, but felt a chain lock my ankles to a hook in the wall.
The clang of metal caught the attention of the gods.
The door opened, and a blinding flashlight forced me to close my eyes.
The infidel has awakened,” a cold voice announced.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw three men in the doorway.
Two of them wore black balaclavas, but the third showed his face, a thick beard, deep set eyes, and a scathing scar on his left cheek.
“I would later learn that this man was Abu Malik, the commander of this ISIS cell, and amazingly the instrument God would use to free me.
” “Do you know who we are?” he asked with a calmness that was frightening.
I nodded silently.
“Good.
” Then he said in that cold, contemptuous voice, “Do you know what we think of Christians? To us, you are less than dogs, especially those who try to convert Muslims.
” Then he pulled out his cell phone and showed me pictures that made my blood run cold.
Pictures of me meeting with local brothers, baptizing Sarah in a makeshift tank, handing out Bibles hidden in food parcels.
“We have informants everywhere,” he said, a cruel smile on his face.
“We’ve been targeting you for months.
We’ve just been waiting for the right moment to get you.
” A shiver ran down my spine.
They weren’t just watching me.
They knew every step I took, every contact I made, and how many others besides me were in danger.
Thinking about Sara, Rashid, and the risk my capture could posed to them.
And so many others hurt more than any blow I had received.
Abu Malik crouched in front of me, his breath thick with tobacco and cardamom invading my space.
“You have two choices,” he said with menacing calm.
Convert to Islam.
Renounce your false faith and help us identify other believers or you will die slowly in ways you can’t even imagine.
I took a deep breath feeling the weight of the decision that was about to come.
My father’s words came forcefully to my mind.
If one day you have to choose between denying Christ or dying, “My name is Jacob Nazar.
” And with a serenity I didn’t know I possessed, I replied, “I am a follower of Jesus Christ.
I cannot deny the one who gave me life and purpose.
” The first blow came without warning.
A sharp punch to the solar plexus that knocked the wind out of me.
Then another to the face, splitting my lip open.
Everyone says that in the beginning, Abu Malik sneered as his men continued to beat me.
Let’s see how long your faith holds out when you understand the true meaning of suffering.
That first night in captivity set the tone for what was to come.
I was alone, plunged into total darkness with no food or water.
Every now and then, I heard distant screams, signs that I was not the only one trapped in that underground labyrinth.
In my loneliness and pain, I began to recite in my mind every verse I had ever memorized.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.
At the time, I had no idea that that valley would be deeper and darker than I could ever imagine.
Or that God would use my suffering to reveal his power in extraordinary ways.
Time lost all meaning in that infinite darkness with no windows or clocks.
My only markers were the torture and interrogation sessions which occurred almost like a ritual with frightening regularity.
Every morning or what I thought was morning, the metallic sound of the door opening and the monotonous voice of a god ordering me to perform Islamic ablutions and recite the shahada, the Muslim profession of faith.
The god would recite the words waiting for me to repeat them.
There is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger.
My silence, firm and constant, was always the signal for the first punishment of the day.
Lashes on the back administered with almost cruel precision.
It would start with five strokes, then 10, and finally 20.
“Your stubbornness will only prolong your suffering,” Abu Malik said with clinical coldness during one of his visits.
He didn’t show up every day, which showed he had other responsibilities outside of our captivity.
“We’ve broken men much stronger than you.
” By the third day, my back was a map of open wounds, some starting to fester from the unsanitary conditions of the place.
The fever came like a thick fog, blurring what was real and what was hallucination.
At those moments, I would see my father sitting beside me whispering prayers in Aramaic, the ancient language of our Christian ancestors.
Other times, it would be the image of Sarah that would come to me, her face glowing after her baptism, reminding me why it was worth resisting.
The water I was given was measured with calculated cruelty.
just enough to keep my body alive, but never enough to quench the thirst that burned within.
Food, when it came, was little more than scraps.
Leftovers that tasted like they had come from my own captor stables.
I learned to savor every morsel, knowing that it could be a whole day before a new helping arrived.
On the fifth day, the formal part began, the interrogations.
I was taken to a better lit room where a camera recorded every word.
Today, we will record your confession, announced Omar, a young man with a Jordanian accent.
Our Amir wants proof of your crimes against Islam, but it was all a farce.
They didn’t want information.
They already had my photos, contacts, and my entire history.
They wanted my spiritual collapse, the moment I would deny Christ.
The questions were designed to bring me down.
Details about my work, names of converts, connections to Western churches.
Each answer deemed wrong was followed by a punishment that reflected specialized torture training.
We learned from the CIA manual, Omar would say as he attached electrodes to my fingers.
Funny, huh? Your American brothers taught us that the pain of the electric shocks was indescribable.
It wasn’t just a physical suffering too intense to bear, but the feeling of completely losing control of one’s body as muscles contracted involuntarily, teeth shattered until they nearly broke, and one’s mind desperately cried out for relief that never came.
It was during one of these sessions that I felt the first divine intervention.
As electricity coursed through my body, I began to pray.
The words poured out of my mouth like a river of sounds that I did not understand, but that strengthened my soul.
Omar took a step back, visibly disturbed.
“What the hell are you doing?” Omar asked, increasing the voltage in an attempt to silence me.
But the more the pain increased, the more the holy words poured out of my mouth like a river that could not be contained.
Annoyed, he finally threw the controllers on the floor and left the room, muttering something about Christian black magic.
That night, alone in the darkness of my cell, my mind searched for answers.
Then Romans 8:26 came to me clearly, like a beacon in the darkness.
The Spirit helps us in our weakness, for we do not know what to pray for as we ought.
But the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.
There, in my total helplessness, I felt the Holy Spirit taking over, speaking for me when my strength failed.
The days that followed, from the 6th to the 10th, were a continuous sequence of pain and fear.
Every night I was shown cruel videos of executions of captured Christians and Westerners.
Tomorrow it could be you was the deadly whisper that accompanied me every time.
One of the crulest psychological tortures came when a child no older than 12 was brought to watch my punishment.
His wide, fearful eyes stared at my wounds as I was whipped for refusing to recite the shahada again.
This is how infidels end, Abu Malik explained with the coolness of a teacher.
Pay attention, little Muajid.
One day you two will punish the enemies of Allah.
That child’s face haunted me in every dream.
There was no hatred there, but deep confusion, an innocent fear being weaponized.
It was a young soul slowly being transformed into an instrument of violence.
And that night, though my body was exhausted, my spirit refused to give in.
Surprising even myself, I began to pray aloud for my tormentors.
Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.
I said using the words Jesus spoke on the cross.
I named them one by one.
Malik, Omar, the gods, and even the boy, and asked, “Lord, show them your truth.
Let your light break through this darkness.
” At that moment, I didn’t know that my prayers were being heard, not only up in the sky, but also through the cold, thick walls of that underground hideout.
I didn’t know that seeds of hope were being planted in what seemed like barren ground.
And I certainly didn’t imagine that in just a few days, I would witness a miracle capable of shaking even the hardest hearts of my captives.
On the third day of my captivity, something changed in the air.
The rhythm of interrogations and torture, which until then had seemed unchanging, was interrupted by an unusual noise in the corridors outside.
Agitated voices, hurried footsteps, the sound of equipment being carried.
Something important was happening.
My cell was suddenly opened, and Abu Malik entered, accompanied by two men I had never seen before.
Their faces were partially covered, but their icy eyes betrayed a meticulous coldness that sent chills down my spine.
These were no ordinary torturers or guards.
There was a professional precision to them, a training that spoke of something greater, something beyond simple everyday terror.
Tomorrow at dawn, Abu Malik announced with the coldness of one merely following protocol.
You will be executed for the glory of Allah.
And as a warning to all crusaders who dare touch this land, there was no anger in his voice, just a cold, impersonal conviction, as if he were telling me the time of a flight.
Behind him, two men I’d never seen before approached.
One of them held an orange jumpsuit folded with almost ceremonial precision.
the same kind I’d seen in ISIS execution videos so many times.
Put this on, he ordered.
We want you to get used to the idea.
I looked at the fabric with trembling hands.
It wasn’t just clothing.
It was the uniform of the condemned, a symbol that the end was near.
I remembered so many who had worn that same color in their final moments.
Men and women who had faced horror with steady eyes and unwavering faith.
“What if I refuse?” I asked with what little courage I had left.
The answer came quickly.
A kick to the stomach knocked me to the concrete floor.
“Then we’ll put this on you after we break every finger on your hand,” the other said in a thick chetchin accent.
“You’ll die the same way, but with more pain.
” With effort, I pulled on the jumpsuit.
The rough fabric stuck to the cuts and wounds on my body, making every movement hurt.
I felt weak, humiliated, but there was a flame that they had not yet managed to extinguish.
Abu Malik bent down to my level.
His face was just inches from mine.
“You still have a chance,” he said.
“Recite the shahada.
Accept Islam.
Your death will be quick and clean.
One cut, no pain.
He gestured at his neck with his finger.
He didn’t need to say anything else.
I already knew this script.
They knew that prolonging suffering was part of psychological warfare.
And now they were just fine-tuning the last act of the show.
You’ve lost weight, the Chin said with clinical coldness.
“We’ll feed you better tonight.
We don’t want you to look too weak on the video.
” The way he spoke, as if I was just a piece of scenery, that hit me harder than the blows.
That night, they gave me a surprisingly hearty meal.
Rice with lamb, fresh bread, sweet dates, and hot tea.
It was the condemned man’s last meal.
I ate slowly, chewing carefully, savoring each bite as if it were the last memory of the world outside that prison.
Meanwhile, he could hear the guards outside.
They were discussing lighting, camera angles, the text of the statement that would be read before the execution.
They planned my death as if it were just another film shoot, a video to be posted, shared, spread like poison on the internet.
They didn’t see me as a human being.
I was just a symbol, a body, a warning.
But little did they know that God was already writing another story, and that this dark script would be interrupted by something they could never control.
That night, alone and scarred in body and soul, something unexpected began to happen.
In the midst of the heavy silence, enveloped by darkness and pain, a peace began to grow within me.
A peace that made no sense in the face of reality.
It wasn’t escape nor resignation.
It was as if a silent powerful presence took the place of fear.
Paul’s words in Philippians 1:21 invaded my heart like an eternal whisper.
For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.
I had always known this verse, but there on the cold floor of my cell at death’s door, I finally understood what it really meant.
I began to pray not to be saved, not for something miraculous to pull me out of there.
I just wanted to say thank you.
I was grateful for every person God had placed in my path, for every smile, for every tear, for every opportunity to serve even in the most difficult places.
I thank God for Sarah, for her courageous faith.
I thank God for my parents who taught me to love Jesus more than life itself.
And then to my surprise, I began to be thankful for those who had hurt me.
Lord, thank you for Abu Malik.
Thank you for Omar.
Thank you for those who persecuted me.
I don’t even know how those words came out of me, but they did.
Thank you for this dark valley because it is here that your light shines brightest.
If tomorrow is my last day, may my death speak louder than a thousand sermons.
But if you will let me live, may every beat of my heart be for your purpose.
It was at that moment that something I can’t explain started to happen.
A wave of heat rose from my chest to my arms, my legs, and even the wounds on my back.
But it wasn’t a fever.
It was as if something was being purified inside me.
And there, in the utter darkness, a soft glow seemed to arise, not from the surroundings, but from within me.
Do not be afraid.
That voice, or perhaps thought I can’t say, but it was clear, firm, serene.
I am with you.
I fell asleep with my soul at peace, certain that whatever happened, I would not face it alone.
Little did he know that what would come in the morning would not just be an ending, but the beginning of something supernatural.
The jingling of keys woke me up.
The movement outside was different.
There were no windows.
But it was clear that Dawn had already given way to Dawn.
The time had come.
Three men entered, all dressed in black, faces covered.
But I recognized Abu Malik by his firm posture and the scar that ran across his cheek visible through the mask.
The other two were the same as the day before, the ones who had brought the death clothes.
Without saying a word, they lifted me up brutally.
They handcuffed my hands.
The orange jumpsuit was soaked and cold, sticking to my wounds like sandpaper.
It’s time,” Abu Malik said, his voice tense.
Unlike the cool, confident tone he had used before.
Something in him had changed.
It was as if behind that rigid conviction, a crack had begun to open.
Maybe it was doubt.
Maybe it was fear.
I was led down a narrow corridor.
The echo of my own footsteps accompanied me like a lament.
We climbed a metal staircase, and then, for the first time in days, I felt the morning air on my face.
The courtyard was surrounded by high walls, almost like a concrete amphitheater.
The sky, even covered by dust and the rising sun, seemed like a reminder that God was still there.
But nothing could prepare me for what would happen in the following minutes, because it was there in the face of certain death that the glory of God descended like fire upon that place.
The sky was beginning to turn golden violet, soft colors that heralded the arrival of day, an almost cruel contrast to the somber surroundings.
In the center of the courtyard, a simple platform had been erected, covered in a layer of dark sand, as if the ground itself were in mourning.
Behind it, the black ISIS flag waved slowly, cutting the air with its symbol of death.
Cameras mounted on tripods were pointed at me.
Young men operated the equipment with disconcerting coldness as if they were filming some kind of ceremony.
I was led to the center of the platform and forced to kneel.
The dampness of the ground soaked into the wounds on my legs, eliciting a groan that I held back between clenched teeth.
One of the men appeared on camera holding a curved, gleaming knife.
He twirled it in a theatrical rehearsed fashion.
All part of the script.
This wasn’t just an execution.
It was a spectacle, a performance designed to spread terror.
Abu Malik approached from behind.
His face was partially visible through the slits of his balaclava.
He leaned close to my ear and whispered in a low tone out of earshot of the microphones, “Last chance, the shahada.
One sentence and all this is over.
” I didn’t answer.
Instead, I looked up at the brightening sky, letting the words of Psalm 23 flow unbidden from my lips.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.
” There was a moment of tense silence.
Abu Malik stepped back and huffed in frustration.
Then he began reading the manifesto on camera.
His words poured out in loud accusatory tones, condemning the crusader invaders and glorifying the caliphate.
But as he spoke, something absolutely supernatural began to happen.
Halfway through his speech, Abu Malik choked.
His voice cracked as if it had hit an invisible wall.
His eyes widened and he staggered back a few steps, his face filled with an expression of indescribable terror.
But he wasn’t looking at me.
He was looking at something behind or perhaps around me.
“What is this?” he muttered in Arabic, his voice thick with fear.
The others, initially confused, also turned toward me.
And then panic spread.
One of the men dropped the knife he was holding.
It fell with a loud thud onto the platform.
The other fell to his knees, trembling, his eyes wide as if confronted by an overwhelming presence.
“Firemen!” One of them shouted in a Chetchin accent, backing away in despair.
He tripped over one of the tripods and dropped the camera violently.
I couldn’t see what they saw, but he felt it was as if the air around me was filled with a warm, pulsating living energy.
A presence so powerful and glorious that my skin seemed to tingle with it.
There was no fear.
There was awe.
A gentle warmth enveloped me as if I were being embraced by pure light.
I saw no faces.
I saw no wings.
But I knew with a certainty greater than anything I had ever experienced, that angels were there.
Abu Malik fell to his knees, gasping for breath.
His eyes were wide open.
He clutched his chest as if he had been struck by an invisible blow.
“It’s burning,” he shouted, tearing off parts of his robe.
“A heavenly warrior has wounded me.
The cameramen tried to escape, but they ran towards the gate only to find that they could not pass.
“It was as if something was stopping them, an invisible barrier keeping them inside the courtyard.
The flood lights powered by a generator began to flicker.
Then they grew brighter until they became almost unbearable as if the sky was showering glory on this place of death.
There, kneeling, with the orange jumpsuit still stuck to the wounds on my body, I realized God was not only with me.
He fought for me.
And there, on that execution ground, in front of armed enemies and ready cameras, the living God made hell tremble.
Even without anyone touching the equipment, one by one, my tormentors began to fall to the ground.
as if they had received an invisible shock straight to their souls.
Some screamed as if they were burning inside.
Others simply collapsed motionless, their eyes wide with fear and confusion.
It was as if a wave of power had swept across the courtyard and knocked down everything in its path except me.
And then everything stopped.
Suddenly, the lights returned to normal.
The camera stopped shaking.
A heavy silence fell over the courtyard.
The kind of silence that carries something sacred.
The only sounds were the groans of the fallen men as if they had survived something even they did not understand.
I was standing.
I don’t remember getting up.
And when I looked down, I saw the handcuffs on the floor broken.
My hands were free.
The pain was gone.
The pain that had been with me for more than 2 weeks, burning, cutting, throbbing was gone as if it had never been there.
I reached down to my back inside my torn jumpsuit, expecting to feel the open wounds, the raw skin.
But what I felt was smooth skin.
No pain, no pus, no blood.
Miracle.
Abu Malik was the first to move.
He crawled toward me, but not as he had before with arrogance or violence.
There was something different.
He looked small, human, broken.
His eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and awe I had never imagined seeing in this man.
“You’re God,” he whispered, barely able to form the words.
“I saw it.
” E felt.
“What did you see?” I asked, my voice coming out firmer than I expected.
Light.
Warriors of light.
Three of them, huge with flaming swords.
They were all around you.
One of them, one of them looked at me and leaned in here.
He put his hand to his chest right over his heart.
When he touched me, it was like something inside me was exposed, burned, purified.
I swallowed hard.
I didn’t know whether to cry, laugh, or just stand there in silence, letting it wash over me.
And it wasn’t just him.
One by one, the others began to speak.
Each one with their own version described the same thing.
shining figures, a powerful presence, warmth, peace, and a holy terror that made them fall to their knees.
One of the camera operators, his hands still shaking, murmured, “The cameras maybe caught something.
” He shuffled over to one of the machines and resumed the recording.
We gathered around the small screen.
An unlikely group of jihadist soldiers and a Christian prisoner united for a moment by the same question.
What was that? In the recording, we saw the beginning of the scene.
Abu Malik making his declaration.
Me kneeling, the executioners around, everything according to their plan.
And then the image was swallowed by a white light so intense that the lens could capture nothing but pure brightness for several seconds.
It wasn’t a malfunction.
It was too much for the camera, too much for the world.
When the video returned to normal, it showed exactly what I had witnessed.
Chaos.
Men screaming, stumbling, falling to the ground.
Fear in their eyes.
an invisible presence that everyone knew was there and that no one dared challenge.
For long minutes, no one moved.
The courtyard, once a place of death, had become sacred ground.
It was Abu Malik who finally broke the silence.
Staggering, he stood up and faced me.
His eyes were different.
“No one touches that man again,” he declared with a firmness that silenced the others.
“What happened here today is beyond us.
It is beyond our understanding, and I will not dare dishonor what we have seen.
” Then he ordered me to be taken somewhere else.
Not back to the damp, dark cell where I had nearly died, but to a room upstairs with a window, a bed, clean water, food.
It wasn’t freedom, not yet, but it was something new.
It was respect.
It was fear.
And it was a clear sign that God had changed not only my story, but also the hearts of men who had previously known only hate.
That night, exhausted, but with a piece that made no sense given the circumstances, I fell asleep looking at the sky through the bars of the small window.
The stars twinkled outside as if to remind me that even in the midst of the deepest darkness, God’s light never ceases to shine.
I had no idea what the new day would bring.
But I did know one thing.
God had been there.
He had not only rescued me from a cruel death, but he had also revealed himself to those who hated him the most.
This divine manifestation was not just for me.
It was for they, for those who still lived blind, chained in lies.
But what I didn’t imagine was that the miracle I witnessed in the courtyard was just the beginning.
The next 72 hours witnessed something even more extraordinary.
Hardened hearts beginning to break.
Men who had lived in hatred were now confronted with something greater than their ideologies.
An eerie silence fell over the compound the next morning.
No orders, no threats, no interrogations.
From my window, I could hear whispered voices in the courtyard below.
Fragments of sentences rose in the air like echoes of a spiritual earthquake.
I saw it with my own eyes.
Was not of this world.
He spoke to me.
A prophet? No, something bigger.
Around noon, the door opened slowly.
Abu Malik entered, but he was no longer the same man.
Without a balaclava, he was now wearing ordinary clothes.
None of that black that symbolized the reign of terror.
His eyes carried the weight of sleepless nights and internal battles.
He hesitated for a moment, then asked in a soft, almost human voice, “Have you eaten today?” I was silent.
The question disconcerted me.
It was simple, but coming from him, it sounded like something else, as if he were saying, “You’re still here, and so am I.
And something has changed.
I’ll send for food, medicine, too, if you need it.
” He looked at my hands and arms where burns had once marred my skin.
Now they were clean, healed.
Although apparently you don’t need it anymore, he said almost in a whisper, as if he didn’t want to admit what he saw with his own eyes.
I took a deep breath, feeling like it was time to make room for something bigger.
Abu Malik, I said slowly.
What’s happening to you? He sat down on the wooden bench against the wall, pressed his temples with his fingers, and let out a long sigh.
He looked like a man on the verge of collapse.
I haven’t slept since that morning.
Every time I close my eyes, those figures are there.
light, fire, presents.
He looked at the floor.
But it’s not just me.
Rashid Fisizel, the taric boy.
They’ve all had dreams.
What kind of dreams? I asked, although deep down something inside me already knew the answer.
He hesitated.
He swallowed hard.
A man in white, he whispered, not daring to look up.
With wounded hands, he calls us by name, one by one.
He says his blood can forgive even our sins, even ours.
The last sentence came out almost as a lament, a breath of shame and hope mixed together.
I felt a wave of compassion wash over me.
I smiled, my eyes filling with tears.
The Holy Spirit is working in you, Abu Malik, I said firmly and tenderly.
What you have seen is not magic.
It is not hallucination.
It is God himself revealing himself.
He has come to you just as he has come to me.
And he is calling each of you by name.
For the first time since I arrived, Abu Malik looked me in the eye.
Really, there was no hatred there.
There was hunger, confusion, fear, but most of all, there was a burning desire for truth.
He wanted to believe.
He just didn’t know how.
As could he forgive me? You already know the answer, I said, my heart sinking.
You’ve seen the lamb.
You’ve heard him.
Now all you have to do is do what we all do when we meet him.
Surrender.
All my life I have served Allah zealously, believing that jihad was the way to please him.
I have killed for this ideal.
I have tortured.
I have done terrible things.
All in the name of a god I thought I knew.
Now after what I have witnessed, one question consumes me.
What if it was all a lie? Abu Malik said this with his eyes downcast like someone beginning to see himself for the first time.
There was pain in his voice but also a thirst for redemption.
It was not a lie, I replied carefully, feeling the weight of what he carried.
It was a true but misguided search.
God sees the heart.
He knows those who seek him sincerely even when they walk the wrong paths.
And he is reaching out to you now, Abu Malik.
Before he could respond, screams rent the air in the hallway.
The door flew open and Rashid the Chchin strode in his face a gasp bordering on panic.
Abu Malik, come now.
You must see for yourself.
It is Fisal.
Without stopping me, they let me follow them to a nearby room.
Inside, we found Fisel, one of the men who had tortured me, kneeling on the floor, sobbing like a child.
His arms were stretched out in front of him, and he stared at them as if he were witnessing a miracle.
And he was.
I got closer, and what I saw took my breath away.
The burn scars that had once covered his arms were disappearing.
There in front of us, skin regenerating, wounds fading, old marks being erased in a matter of minutes.
They’re fading, he cried, tears streaming down his face.
These burns, they’re the ones I got from torturing others.
But he’s cleansing me.
He’s forgiving me.
Abu Malik stepped forward, his voice choked with confusion.
Who? Who’s doing this to you? Fisel looked up, still crying, and whispered just one word.
One, the Arabic name of Jesus.
He appeared to me tonight.
He said, “Your sins are forgiven.
Get up and follow my ways.
” The silence that followed was thick.
Neither of us knew what to say.
We were faced with something that defied explanation.
But what happened next was even more incredible.
In the hours that followed, men who days before had beaten me, yelled at me, humiliated me, now came to me broken.
They confessed what they had done.
They shared their dreams.
They spoke of voices, light, presence, forgiveness.
Four of them, including Abu Malik himself, knelt together in that very room, not out of force, but out of conviction, not out of fear, but out of a thirst for truth.
They renounced everything they had believed until then and asked, “We want to know Jesus.
” Most of them had never read a single line of the Bible.
They had grown up in strict Islamic schools where only the Quran was allowed.
And yet, God’s grace penetrated the walls of that prison with a force that no human doctrine could resist.
But the most impressive transformation was undoubtedly that of Abu Malik.
At the end of the second day, he called me aside to talk.
He was different.
There was a new weariness in his soul, not physical, but spiritual.
Like someone who, looking in the mirror, finally saw his own sins and couldn’t look away.
I was a monster, he said, his voice breaking.
I killed dozens with my own hands.
I ordered the deaths of hundreds.
I did evil thinking it was good.
He paused, swallowed hard.
How can God forgive someone like me? I approached him without any fear and took his hands, the same ones that had once held a whip.
Now they were shaking.
The thief on the cross next to Jesus received forgiveness at the last moment.
And Paul, before becoming an apostle, persecuted and killed Christians.
There is no sin greater than the grace of God.
When repentance is real, forgiveness is absolute.
That night, in secret, because we knew that other members of the group had not yet witnessed any of this and might report us, we performed a baptism.
We used water from a simple jar in his own room.
There was no crowd, no music, no public celebration, but there was heaven.
As the water ran down his head, it was as if the weight of decades of hatred and deceit was being washed away.
Abu Malik’s face, once hardened by ideology and fanaticism, now displayed something completely new.
Freedom, he cried.
But it wasn’t out of guilt anymore.
It was out of relief.
He had known the truth, and the truth had set him free.
My real name is Ysef, he said quietly, almost as if reclaiming something sacred.
Abu Malik.
It was just a nomde.
I want to be Yuf again.
Those words carried more than a wish.
They were a declaration of rebirth.
The man who had once commanded executions now wanted to return to being the son, the brother, the man God had created him to be.
On the third day after the miracle in the courtyard, Ysef entered the room with a tense, determined expression.
I need to get you out of here.
It’s past time.
It’s not safe for anyone anymore.
The news hit me like a final wakeup call.
He explained to me bluntly that high-ranking commanders would be coming to inspect the base within 2 days.
If they discovered what had happened, the resignation, the baptism, the blossoming Christian faith among them.
The consequences would be brutal.
Apostasy for ISIS was more than treason.
It was a slow and exemplary death sentence.
But I’m not going out alone, I replied without hesitation.
What about the others? What about Fisal Rashid Tarik? Ysef nodded.
Some will come with us.
The others need to stay for now.
They will continue to operate from the inside.
What happened here wasn’t just for us.
It started something bigger.
And it really started with military precision.
Ysef began to organize the escape.
He forged documents, redrrew roads on an old map, and coordinated the exit like someone who knew every blind spot in the system.
On the outside, he looked the same as ever, the respected, disciplined feared leader.
On the inside, he was a different man, one guided not by fear or ideology, but by faith.
On the last night in the compound, the same one that had been my captivity and later the scene of the miracle, we gathered in secret.
Ysef, Faizal, Rashid, Tarik, myself, and three other men whose names I will keep secret for safety sake.
Eight men, eight hearts pierced by the light of God.
“Your God is the true God,” Ysef said before we left.
The same words he had whispered in the courtyard days ago, but now with the conviction of someone who had not only seen but known.
Now he is my God, too.
We set off before dawn in two vehicles heading north to the safety of the Kurdish region.
YSU had contacts within the CDO, an anti-ISIS force, and believed they could shelter us temporarily until we figured out our next steps.
None of us at that moment could have imagined what was to come.
This escape was not the end of anything.
It was the beginning, a sacred exodus that would eventually trigger something much greater, an underground revival.
Over the next few months, 17 former ISIS members would give their lives to Christ.
Many of them were guided by Ysef Fisel and the others who chose to remain undercover.
One by one, God began to deliver men from the deepest darkness, not with brute force, but with love, light, and truth.
Three refugee camps in three different regions would eventually receive these new converts.
There, quietly, we began to serve.
We began to preach.
We began to live the gospel, not with microphones or stages, but with hugs, silent prayers, broken bread, and transformed lives.
But the journey there was not easy.
The journey from Mosul to Kurdistan was an odyssey.
Every checkpoint was a Russian roulette.
Any suspicious look, any mistake in tone of voice, and it would all end there.
Not only for me, but especially for Ysef, now considered a deserter, a traitor.
But what was once used to kill was now being used to save.
“Even my training as a terrorist, God is using for good,” Ysef said with a weary, almost incredulous laugh as we drove down a bumpy country road.
“I never thought I would be guided by maps not to destroy, but to protect.
It was almost 20 hours of tension.
We slept only during quick stops.
We ate poorly.
We were thirsty.
But none of that mattered.
Freedom.
And more than that, a new life and was near.
Finally, we arrived on the outskirts of DK, a Kurdish town where my former humanitarian organization had a base.
There our paths would begin to open again.
Not to return to our old lives, but to a new, bigger, and much more dangerous mission.
Because now we were not just survivors.
We were living witnesses to grace.
And that was just the beginning.
When we arrived, we caused quite a stir.
I, who had been reported dead after weeks of being missing, got out of the car accompanied by seven former ISIS members, all claiming to have miraculously converted to Christianity.
Rashid, a former colleague, was the first to recognize me as we entered the compound where the aid workers were sheltering.
His face changed from disbelief to joy.
But then confusion set in when he saw who I had brought with me.
“Jacob, are you alive?” he asked, hugging me so tightly that my still healing ribs hurt.
“Thank God,” I replied.
He looked at the other men beside me and asked, “But who are they?” “Brothers,” I replied simply.
“Men transformed by grace who will need protection and guidance.
” The weeks that followed were intense.
Prayer sessions, meetings with Kurdish and international security agencies, and long Bible teaching sessions with the new converts.
The story of the miracle spread quickly among the local Christian community, many of whom still bore the wounds of ISIS’s brutal regime.
At first, the reaction to Yuf and the others was suspicious, some even hostile.
I remember a Yazidi woman who had lost her entire family in the massacres who confronted Fisizel with a broken voice.
“How do I know this conversion is real?” she asked, almost begging for an answer.
“How do I know this isn’t just a ploy to infiltrate us?” “It was Ysef who answered.
” And his words were filled with humility, a far cry from the arrogant commander he had once been.
“You have no reason to trust us,” he admitted.
“Our hands are stained with the blood of your people.
We ask not for human forgiveness which we probably do not deserve but only for the chance to show with our lives that we have been changed that we want to make amends as much as we can for the damage we have done.
His sincerity along with the testimony of the miracle that I and others could attest to began to open doors gradually.
Even the previously skeptical Kurdish authorities began to help us.
They provided new identities and basic protection in exchange for the valuable information that YSU and the others provided about active ISIS cells, weapons caches, and smuggling routes.
This collaboration helped to thwart several planned attacks and saved many lives.
During this period of transition, Sarah, a young convert to the Christian community, played a key role.
Having experienced rejection and persecution from her family, she could deeply identify with the challenge of reintegration that our brothers faced.
Sarah set up a disciplehip program that mixed biblical teachings with practical skills, giving them tools to gradually rebuild their lives.
The real miracle, she told me during one of our prayer meetings, isn’t just what happened in that execution yard.
It’s what’s happening here right now.
Is seeing former killers become brothers and sisters dedicated to reconciliation and restoration is to me living proof of God’s transformative power.
6 months after our escape, we witnessed a moment that sealed that transformation in a profound way.
A Christian family in Karacos whose teenage son had been publicly executed by ISIS two years earlier met face tof face with Rashid who was part of the group responsible for the execution.
The meeting carefully conducted by local church leaders was heartbreakingly intense.
A visibly shaken Rashid knelt before the parents of the young man who had been martyed and confessed his part in that terrible crime.
He did not ask for forgiveness.
He knew that some wounds are too deep to be completely healed in this life.
What happened next surpasses all human logic.
The young man’s father, a seemingly frail man, but with immense spiritual strength, placed his hands on Rashid’s bowed head.
In a choked but firm voice, he said, “My son is with Christ, and Christ has forgiven his executioners on the cross.
Who am I to do less?” Those words echoed, and despite the pain, similar scenes of reconciliation began to emerge.
Former ISIS members transformed by the gospel reached out to victims families to confess, offer reparations where possible, and accept the legal consequences of their actions.
Of course, not all stories ended in forgiveness.
Many victims were not ready to forgive, and no one forced them to.
But each encounter, even the most difficult ones, was part of a larger healing process.
As these miraculous transformations gained momentum, reports of similar dreams and visions began to arrive.
Some ISIS members began secretly contacting our growing network, seeking help in their escape.
Others defected and crossed into Turkey or Jordan, where they found churches willing to welcome them.
Intelligence reports confirmed a wave of defections, especially in cells that had contact with the unit led by Abu.
In the refugee camps where we served, these ex-combatants became living and powerful witnesses.
With their deep knowledge of the Quran, now combined with their faith in Christ, they became bridges of dialogue with curious and skeptical Muslims.
Fisal and Taric, for example, ended up leading small house churches made up mostly of new converts.
Ysef, perhaps the most surprising case, dedicated his life to a risky mission, creating secret channels to reach disillusioned fighters, those who were beginning to doubt and question.
I know their minds because I’ve thought the same thing, he said.
I know what questions they keep silent, what doubts haunt them in the darkness of the night.
The years that followed were marked by victories and losses.
Three of our brothers were discovered and executed by their former comrades.
The pain of these losses was enormous, but their lives and sacrifices became seeds for new spiritual growth.
These brothers, who gave their lives, ended up inspiring more than 300 missionaries from all over the world to volunteer to work in areas of persecution.
The recording of my execution, or at least parts of it, reached Western intelligence networks.
Officially, they classified it as a strange optical phenomenon, perhaps a technical error.
But those who were there saw something that could only be explained as supernatural intervention.
For me, that 17-day period in captivity changed everything.
I was no longer just a humanitarian worker, but a living witness to God’s action in the midst of one of the darkest places in this world.
My story has come to particularly touch those who face real and profound persecution.
This hope we carry goes far beyond our circumstances.
Today, I understand Steven when he saw heaven open before him.
I shared this at a conference with persecuted churches in Ammon.
Sometimes God uses persecution to reveal his glory even to his worst enemies.
In my case, it wasn’t my strength or courage that made the miracle happen.
It was Christ living in me, resisting until the right moment.
Four years have passed since that early morning in the execution yard when God acted supernaturally.
They were intense years full of risks, but also of incredible testimonies of transformation and new life.
Now, speaking to you from a safe place, I think about the most profound lessons that this experience left me with.
The first is simple but fundamental.
There is no darkness too great for God.
The Islamic State was in many ways the most brutal portrayal of evil the world has seen in recent times.
A cold brutality, an ideology of hate that sought to extinguish all light in humanity.
But it was precisely in the heart of this darkness that God’s light shone brightest.
As the Apostle John wrote, “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.
” The second lesson reminds me of the spiritual warfare that goes on behind our eyes.
The warrior angels, my capttors reported, were not delusions or collective illusions, but actual manifestations of the invisible battle that Elisha described to his servant.
He prayed, “Lord, open his eyes that he may see.
” And just as that servant saw the mountain filled with horses and chariots of fire, today the heavenly forces continue to be at work, even though we cannot see them with our physical eyes.
Finally, the third lesson came from the power of prayer during persecution.
In prison, my prayers became more sincere and intense than they had ever been in times of peace.
James 5:16 says, “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.
” The effective fervent prayer of a righteous man avaleth much.
I learned in that darkness the real power of those words.
