Brothers and sisters, there are nights we never forget. Nights that seem to carry the weight of our entire history and in some way the beginning of a new destiny.

Mine happened when I was 28 years in a small forgotten town called Harun in the heart of Somalia.

It was there amidst the fear and silence of the streets that God turned my life upside down.

My name is Nadir Soule Manfara and today I want to open my heart to tell you how Jesus caught up with me, me and my younger brother.

Perfect. In a place where being a Christian can cost you your life. As a child, I grew up hearing the prayers of Islam echoing everywhere.

My father was magnet, a respected man, firm in his faith. After he left, my mother became the strength of the household, keeping everything in order with unwavering faith.

Our family was well known in the community, and everyone expected me to follow in my father’s footsteps.

I worked as mechanic in a small workshop near the market. Camille, with only 19 years old, studied in a Quranic school, repeating verses that he could never question.

But inside me, something started to change. The prayers that once brought me peace began to sound hollow.

I said the words, but my heart felt far away. And the things I saw, public executions, cruel punishments for those who thought differently, made me wonder, would a just God really want this?

These questions began to grow silently, stifled by fear. Fear of being called a heretic or worse.

But Kmel was different. Always more curious, more daring. And it was he who one night came into my room with his eyes wide open and an old radio hidden under his robe.

“Nadir, you need to hear this,” he whispered, locking the door. We huddled under a thick blanket, our hearts racing, afraid someone would hear.

The radio crackled more than it spoke. But amidst the crackling and noise, a voice began to emerge.

It wasn’t like the ones from the mosque’s imams. He didn’t talk about war nor about punishment.

It was a calm, steady voice with a peace that permeated his chest. “Brothers and sisters, who listen to me in the darkness,” said the voice.

“Today, I want to talk about a God who does not seek your fear, but your heart.”

In that instant, something inside me broke. It was as if someone had put into words everything I had always felt, but never been able to say.

There in the dark, we heard about Jesus. A Jesus who forgives, who loves, who dies in the place of sinners, even those who reject him.

It was all different and yet so right, so alive. In the following days, we listened to that radio whenever we could, hiding like fugitives.

And the more we listened, the more we knew we were facing a choice that would change everything.

Then we began to pray, no longer facing Mecca, but with their eyes closed and their hearts open, talking to Jesus.

And for the first time, I felt that God really heard me. But the truth that never stays hidden for long.

That night when it all began still lives within me. After the first radio broadcast, nothing was the same.

That man’s words transmitted from some hidden place seemed to come straight from heaven. He spoke of a God who doesn’t demand fear but offers love.

And when he said, “God sent his son not to condemn the world but to save it.”

It was like a thunderclap had exploded inside my chest. I had never heard anyone speak of God like that.

We discovered it was a clandestine Christian broadcast. If anyone caught us listening, we wouldn’t even have a chance to explain.

It would be imprisonment, torture, or death. But even with the suffocating fear, something stronger kept us there.

Every sentence from that mysterious voice seemed to answer questions I’d carried since I was a teenager, but never had the courage to say out loud.

The program lasted about 20 minutes. But when the hissing began to fill the radio again, something inside me was already different.

It was as if a flame had been lit, and I knew there would be no turning back.

From that day forward, it became our secret ritual. Every night hidden inside our house, my brother Camil and I tuned into that frequency like fugitives from our own faith.

And the more we listened, the more real Jesus became. He wasn’t the Quran’s prophet Isa with a limited mission.

He was the son of God, the Christ who healed, forgave, and embraced the rejected.

We heard about the cross, the bloodshed, the resurrection, and testimonies of other Somali who had also been reached by him.

One of those nights changed everything. The announcer spoke about Christ’s sacrifice, a love so great that it faced the cross to give us life.

When the program ended, I looked at Camille. He was crying. The tears fell slowly, and with a choked voice, he said, “Brother, I believe.

I believe all of this is true that Jesus is who he says he is.

The silence that followed was heavy. That sentence was a boundary and we knew that once we crossed it there would be no turning back.

I took a deep breath and replied, “I believe too camel. Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life.”

It was there under an old blanket and a clandestine radio on the floor that we said our first prayer in Jesus’ name.

We didn’t know the right words or verses, but we spoke with open hearts.

We asked for forgiveness, new life, and for him to make us his, and something supernatural happened.

There were no lights or angels, but the air became light, and an invisible presence enveloped us.

For the first time, I felt God’s love. Not a distant God, but a father who sees us, knows us, and seeks us.

But soon, joy gave way to harsh reality. In Somalia, following Jesus is like signing your own death warrant.

We became secret Christians, living in one of the most dangerous places in the world for believers.

We continued going to the mosque, reciting the Quran, pretending to be the same people we were before.

On the outside, exemplary Muslims. On the inside, children forgiven by grace. Living this double life was like walking a tight rope.

Any wrong word, a look, or a forgotten verse could betray us. Every morning, the Muezin’s call echoed in Harun, cutting through the silence before that sound had brought me peace.

Now it hurt, like a reminder of something that no longer belonged to me. Still, we would get up, perform the ritual, and head to the mosque under our mother’s watchful eye.

Outside, I was Nadir Sullean, the trusted mechanic, son of a respected man faithful to tradition.

During the day, I fixed engines, laughed with customers, and talked politics. But inside, my heart beat for another kingdom, the kingdom of Christ.

That night, when it all began, still lives within me. After the first radio broadcast, nothing was the same.

That man’s words transmitted from some hidden place seemed to come straight from heaven.

He spoke of a God who doesn’t demand fear but offers love. And when he said, “God sent his son not to condemn the world, but to save it,” it was like a thunderclap had exploded inside my chest.

I had never heard anyone speak of God like that. We discovered it was a clandestine Christian broadcast.

If anyone caught us listening, we wouldn’t even have a chance to explain. It would be imprisonment, torture, or death.

But even with a suffocating fear, something stronger kept us there. Every sentence from that mysterious voice seemed to answer questions I’d carried since I was a teenager, but never had the courage to say out loud.

The program lasted about 20 minutes, but when the hissing began to fill the radio again, something inside me was already different.

It was as if a flame had been lit, and I knew there would be no turning back.

From that day forward, it became our secret ritual. Every night, hidden inside our house, my brother Camille and I tuned into that frequency like fugitives from our own faith.

And the more we listened, the more real Jesus became. He wasn’t the Quran’s prophet, Isa with a limited mission.

He was the son of God, the Christ who healed, forgave, and embraced the rejected.

We heard about the cross, the bloodshed, the resurrection, and testimonies of other Somali who had also been reached by him.

One of those nights changed everything. The announcer spoke about Christ’s sacrifice, a love so great that it faced the cross to give us life.

When the program ended, I looked at Camille. He was crying. The tears fell slowly.

And with a choked voice, he said, “Brother, I believe. I believe all of this is true.

That Jesus is who he says he is.” The silence that followed was heavy. That sentence was a boundary, and we knew that once we crossed it, there would be no turning back.

I took a deep breath and replied, “I believe too, Camille. Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life.

It was there under an old blanket and a clandestine radio on the floor that we said our first prayer in Jesus’ name.

We didn’t know the right words or verses, but we spoke with open hearts. We asked for forgiveness, new life, and for him to make us his.

And something supernatural happened. There were no lights or angels, but the air became light and an invisible presence enveloped us.

For the first time, I felt God’s love. Not a distant God, but a father who sees us, knows us, and seeks us.

But soon, joy gave way to harsh reality. In Somalia, following Jesus is like signing your own death warrant.

We became secret Christians living in one of the most dangerous places in the world for believers.

We continued going to the mosque, reciting the Quran, pretending to be the same people we were before.

On the outside, exemplary Muslims. On the inside, children forgiven by grace. Living this double life was like walking a tight rope.

Any wrong word, a look, or a forgotten verse could betray us. Every morning, the Muezan’s call echoed in Harun, cutting through the silence.

Before, that sound had brought me peace. Now, it hurt, like a reminder of something that no longer belonged to me.

Still, we would get up, perform the ritual, and head to the mosque under our mother’s watchful eye.

Outside, I was Nadir Sulean, the trusted mechanic, son of a respected man faithful to tradition.

During the day, I fixed engines, laughed with customers, and talked politics. But inside, my heart beat for another kingdom, the kingdom of Christ.

None of that stopped us. On the contrary, each encounter became even more precious.

We sang hymns almost in whispers, so low they could barely be heard. But it was as if the Holy Spirit itself were singing with us.

Those fragile melodies filled the room with a power no music could ever replicate. Rasheed, with his calm and wisdom, guided us through the scriptures.

We didn’t have physical Bibles. It would have been suicide to carry one. We used secret files on our phones disguised as dictionary and translation apps where the word of God was hidden.

Technology this time became our ally. Each verse read in the dim light of the screen seemed to shine even brighter within our hearts.

It was with Rasheed that I truly understood what it is. Grace, he said firmly, but always with love.

In Islam, you live trying to do enough. Always afraid of not being accepted. In Christ, we are already accepted.

Not for what we do, but for what he has already done. That hit me hard.

It was simple yet profound. Jesus sacrifice was sufficient. His grace was complete and in the place of fear, faith was born.

My brother Perfect, with his sharp mind and restless heart, absorbed everything with an impressive thirst.

Soon he began memorizing entire passages from Paul’s letters, especially Romans. When he read Jesus’s words in the Gospel of John, his face seemed to light up, not from the phone screen, but from the flame already burning within him, even under constant surveillance and threat.

Our small community grew, not in numbers, but in depth, in faith, in love. Each gathering was a living reminder that Christ was among us, even when the whole world seemed against it.

Faith is contagious and even in the shadows it spreads over time. Amen brought your cousin Surah who began asking questions after seeing the transformation in her life.

Already Ibraim, a silent man, reconnected with a former student who had been searching for answers for years.

Their conversations began tentatively but soon became profound, as if they both knew they were about to cross an invisible boundary.

In December 2016, our little group arrived at 18 people. It was a blessing, but also a risk.

There were too many people to gather without a rousing suspicion. So, we decided to split up.

Rashid would lead one group and Ibraim another. Camille and I stayed with Rasheed along with six brothers and sisters in Christ.

The meetings became even more intense. They were no longer just moments of study, but of mutual care.

We shared fears, struggles, and those small victories that only those who live in hiding can understand.

We prayed for each other with the urgency of those who don’t know if they’ll be alive next week.

Each meeting could be our last. I will never forget one night in January 2017.

People, a brave woman brought her two children to the meeting. A very rare thing for safety reasons.

The oldest, a little boy of seven years, looked at his mother and said, “I want to meet Jesus’s friends.”

That disarmed us all. And when he, his voice trembling and his eyes shining, prayed, “Jesus, please protect everyone here.

No one could hold back their tears.” It was at that moment that we understood that what we were building wasn’t just for us.

It was for their children, for the generations to come. We were planting seeds of faith in dangerous but fertile soil.

But in places where darkness reigns, peace never lasts long. In February, clouds began to gather.

Rashid arrived at one of the meetings with a tense expression. He said there were rumors of militias stepping up surveillance, especially in Mogarishu.

Two men had been publicly executed, accused of distributing Bibles. Their bodies were left on display for days like a cruel warning.

“The enemy is hunting,” Rashid said in a deep voice. “We need to be even more careful.”

And we did. We began to gather only every 3 weeks with as few people as possible.

We created secret codes, common phrases that, if said in conversation, meant someone had been discovered.

If we heard one of them, we knew it was time to disappear. Each meeting brought tension, but also more faith.

Before starting, we read the Psalm 91 as if it were our spiritual armor. A thousand may fall at your side and 10,000 at your right hand, but it will not come near you.

And so we continued, few, tired, but filled with a faith that no fear could destroy.

For a time, it seemed like we were truly hidden in the palm of God’s hand.

We lived cautiously but also peacefully. But slowly we began to realize something was wrong.

Lingering glances, whispers between neighbors. The kind of silence that carries distrust. We didn’t know someone was already piecing together the puzzle.

And in a place where loyalty to religion mixes with loyalty to community, a simple rumor is enough to ignite the flames of persecution.

The betrayal came from where we least expected it, from a familiar face, Kareem.

He was my friend since I was a child. We grew up together, running through the dusty streets of Bellwain.

We played ball barefoot, went to the mosque side by side. Our families were close.

When my father died, he was the first to hug me. I remember the tears in his eyes.

That’s why I never suspected. Maybe that’s exactly why Kareem was the perfect traitor. For months he watched in silence.

He asked no questions, but he looked too much. He noticed our night outs, the way me and perfect we began to avoid certain religious conversations, the new sparkle in our eyes, the peace we carried, even amidst so many difficulties.

Only someone very close to us would notice, and he noticed. I don’t like to think he acted out of malice.

I prefer to believe that in his mind he was simply protecting the community, fulfilling a religious duty.

But this blindness ended up placing us at the center of a nightmare. On the night of March 28th, 2017, we were gathered at the house of Rashid as always.

There were eight of us. The curtains were drawn, cell phones were off, and only the dim light of a lamp hidden behind a bookshelf remained.

The air was hot and humid, typical of the rainy season. Rasheed was speaking about forgiveness that night.

He told the parable of the prodigal son, and his soft voice seemed to carry the weight and beauty of the gospel.

God does not wait for us with disapproval, he said. He waits for us with celebration, with open arms.

He runs to meet us even when we are still far away. Those hopeful words were still echoing when we heard the sound of tires skidding outside.

The noise cut through the air like a blade. Everything stopped. We looked at each other.

No one needed to say anything. We knew. Rasheed stood up quickly and turned off the light.

We were left in total darkness. The only sound was our rapid breathing and the heavy footsteps outside.

Shouts in Arabic and Somali, the metallic click of guns being cocked. Leave now or we’ll break down the door.

A firm voice shouted. We know you’re there, apostates. No one moved. Through the crack in the curtain, I saw Rasheed’s face.

Calm, serene, as if he had been waiting for this moment. Stay calm, he whispered.

Let me do the talking. Don’t confess anything. He walked to the door and opened it slowly.

And then all hell broke loose. Six armed men stormed in, dark clothing, faces covered.

Only their eyes showed, eyes filled with hatred and fanatical certainty. We were thrown to the ground with sharp blows.

I felt the cold barrel of a rifle pressed against the back of my neck.

A heavy boot came down on my back. My arms were pulled and tied so tightly I felt the skin tear.

The pain was intense, but the fear was greater. Tariq, I shouted, trying to find my brother.

I’m here. I heard his trembling voice somewhere in the room. Just hearing him gave me the strength not to fall apart.

It all happened in seconds, but it felt like an eternity. We were dragged out one by one like condemned prisoners.

The streets were crowded. Faces we’d known since childhood watched us with cold eyes. No one spoke.

No one defended us. We were alone. They searched our clothes, picked our pockets, and snatched our cell phones.

They were looking for evidence of the crime until one of them grabbed Rashid’s phone, unlocked it, and found the Bible app hidden among other icons.

He held up the device like a trophy. “Look here,” he shouted mockingly. “The Book of Heretics.”

In that moment, everything made sense. Someone had reported us. And when I looked around through the crowd gathering in the shadows, I saw Kareem.

Our eyes met for a second. There was no regret in his gaze, just a cutting coldness.

That pain pierced deeper than any rope tied to me. They separated us by force.

Camille gave me one last look, his lips moving in silent prayer. The drive to the warehouse was short, but each kilometer felt like an eternity.

The militia men didn’t say anything. They just watched. The place was an old building, windowless with a few hanging lamps.

It smelled of iron, oil, and fear. They forced us to kneel in a line.

Our hands were tied, our bodies trembling. I saw Rasheed with his forehead cut, dried blood running down his face.

“Amen,” the nurse tried to contain her tears, but maintained the posture of someone who would not allow herself to be humiliated.

“And further ahead, I saw perfect with his eyes closed, murmuring low prayers, as if he were talking to the sky itself.

In that moment, I understood what faith under fire is. Peace isn’t the absence of fear.

It’s standing even on your knees when everything around you tries to bring you down.

The leader entered soon after, a tall man with a dyed beard and a hard gaze.

The kind that seems to judge the world from above. His voice echoed off the metal walls of the warehouse.

“Apostates!” He shouted, leaving no room for reply. You have desecrated our community with foreign beliefs.

The law is clear. He walked among us, observing us one by one, stopping occasionally to stare at someone as if weighing their soul.

Then he offered away, humiliating but promising life. Renounce publicly. Say that Muhammad is the prophet and that there is no god but Allah.

Do this and you will live. If you refuse, you will face punishment. The proposal sounded like an abyss.

I saw some people lower their heads, perhaps searching for a way out that didn’t exist.

I remembered the secret meetings, the low voices singing hymns, the hands clasped in prayer, the 7-year-old boy asking Jesus to protect us, to deny all that would be to deny the life God had given us.

When it was my turn to speak, I felt my entire body tremble. It wasn’t just the fear of death.

It was the weight of denying the one who found me in the darkness. Some relented, perhaps driven by despair or the hope of living and continuing to fight later.

But when my name was called, something inside me responded before reason could. I do not deny Jesus.

My voice came out low but firm. Beside me, perfect repeated the same. A piercing silence fell.

Then came the screams, the threats. They tightened the restraints even more and dragged us out, pushing as if we were condemned prisoners with no right to defend ourselves.

They led us through the streets to the central square, the place where the executions took place.

They wanted to make an example of us. There was a crowd, familiar faces, some with pity, some with anger, some simply curious.

The sun was setting, dying everything a somber red as if even the sky were weeping.

We were tied to wooden stakes. The leader climbed onto a crate and began his speech.

He spoke of purity, divine justice, and exemplary punishment. But inside, I only heard a soft whisper.

I’m with you until the end. As the executioner raised his weapon to carry out the sentence, something happened.

Something no one in that square could explain. A strong wind blew out of nowhere, sweeping the place with such intensity that the flags fluttered and the torches nearly went out.

A sound, like many voices, filled the air. People began to back away, stumbling over each other as if pushed by an invisible force.

The executioner, who had been ready to shoot, hesitated. His gaze changed from hatred to fear.

And then a light appeared. It wasn’t a torch nor the sun. It was a light that seemed to come from the sky, soft but strong enough for everyone to see.

For a moment, everything stopped. Some militia men dropped their weapons. Others fled. The crowd that had once cried out for justice now ran in desperation.

When the wind died down and the dust settled. We were alive. The ropes that bound us had loosened.

As if invisible hands had untied the knots. I looked at Camilill. Tears were streaming freely down his face.

Rasheed was mumbling something I couldn’t understand. But I saw a mixture of awe and adoration on his face.

Later, we heard people say they had witnessed something they would never forget. Men who knew little about faith swore never to engage in acts of violence again.

And we, even wounded, emerged transformed. It wasn’t just a physical escape. It was a living confirmation that the God who called us was with us.

And that no human power could stop what he had begun. The news spread quickly.

They said that a miracle had happened in the square. Even those who fled knew they could never erase what they had seen.

Days later, we learned that some militia men had fallen out. Others had abandoned the group.

The confusion spread, but we couldn’t stay. The city had become too dangerous. The betrayal of Kareem and the attack forced us to flee.

But we took with us the certainty that we had been spared for something greater.

Today, as I tell this story, I don’t want it to sound like luck or human strength.

It was the hand of God who sustained us. It was she who found us through a forgotten radio, who embraced us in that stuffy room, who untied the ropes in that square.

If you hear me now and feel a glimmer of hope, know this. God acts even when everything seems lost.

And that day he proved it before an entire city. Even the youngest soldier, the same one who’d avoided our eyes in the shed, seemed hesitant.

There was something about that moment beyond their control. Something neither of them could explain.

And then something completely unexpected happened. Before they tied us up, while the leader shouted his orders, a woman emerged from the crowd.

She walked slowly, but her eyes were steady and determined. It was Camille’s grandmother. She took off the veil that covered her head and threw it to the ground.

Her voice, trembling but courageous, echoed in the square. They are not apostates. They are purer than many here.

I saw for myself what their god did in my grandson’s life. The silence turned to chaos.

Shouts, shoving, murmurss. The guards tried to push her away, but it was too late.

The seed had already been sewn. Some began to insult us even more angrily, but others just watched as if something inside them had awakened.

The leader, irritated, ordered silence. His voice, previously imposing, now sounded strained and wavering.

“Bring the whips!” He shouted. But the soldiers, confused, seemed to lose their composure. The youngest of them stopped.

He looked at me, then at Kmel, and without saying a word, threw the whip on the ground and walked away.

That simple gesture shook everything. Others began to hesitate and then what had been a motionless crowd began to move.

Some shouted, “Let us go.” Others remained silent, but their looks spoke volumes. Fear shifted that morning.

The leader still tried to maintain control, but his authority was crumbling. He gave the order to take us back, but the men themselves were at a loss.

Amidst the confusion, one of the older guards approached Rashid. He didn’t say anything. He just took a pocketk knife and cut his ropes, then mine, and then the others.

Go now. Before they changed their minds, we ran. Our feet pounded the hot ground, but our hearts burned with another flame.

Not fear, but freedom. That morning, which seemed destined for death, ended in a miracle.

I understood that even if we had died, it would have been worth it. But God wanted another story.

Not because we deserved it, but because he still had plans. Today, as I tell this, I don’t speak as a hero.

I speak as someone saved by a grace I can’t explain. This faith is not a theory, nor a dead religion.

It’s life. It’s fire in the darkness. It’s hope in the midst of pain. And if you feel something while listening to me, maybe God is calling you too.

But before the miracle, there was the path of fear. We were taken through the main streets of Belladne.

The truck rocked on the uneven roads and people stopped to stare. Some were horrified, others delighted to see our misfortune.

The news spread quickly. Everyone knew what was about to happen. The central market, that noisy, bustling place where I bought bread and exchanged smiles, was silent, a tense silence, as if the air itself were afraid.

The crowd was already gathering in the square, drawn by the morbid promise of a spectacle.

When the vehicle stopped, my chest tightened so much I thought my heart would explode.

Two large acacas, twisted, dry trunks, had been chosen for what they would do to us.

Stakes were already driven into the ground, ready to trap us like animals. We were pushed out violently.

The crowd now numbering more than 200 people, shouted insults, spat through stones. Apostates, traitors to Islam.

May Allah curse them. I looked for Camille among the prisoners. He too was being tied up tense, but our eyes met, strong, firm, unbreakable.

We didn’t need to say anything. I understood what he meant with that look. I love you brother.

No matter what happens, we’ll be together on the other side. They separated us. Each of us was taken to a stake.

Camille and I were tied to different trees some 20 m away. Rashi Danden were tied nearby and the other brothers around them all equally immobilized.

The ropes cut into my skin. The rough tree trunk bit into my back. The physical pain no longer mattered.

From where I stood, I could see Kl’s face, pale, frightened, but with his lips moving in prayer.

And that gave me strength. The leader stood on a makeshift platform and shouted, his voice echoing over the 300 people who now crowded into the square.

Citizens of Beller Wayne, today you witness the justice of Allah being fulfilled. These men and women have abandoned the true faith to follow the lies of Christianity.

The crowd responded with roars of hatred. But inside, amidst the den, I heard another voice, soft, firm, and impossible to silence.

I’m still with you. The leader raised his voice and declared coldly, “Apostasy is a crime punishable by death.

But in our mercy, we give you one last chance to repent. If you refuse, you will receive the punishment you deserve.”

He paused dramatically, his gaze sweeping over each of us, searching for the slightest sign of weakness.

The door of repentance is still open. He continued, “Oh my, whoever publicly renounces apostasy and declares that there is no god but Allah and that Muhammad is his prophet will be forgiven.”

His eyes scan the crowd trying to find anyone who would give in. And this is where I want to tell you something.

Looking into your eyes. If one day your faith is tested, if fear tries to silence your voice, or the weight of circumstances makes you doubt, you are not alone.

We all need brothers and sisters to intercede for us. I know what it’s like to have the whole world pressuring you to deny the name of Jesus.

And yet, you choose to stand firm. I looked at Rasheed. Blood trickled from a cut on his face, but his gaze remained serene.

He shook his head slowly, saying, “No.” “Amen.” Crying silently, did the same. Ibraim, he closed his eyes calm as if he could already see the sky.

And then I looked at perfect, my younger brother. His lips moved soundlessly, but I understood perfectly.

I do not deny Jesus. At that moment, something came over me, a mixture of pride and a joy, so deep it couldn’t be contained within my chest.

It was the spirit of God sustaining us. For a few seconds, the fear seemed to fade away.

The leader waited, but no one gave in. The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to steal the air.

When he realized no one would surrender, he signaled with his hand. So be it.

Ready your weapons. Six soldiers advanced and positioned themselves a few meters away from us.

The sound of weapons being loaded echoed through the square like the tolling of a funeral bell.

My heart raced. I knew these could be the last seconds of my life.

I closed my eyes and tried to pray, but no words came out. Only one verse echoed within me.

Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. Get ready, the leader shouted.

I opened my eyes. I wanted to face death headon. I saw a camel doing the same.

For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still. Our eyes met, and I read what he didn’t say.

We’ll see you soon on the other side. The rifles rose, pointed directly at our chests.

The silence was absolute. Not even the wind stirred. Even the children who had been screaming before, now watched in silence, wideeyed.

And then it happened. The sky, which had been a deep blue, suddenly darkened. It wasn’t like a slowly approaching cloud.

It was as if a gray curtain had fallen over the city. The sun disappeared.

A cold wind swept through the square and a murmur of fear ran through the crowd.

Suddenly, a metallic sound echoed. Tuck tuck. Something hitting a roof. An ice cube. Then another and another.

In a few seconds, what was just a cloudy sky turned into a raging storm of hail.

Huge rocks fell with force, destroying tents, denting roofs, tearing tarps. The noise was deafening.

The people panicked. Screams of terror replaced screams of hatred. Men, women, and children ran in every direction for cover.

Even the soldiers fled, dropping their weapons on the ground. The leader himself tried to shout orders, but his voice was lost in the chaos until he too ran desperate.

And we, the eight tied together, we remained there, exposed but untouched. The hail was falling violently all around, but no stone hit us.

It was as if an invisible barrier surrounded us. A dome of protection shaped by the hand of God.

The noise was deafening, but within that circle, there was peace. A peace that was not the absence of fear, but the living presence of God in the midst of fear.

I looked at Camille. His face was wet with tears, but not with terror. It was joy.

Pure unbelieving joy. “God is protecting us,” he shouted, trying to overcome the sound of the storm.

The hail lasted for a few to 15 minutes. Something impossible in the hot Somali climate.

When the storm finally ceased, the silence that followed was almost sacred. People began to emerge from their shelters, confused, looking around like someone waking from a nightmare.

The entire ground was covered in ice. A white carpet glistening in the returning sun.

Tents were destroyed. Poles were down. Houses were damaged. But then everyone realized the impossible.

Around us in a circle of about 3 m. The floor was completely dry.

Not a grain of ice. It was as if an invisible line had been drawn and the storm had obeyed.

I heard murmurss spreading, “Did you see that?” The hail did not fall on them.

It was a sign from Allah, some said. No, it was their god. Others replied.

The leader was the first to leave the shelter, his face bloodied by the hail, his eyes filled with something I had never seen in him before, doubt.

He slowly approached the circle, the sound of his footsteps crunching the ice beneath his boots.

He tried to take another step, but something seemed to stop him. “That doesn’t change anything,” he said, trying to regain his authority.

But his voice was shaking. It was just a storm, a natural phenomenon. A man in the crowd shouted, “Hail!”

In the middle of summer, and they, without a scratch, others began to speak.

Hatred gave way to astonishment and astonishment to confusion. And for the first time since the beginning, I saw fear in the eyes of the pursuers, not of human power, but of God’s power.

It was then that a man stepped out of the crowd. He was middle-aged, dressed in simple merchants clothes.

His face seemed familiar, perhaps someone from the market, someone who had greeted me among the stalls.

He walked toward us with firm steps, ignoring the orders shouted by the militia leader.

“Release them,” he said, his voice clear, firm, and full of natural authority. The leader stared at him, surprised.

“And who are you to give orders here?” I’m Omar, a fabric salesman,” the man replied without hesitation.

“And so am I, follower of the way.” A deep silence fell over the square, followed by a murmur of astonishment.

That man had just publicly confessed your faith in Christ, knowing the mortal risk that this entailed.

“If you have ever felt the burden of defending your faith in the face of fear and persecution,” he said, looking around, “Understand what I’m saying now.

I spent years hiding who I really was, afraid of the consequences. But today, after seeing what God has done, I can’t keep quiet anymore.

He turned to the crowd, raising his voice. Can’t you see? It was God himself who intervened.

He sent this impossible storm to show his power and protect his children. “Witchcraft!” Someone shouted.

“No,” Omar replied, full of conviction. It is the same power that parted the Red Sea, silenced the lions, and raised Lazarus from the dead.

It is the power of the living God, the father of Jesus Christ. The leader tried to move forward to arrest him, but several men of the people formed a circle around Omar, protecting him.

Something had changed. The miracle had awakened something within the people, a new doubt, a dormant courage.

“Free us,” Omar demanded. Or admit that you are afraid of the god who protected you.”

The leader hesitated. If he went ahead with the execution, he risked provoking the wrath of a god who had just demonstrated his power.

But if he freed the people, he would lose control, respect, and authority. He looked to the soldiers for support, but saw only confusion and fear.

Finally spat on the floor and growled, “Take them, but don’t let them go. Hand them over to the higher authorities.

Let them decide the fate of these sorcerers. It wasn’t complete freedom, but it was enough.

The soldiers approached to untie us, and I noticed many of them averting their eyes, as if afraid that a simple touch might trigger another miracle.

When the ropes finally fell, I felt the throbbing pain of blood returning to circulation.

Camel free from the tree beside him randomly. We hugged tightly, trembling, not from fear but from relief and disbelief.

God saved us, brother. He really saved us. He whispered, “We were eight, standing before a silent crowd.”

And there was Omar, that simple merchant who risked everything to defend us, now standing before the people like a shield.

But then something even more unexpected happened. An elderly woman pushed her way through the crowd.

Everyone stepped aside when they recognized her. It was Jabiba, a woman respected for her Muslim faith and exemplary devotion.

Everyone expected her to condemn us. But to everyone’s astonishment, Sheekch knelt down before us crying.

“Teach me,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “Teach me about this God who protects you.

I have spent my life serving Allah in fear, but I have never seen love like this, nor power like this.

That confession broke something invisible in the air. Soon other people approached. Some wanted to understand, others just wanted to touch us.

The survivors of the miracle. The leader, desperate, tried to regain control, shouting orders and threatening to arrest anyone who showed sympathy for us.

But it was too late. His voice no longer carried weight. Miracle had done what no theological argument could.

Had opened hardened hearts. They led us to the trucks, but without violence. It was as if they were escorting us with respect or perhaps with fear.

Omar insisted on going with us, saying, “If they go to jail, I will go too.”

And other merchants and neighbors joined him forming a kind of silent procession who accompanied the vehicles to the military barracks.

During the journey, Rashid spoke in a low but hopeful voice. Brothers and sisters, what happened today is greater than our deliverance.

God planted a seed in Belladne, watered by a miracle no one can deny. Now it’s up to him.

He will make this seed blossom. And he was right. In the days that followed, even while imprisoned in conditions far better than the hell we’d been in before, we began to hear rumors.

The story of the miraculous hail spread through the city like wildfire. Some tried to justify the miracle by saying it was all a coincidence, but most couldn’t deny what they had witnessed with their own eyes.

Jabiba, the old spice seller, began asking Omar questions about the Christian faith, and soon others joined her.

A few weeks later, a new cell of Christians was born in Belladne. Larger, stronger, and much more courageous than the first.

We were imprisoned for 3 weeks. But our liberation didn’t come through laws or lawyers.

It came through the hands of God. A high-ranking military officer who secretly sympathized with us arranged our transfer to another location.

From there, an official convoy took us out of the country as religious refugees. The journey to the Ethiopian border was long and fraught with danger.

But once we crossed that border, we tasted true freedom. We left Somalia behind. But we took with us the testimony of a god who halts executions with a hailtorm, something no one could explain.

Those three weeks in the military prison were a strange time. As if we lived between condemnation and promise.

The conditions were better than before. We had beds, food, and sometimes even visitors, always under surveillance.

On the third day, my mother came to see me. She entered the room with her face covered by a veil, her eyes swollen from crying.

She sat across from me in silence. For a few minutes, no one said anything until she whispered, “Everyone’s talking about the hail.

They say your God sent it. I remained silent, searching for the right words. It’s the God of love, mother, the same one who has always been calling you, waiting.

She shook her head, confused. I don’t understand any of this, Nadir. I spent my life serving Allah, following all the rules, and now you say I was wrong.

I took a deep breath and replied calmly, “No, Mom. You weren’t wrong to seek God.

What happened is that he revealed himself completely in Jesus. What you saw in that square was just a small reflection of his love and power.

Tears fell silently down her face. Before leaving, she looked at me and asked in a trembling voice, “If I set you free, will you leave forever?”

That tore me apart. I may never return to Somalia, Mom, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost you.

She stood there for a moment and left without saying anything. Not long after, Jabiba managed to visit me.

We talked about Jesus, and every word she said rekindled my hope. Perhaps the seeds of a miracle were already blossoming in my mother’s heart.

Meanwhile, Omar, the merchant who risked his life for us, was being held in another wing.

Through secret messages delivered by sympathetic guards, we learned that he was being interrogated about his faith and his connection to us.

At the beginning of the third week, something unexpected happened. During a routine inspection, an officer we had never seen before, Colonel Basher, passed by our cell.

Unnoticed, he dropped a small piece of paper near Rashid. As soon as the guards left, Rashid took the note.

For the first time in weeks, he smiled. The message read, “Have faith. Liberation is on the way.”

It was then that we discovered that the colonel was a secret Christian, someone who had hidden his faith for years.

As he rose through the ranks of the army, the miracle of the hail had touched his heart deeply.

In the following days, Basher began to act. He planned everything carefully. Officially, we were to be transferred to a base in Mogadishu for further investigation.

But during the journey, an Allied convoy, alerted by international contacts, would intercept us with false documents, declaring us religious refugees.

It was a risky plan. If anything went wrong, Basher would be accused of treason, and we would likely be executed.

On the morning of the transfer, the sky dawned cloudy, a rare occurrence in Somalia.

We were loaded into two military trucks, each with four armed guards. The colonel himself supervised the departure and when no one was looking, discreetly made the sign of the cross over his chest.

The trip to Mugadishu would take about 6 hours. But 2 hours later, the trucks changed course, taking a secondary road.

The guards looked at each other tensely. Why are we changing our route? One of them asked.

The colonel’s orders. There are insurgents on the main road. The excuse seemed plausible. We drove for over half an hour until we stopped in a clearing surrounded by acacia trees.

In the distance, we saw white vans bearing the blue symbol of the United Nations.

The guards grew suspicious. Before they could react, the driver, another disguised Christian, turned off the engine, got out, and said calmly and firmly, “Forgive me, brothers, but these men and women have a date with freedom.”

The UN representatives arrived with official documents, lawyers, refugee protection officers, and human rights observers.

Everything had been meticulously prepared to appear legitimate and impossible to dispute. Faced with such international authority and impeccable paperwork, the guards had no choice but to give in.

They tried to resist, made desperate phone calls, and threatened, but to no avail. In less than an hour, the eight of us, the original members of the group along with the merchant Omar, were officially transferred into custody as religious refugees recognized as persecuted for our faith.

As I climbed into the vehicle and looked back, I saw Somalia stretching to the horizon, the land where I was born, raised, and where my ancestors were buried.

The country I loved, but could no longer call home. Abdi stood beside me, holding my hand tightly.

“Do you think we’ll ever return home?” He asked. I looked at him and replied honestly, “I don’t know, brother, but wherever we go, we carry with us the testimony of what God has done.”

And that testimony has the power to transform nations. The journey to the Ethiopian border took 12 hours, passing through dangerous territory.

At each checkpoint, we held our breath, fearing an order to detain us. But international documents opened doors and protected us.

Finally, we crossed the border just before dawn. When the wheels touched Ethiopian soil, a collective sigh of relief ran through the group.

We were free. Truly free. We were taken to a refugee camp near the town of Doolo Odo, a sea of white tents stretching as far as the eye could see, sheltering thousands of Somali fleeing violence, famine, and persecution.

But we were different. We fled because of our faith. And it was this difference that quickly caught people’s attention.

Our story spread quickly among the camp’s residents. The miracle of the hail passed from mouth to mouth, from tent to tent, growing with each report, but always retaining its essence, the truth and power of God.

There, amidst pain and loss, we began our simplest and truest ministry, not with grand sermons or events, but simply telling what we lived.

And people listened because they knew that what we said wasn’t theory. It was life.

It was faith lived in the skin, in the body, and in the soul. Two weeks later, Jabiba, the spice seller, crossed the border.

She had made her own decision to follow Jesus. Her transformation was living proof that God was still at work, even in the most unlikely places.

When we met again in the field, her face radiated a peace I had never seen before.

With a slight smile, she told me, “Jesus found me through you. He found me.

In the following months, as we awaited transfer to another country, we witnessed something extraordinary happen.

Amidst the harsh conditions of the camp, a vibrant community of faith emerged, made up of people of different ages, tribes, and backgrounds.

They were united not by ethnicity or politics, but by Christ. It seemed as if the miracle of the hail had planted a seed that flourished there amidst the adversity.

Finally, the day arrived. Our acceptance for resettlement was confirmed. Leaving the camp was a moment of emotion and farewell.

We were leaving behind brothers and friends who had become family. But we were also walking toward a new hope.

Before we embarked, Rasheed gathered the group and spoke firmly. Remember, we were not saved for ourselves alone.

We were saved to witness to the world the power of God. Wherever we are, we are ambassadors of the God who commands hail and opens prisons.

He was right. Our mission was just beginning. Arriving in Toronto was like landing on another planet.

From the suffocating heat of Somalia and the dust of Ethiopia, we were thrust into the biting cold of winter.

It was February 2018, and the snow covered everything, thick, silent, almost unreal. Abdi and I were welcomed into a small apartment provided by a resettlement agency.

The first few weeks were difficult. The language, the culture, the climate, everything was foreign.

But the heaviest was the feeling of not belonging. We were men without a homeland, without family nearby, without the roots that shaped our identity.

All we carried was our testimony and the scars that confirmed it. The marks on Abd’s wrists never completely disappeared.

The ropes that tied him to the tree left deep grooves like small mountains around his arms.

At first, he tried to hide them, ashamed. But I always said, “Brother, these scars are your testimony.”

Paul was proud of the marks of Jesus on his body, and you have them, too.

The local church that welcomed us was made up of immigrants and refugees from various places all seeking a new beginning.

One Sunday they invited us to share our story. It was the first time we spoke openly about what we had experienced in Bedwain before a congregation that could listen without fear and weep with us in gratitude.

When Abdi showed his scars and told how he had been tied up awaiting execution, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

People accustomed to living their faith comfortably in Western churches were confronted with the true price of following Jesus in lands where it could cost one’s life.

After the service, we were surrounded by hugs, tears, and heartfelt promises of prayer.

But an elderly woman approached and asked a question that disarmed us. How can you forgive?

She asked, her eyes filled with pain and curiosity. How can you forgive Khaled, the friend who betrayed you, the militia man who tortured you?

An entire system that tried to destroy you? We were silent for a few seconds.

Abdi looked at me and with a heavy heart, I answered sincerely, “We’re not quite there yet.

There are days when the memory of the betrayal still burns. But when that happens, we remember one thing.

Jesus forgave those who crucified him and if he could do it then we need to try too.

In the following months our story spread beyond the walls of that small church. We were invited to share our testimonies at conferences, events on religious persecution and refugee gatherings.

Each time we shared our experiences, the effect was the same. Comfortable people were awakened to the reality of the persecuted church.

Lukewarm Christians were confronted with the true cost of disciplehip. But the news that touched us most came from our former secret network of brothers in Somalia.

The miracle of the hail continued to inspire lives. Jaba, the spice seller, had formed a new secret group with over 30 members.

Omar, the courageous merchant, had been freed and was now helping other Christians escape to safety.

And what touched me most? My mother. She began attending secret meetings. In an encrypted message, she wrote, “I don’t understand everything, but I can’t deny what I saw.

The God who protected my children from the hail is real. I want to know him.”

I cried for hours. That seemingly fragile seed was sprouting in a heart I thought had been sealed forever.

Rashid, Amina, Ibrahim, and the other members of our original group had been resettled in different countries, the United States, Norway, Australia.

But we remained united. We created a worldwide network of witnesses to the miracle of Blet Wayne.

A year after our arrival in Canada, we organized a virtual conference to celebrate the anniversary of our liberation.

Seeing the faces of brothers and sisters scattered around the world was one of the most moving experiences of my life.

It became clear that God did not scatter us by chance. He planted us like seeds and in each place a new fruit blossomed.

Abdi found his purpose in Toronto. He began helping other Somali refugees adapt to their new life and more than that find Jesus.

The scars on his arms became his most powerful mark. Living proof of the price he paid for his faith.

I began working with a human rights organization helping other persecuted people find safe haven.

And I understood that everything, my childhood, my pain, my escape was part of a greater calling.

Today I see the scars we bear visible and invisible as badges of honor. They tell a story not of defeat but of fidelity.

Each mark is a reminder that we serve a God who has never abandoned us, even in our darkest moments.

Every time I look at my brother’s wrists, I remember that day in Belladne when the sky opened and the hail fell like icy bullets, sparing our lives.

There I learned a truth I carry with me to this day. We serve a God who still works miracles.

It’s been seven years since that morning. Seven years to understand that none of it was luck or coincidence.

It was the hand of God revealing itself in the midst of horror. That moment wasn’t the result of our strength or courage, but of the faithfulness of the one who honors those who stand firm when everything around them seems to crumble.

The hail didn’t fall because we were perfect or deserving, but because he is faithful.

Over time, I’ve learned that miracles rarely come to comfort us. They come to push us out of fear and transform our pain into testimony.

Sometimes the purpose of a miracle isn’t to take away suffering, but to make it the stage where God writes his glory.

The trials we face, whether illness, loss, rejection, or loneliness, can become fertile ground, where God reveals his presence.

And I see this in Abdi’s scars. Deep marks that for many would be mere wounds.

But for us, they are trophies, living proof that faith has survived. These wounds don’t distance us from our calling.

They bring us closer to a savior who was also wounded by love. And over time, even the bitter memory of Khaled’s betrayal lost its power.

I understood that even the bitterest pain carries a purpose because forgiveness in the end is the ultimate miracle.

Without Judas, there would be no cross. And without the cross, there would be no resurrection.

God transforms what seemed like the end into a new beginning. If there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout this journey, it’s that no one is beyond the reach of grace.

I saw my mother, raised in a strict Islam, seek Jesus with tears in her eyes.

I saw Habiba, the spice seller, surrender her life to the Lord after witnessing the miracle.

Even that young soldier who had previously watched us with fear, left everything behind, and found faith in a small refugee church.

When I think about these people, I understand. There is no heart so hardened that God cannot touch.

The miracle of the hail taught me that God’s power does not depend on where we are, but on our willingness to believe, even when all seems lost.

If you’re hearing my voice now on the other side of this story, believe me, there is hope even in the darkest moments.

God is the same yesterday, today, and forever. The same God who stopped the hail in Somalia can calm the storms you face today.

The same God who protected eight doomed lives can protect yours even when everything seems hopeless.

If this testimony spoke to your heart, join us in prayer. Write the name of your city and country in the comments so that brothers and sisters from around the world can intercede with you.

Because prayer is the bridge that unites different stories under the same God. When I look back, I don’t just see pain and suffering.

I see God’s sovereign hand weaving a glorious tapestry from the darkest threads of my life.

I see purpose where before there was only wound. I see victory where there seemed only defeat.

And above all, I see a God who has never changed, whose power never diminishes, and whose love never fails.

Today, I live in Toronto with my brother Abdi. Each dawn reminds me that we serve a God who still holds back the impossible storms, who transforms betrayals into testimonies, and who never abandons his children, not even in the darkest valley.

This testimony is not just mine. It is the story of Rashid, who now leads a refugee church in Minnesota.

Of Amina, who became a nurse in Norway and shares Christ with her Muslim patients.

Of Ibraim, who at 70 teaches at a Bible school in Australia, of Omar, the merchant who risked everything and now helps persecuted Christians find shelter.

It is also the story of Habiba, the spice seller who encountered Jesus at 68 and now secretly disciples women in Somalia.

And above all, it is the story of my mother who last year publicly declared her faith in Jesus and prays every day for the salvation of her people.

But above all these names, this is the story of a God who still performs miracles even in the 21st century.

And now I want to speak directly to you. You may never have to face execution or be tied to a tree awaiting death.

But we all have our own Belledwain square. That moment when we must choose between remaining faithful to Christ or giving in to the world’s conveniences.

Listen carefully. The same God who sent hail to Somalia is with you right now.

His power has not diminished. His love remains the same. His faithfulness is eternal. Pi celestial in the mighty name of Jesus Christ.

I present before you every person who has heard this story. You know their secret battles, their hidden fears, their deepest pains.

To those who feel trapped in their own execution grounds, surrounded by the impossible.

Manifest your power. Break the chains. Silence the accusers. Transform enemies into instruments of your will.

In the name of Jesus, he who calmed the storm, who raised the dead, and who continues to transform lives today, I cry out, amen.

Share this testimony with someone who needs a reminder that God is still in control.

Write in the comments what you’re grateful for, and join us in praying for the persecuted church.

With the scars of Bledwne Square still visible, but now pain-free, I leave this blessing to you.

May the God who stops the hail, who opens prisons and transforms hearts, keep you, strengthen you, and use you powerfully for his glory.