She Pretended to Be a Man to Survive: A Christian’s Incredible Escape from Persecution

My name is Amina Hassan. For 2 years, I lived under the identity of Mahmud, a name that became almost a part of me, as if it were my only chance of survival.

Today, at 28, I live in Nairobi. But I want to take you with me to Somalia, to a side of my country that few know.

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My father Ysef Hassan was a textile merchant. But when night fell and the city grew silent our home transformed.

Mama Jalma, my mother, would spread a thick blanket on the floor of our small living room.

And gradually, the neighbors would arrive. They would enter through the back door, their faces covered, whispering greetings that were barely audible.

They were carpenters, street vendors, single mothers, ordinary people, but united by a faith that made them feel like fugitives in their own land.

My father would then carefully open a wooden chest hidden behind sacks of rice. From it he would take out a Bible already old and worn with age.

It was a Somali translation which had come to us through a secret network of courageous Christians willing to risk their lives to spread the word of God.

Let us gather in the name of Jesus, my father would say, his voice soft but firm.

These words sent shivers down my spine, not out of fear, but out of an excitement I couldn’t describe.

Something that made me feel like we were experiencing something real, something worth taking the risk of.

We sat in a circle, our voices whispering hymns in the language we’d always heard, but now with a whole new meaning.

When I was 14, I began to grasp the weight of our faith in a profound way.

One night, as my father read the sermon on the mount, I heard those words as if spoken directly to my heart.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

I looked around and saw the faces of our brothers and sisters illuminated by the soft glow of a kerosene lamp.

There were tears in her eyes, but they weren’t tears of sadness, but of a joy that only those who know God’s presence can understand.

I remember Sister Fedumo, an elderly woman with hands calloused from years of hard work, sharing her testimony with a trembling voice.

She spoke of her life before Christ. My husband beat me. My children despised me.

I lived in darkness. But when I knew the love of Christ, everything changed. Now I have hope.

Now I have a purpose. These words burned deeply into my soul. Like a fire that could not be extinguished.

I saw how faith transformed lives, how it brought light where before there had been only despair and suffering.

My heart was inflamed with an uncontrollable passion to share this truth. I knew there was something extraordinary about this faith, something that could touch people’s lives in a way nothing else could.

The reality of our situation was never far from us. During the day, I attended the local madrasa where I dedicated myself to memorizing verses of the Quran.

It was like a play, a role I played to survive. But when night fell and I was alone in my little room, I would kneel beside my bed and whisper prayers to Jesus.

There, in the silence of my refuge, I found true freedom. On Sundays, we changed our meeting locations so as not to arouse suspicion.

I clearly remember one morning when we gathered at Sister Kadia’s house. Her home was simple with mud walls cracked by time.

But when we sat together to worship, something happened. The room was filled with such a powerful presence that I felt as if we were gathered in a heavenly palace, not a humble home.

Sister Cada had a voice that touched the soul. When she sang Amazing Grace in Somali, I felt the words as if they were spoken directly to my heart.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I was lost, but now I am found.

I was blind, but now I see. With each note, my soul broke and rebuilt itself.

But at the same time, there was always the weight of an invisible threat hanging over us.

Al-Shabaab controlled much of the city, and their patrols were constant. Fear never left us.

We heard stories of Christians who were discovered and some were publicly executed. Others simply disappeared as if blown away.

One afternoon while I was helping my father in the shop, a man appeared. He was dressed in a white robe and black turban and his gaze was like a sharp blade.

He was carefully observing every corner of the shop, pretending to examine the fabrics. Then suddenly he looked at me and asked in a harsh voice, “Do you attend the mosque regularly, brother?”

My father answered without hesitation. Yes, five times a day, as is our duty. The man nodded slowly, but his eyes never stopped scanning everything around him.

After what seemed like an eternity, he bought some fabric and left. But it wasn’t until he disappeared around the corner that my father finally managed to breathe easier.

“We need to be more cautious,” he whispered to me that night. The inspections were intensifying and the sense of danger only grew.

But even though fear surrounded us, our faith, on the contrary, grew stronger with each passing day.

I began carrying Christian literature hidden among my school books. Whenever I could, I would discreetly hand out pamphlets to other students who showed curiosity, knowing I was putting my life at risk.

But I felt somehow that God was calling me to be courageous. I always carried a small pocket Bible hidden in my hijab.

During school breaks, I would find a space and hide in the bathroom to read verses.

One of the most empowering was Isaiah 41:10. Do not fear, for I am with you.

Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you. These words became my anchor.

Especially in the most difficult moments when living a double life seemed to crush my spirit.

But as terrifying as it was, those same words gave me the courage to keep going.

I couldn’t stop. One night after a deeply moving encounter where we prayed for protection, my father held my hands tightly.

Amina, he said, his voice serious. If we’re ever discovered, if anything happens, I want you to know one thing.

This love, this faith we live by is worth any price. Jesus said that in this world we would have tribulation, but to be courageous, for he had overcome the world.

These words began to resonate in my heart in a way I would only fully understand months later.

That night, as I was getting ready for bed, I touched the small Bible hidden under my hijab and whispered a prayer that at the time seemed simple but would become prophetic.

Lord, use me for your glory. I didn’t know that soon my little hidden Bible would become the evidence that would change my life forever.

I never imagined that prayer would be answered in ways I could never have predicted.

March 15th, 2019, dawned like any other day in Moadishu. The sun slowly rose above the horizon, tinting the sky with gold and orange hues, heralding the beginning of a new day.

As the city awoke to its usual symphony, car engines, street vendors, and the call to prayer echoing through loudspeakers, I prepared for school.

I put on my hijab before the small cracked mirror in my room. Unaware that it would be the last time I would see my reflection.

The morning was calm. Mom with her skillful hands prepared angarero with honey for breakfast and the sweet aroma filled our simple kitchen.

Dad had already left for the market bringing with him the peace that always accompanied him when he began the day with silent prayer.

I ate slowly savoring those moments of normaly that over time became too precious to take for granted.

Amina mom called to me as she washed the dishes. Remember there’s a meeting at sister Miam’s tonight.

You’re going straight from school, right? I nodded, feeling that familiar mix of excitement and nervousness that always gripped me before our secret meetings.

I grabbed my backpack, discreetly checked to make sure my little Bible was safely tucked into my hijab, and with my heart beating a little faster, headed to school.

The morning dragged on normally, I attended Arabic, math, and Islamic studies classes, always with the same discretion.

During recess, I shared my lunch with Sarah, a classmate who always showed interest in spiritual matters.

We had deep conversations about faith, and I silently prayed for an opportunity to share the gospel with her.

“Have you ever thought about what it really means to have a personal relationship with God?”

I asked as we ate in the shade of a large baobab tree. She looked at me with interest, her eyes shining.

I was always taught that God is distant, that we need intermediaries to reach him, but you speak as if you know him personally.

My heart raced. Here was the moment I’d been waiting for. I glanced around to make sure no one was listening and discreetly pulled out a small pamphlet I’d hidden among the books.

It was a simple folded sheet of paper that explained the plan of salvation. “Sarah,” I whispered, my voice trembling with emotion.

“I want to show you something that changed my life.” Just as I handed over the pamphlet, a shadow fell over us.

I looked up and to my utter surprise, saw the school principal, Madame Farah, standing next to two men dressed in military tunics.

Their faces were stern and their eyes shown with a coldness that seemed to cut the air.

“Amina Hassan,” the director said in a tense voice that sounded more like an order than a simple summons.

“We need you to come with us.” Immediately, in that instant, the world seemed to stop.

I felt my blood heat and the pamphlet slipped from my trembling hands falling to the floor.

Sarah looked at me, her eyes wide, confused and frightened. Before I could react, one of the men crouched down and picked up the pamphlet, unrolling it with frightening calm.

“What’s this?” He asked horarssely, his expression implacable. I couldn’t answer. My throat felt tight, as if an invisible pressure had built up there.

I saw his lips move as he read, but the words didn’t make sense. All I could process was one repetitive thought.

It’s over. It’s all over. The second man, who looked even more imposing, approached and with a cold look ordered, “Come with us.”

They grabbed my arm tightly enough to leave bruises. I was dragged through the school hallways, past classrooms where students peered out the windows, trying to understand what was happening.

Their faces reflected a mixture of curiosity and terror. I walked as if in a nightmare, my legs moving automatically as my mind struggled to process the reality of the moment.

The walk home, which normally took 20 minutes, felt like an eternity. The men didn’t say a word during the trip, but I felt their gazes burning into me, as if every second were a sentence.

With each step, the weight of the situation crushed me, and I felt like I was walking toward the end of everything I knew and loved.

When we finally reached the front door, one of the men knocked loudly. Open. Inspection.

My mother, who was in the middle of her chores, opened the door with a look of confusion, which quickly turned to pure terror when she saw me between the two armed men.

What’s going on? She asked, her voice trembling, trying to grasp the gravity of the situation.

We have reason to believe this family is involved in anti-Islamic activities, the first man declared, pushing open the door to enter.

What followed was a relentless search, a meticulous process of destruction in our home. They rummaged through every drawer, turned the furniture upside down, and ripped open the cushions, searching for any evidence of whatever it was they were convinced we would find.

My mother and I huddled in a corner of the living room, watching as our home was torn apart.

I prayed silently, my heart heavy, asking God that somehow Dad’s Bible would slip through the cracks.

Sir, please make her stay hidden. M. But my prayers weren’t answered as I’d hoped.

After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, one of the men headed for the rice sacks in the kitchen.

I felt my heart skip a beat. He began rummaging through the sacks. And then his expression changed.

He touched the wooden chest my father had hidden behind the sacks. And in that moment, I knew the worst was yet to come.

“What do we have here?” He murmured, his voice now thick with interest. He dragged the chest to the center of the room and with terrifying calm began to unlock the latch.

The metallic sound of the latch echoed through the house. I watched everything in slow motion as if time had slowed down and every movement became painfully clear.

The lid lifted slowly and his eyes widened as he saw what was inside. There lay our precious Bible next to several Christian tracks and a list of the names of the members of our secret congregation.

Shock hit me like a punch in the gut, and fear paralyzed me. They had found everything.

“Look what we have here,” she screamed, holding up the Bible as if it were irrefutable evidence, an accusation in the court of life, forbidden Christian literature.

Those words cut through the air. And in the next instant, mom collapsed beside me, her sweat transforming the room into a sea of fear and despair.

I held her tightly, feeling my world crumble piece by piece. It wasn’t just us in danger now.

All they were, the names on that list were doomed. The threat was direct. Amina Hassan, the second man said, his voice filled with cold, cruel satisfaction.

You are under arrest for possession of subversive material and promoting a forbidden religion. You are coming with us.

They ripped me from my mother’s arms with a brutality that nearly took my breath away.

Their screams echoed like a whale, piercing every part of my being as I was dragged toward the door.

“Please,” I begged, but my voice barely came out. “She’s just a child. It’s my fault.”

Mom tried to resist, but her pleas were nothing more than empty words to the soldier’s ears, like a lifeless body.

I was pushed toward a military vehicle parked on the sidewalk. Before the door closed, a flash of my father appeared in the distance.

He was running down the street, his face contorted with pain, desperation etched in every step.

“Amina!” He shouted, but the vehicle’s engines were already running, and the sound drowned out everything.

The journey to the prison camp took 3 hours along dusty, war torn roads. I sat in the back of the truck between two guards, my hands bound with rough ropes that cut into my skin.

Every bump in the road sent jolts of pain through my body. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

I thought of my mother, my father, and the brothers and sisters in faith whose names were on that list.

What would happen to them? I wondered, my soul consumed with guilt. If I hadn’t been so reckless if I had kept my faith a secret, perhaps none of this would have happened.

But then I remembered Jesus’ words. And a small flame of hope still tried to survive amidst the darkness.

Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.

These words repeated in my mind, trying to bring me comfort, but the fear was still greater, overwhelming.

The prison camp loomed on the horizon like a hellish vision. The camp was surrounded by barbed wire, like a serpent coiling around a prison with no exit, with watchtowers at every corner, guards with their rifles ready.

The air was thick, charged with a despair we could almost touch. I walked like a shadow, my body dragged by the guard’s merciless hands as the reality of what was happening consumed me from within.

I was treated like an animal. They took all my personal belongings, forced me to strip for a humiliating search, and gave me a worn gray uniform that rire of fear and sweat from all the prisoners who had passed through there before me.

And then that’s when they discovered the Bible I’d hidden in my hijab. “Another one!”

Shouted the guard who found it, his voice implacable. She looked cruel with deep scars across her face.

This little viper has more forbidden literature. And just like that, she hit me with a slap so hard my lips split.

The taste of blood filled my mouth as I fell to the ground. But what truly broke my heart was seeing my precious Bible thrown into the fire, consumed in the flames of a barrel near the entrance.

The sound of the paper burning, the pages turning to ash was like a farewell cry that would haunt me forever.

This is the fate of all Christian trash,” she said with a contempt so deep I could almost touch it.

Her words slid like a sharp knife, and it was then that I realized there was no going back.

I was marked forever. I was thrown into one of the camp’s women’s cells. But there was a problem.

The place was completely overcrowded. The cells, which were meant to accommodate six people, were crammed with 15.

The air was filled with an unbearable smell, dirty bodies, disease, despair. The room where I was placed was a 3×3 m cement box with a hole in the floor that served as a bathroom with no privacy whatsoever.

The smell of humidity mixed with the sweat of hundreds of prisoners was almost unbearable.

I didn’t know where I was or what was happening. The first night was endless.

I lay on the cold floor and all around me I could hear were the moans and whales of the other prisoners.

There wasn’t enough room for anyone, and their screams seemed to echo off the cement walls, turning the place into a neverending nightmare.

That night, an older woman named Haviba approached me, speaking softly so as not to attract the guard’s attention.

She told her story with the same sadness as the other women shared their own tragedies.

Shviba had been arrested because she refused to be forcibly married to an al-Shabaab commander.

Young Yazmine next to Haviba was there for trying to send her daughter to school instead of arranging a marriage for her when the girl was just 13.

I like all of them was there for a very simple crime believing in Jesus Christ.

That night what she told me stuck in my mind. If you want to survive here, you must learn to be invisible.

Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t talk about your faith. Just survive. And that’s what I tried to do.

But with each passing day, survival became more difficult. Food was scarce. A mixture of watery rice and something that passed for meat, but tasted more like cardboard.

Water was rationed and often contaminated. And as if that weren’t enough, disease began to spread throughout the camp.

I no longer knew how much longer I could hold on. Within less than a week, I began to see women dying around me.

Haviba, growing weaker by the day from dysentery, seemed like a ghost of her former self.

Yasmin was taken away for interrogation and never returned. Fear gripped me and a deep guilt consumed me.

But something inside me told me I needed to make a decision and quickly. So I kept looking, searching for something, anything that might be my way out.

The men’s camp, though also overcrowded, seemed to have better conditions. They received more food, clean water, and most importantly, had the opportunity to work outside the camp, which meant more chances of escape.

Staying there would have been like waiting for death. One night, while the other prisoners slept, I made a decision that would change my life forever.

I rummaged through the rubble left by the guards, looking for anything that might help me.

And then, with hands trembling with nervousness and fear, I found a pair of rusty scissors.

My heart pounded, but I knew there was no turning back. I began cutting my hair, and with each strand that fell, I felt as if I were losing a part of who I was.

My hair had always been my trademark, my pride. Long, thick, always carefully covered, yet with a hidden beauty.

Now, by cutting it, I was relinquishing that identity. Each cut was a desperate attempt to survive.

By the time I was finished, I barely recognized myself. My head was nearly shaved, and in the dim light of the cell, I could have passed for a young man.

I rubbed dirt on my face, trying to hide my feminine features, and began practicing my posture and voice.

I needed to be someone different. I needed to be Mimmude. The next day, during the prisoner exchange for cleanup work, I blended in with the group of young people.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone could hear it. But I managed to go unnoticed.

Now I was Mahmood, a young political prisoner accused of distributing anti-government propaganda. Each step I took took me further from who I was, but closer to the only chance I had of survival.

The field was silent, but inside me was turmoil. A whirlwind of conflicting emotions and thoughts.

I didn’t know how far my courage would carry me, nor what would happen next.

But one thing I did know, I wouldn’t give up. During those first days, I kept my head down, forcing myself to be invisible.

I knew that at any moment the charade could fall apart. I was living a lie.

But I couldn’t let anyone know. If they discovered me, the consequences would be worse than death.

I felt it firsthand every day. The pressure was constant. But I didn’t know that my chance to escape would come sooner than I imagined and in a way no one could have predicted with an attack that would shake the entire country to its foundations.

Becoming Mahmood was like trying to learn a new language but with my body. Every gesture, every movement had to be calculated, as if I were learning to walk again.

In the early days in the men’s section, I lived in constant dread, knowing that at any moment someone might realize I wasn’t who I said I was.

Mornings began before dawn with the sound of the whistle piercing the stillness of the early morning.

I always stood in the third row during the countdown, neither in front to avoid attracting attention, nor behind to avoid appearing to be trying to hide.

When they heard my invented name, Mahmud Hassan, I responded in the deepest voice I could muster, trying to hide my trembling.

My cellmate, Omar, was an older man who had been arrested for drug smuggling. He had a gray beard and the weary look of someone who had seen too much pain.

It was he who unknowingly taught me how to survive there. “You need to be strong, my boy,” he told me that first night when he saw my nervousness.

“If you show weakness here, you’re finished.” I had memorized the story I was going to tell, repeated the words a thousand times, but still guilt consumed me.

When he asked me why I was arrested, I told him I was distributing anti-government pamphlets.

Omar looked at me for a moment, then nodded understandingly. He was an idealist like me, but much more hardened.

However, what ate at me most wasn’t just the fear of discovery. It was the guilt of having left behind the other prisoners in the women’s wing, those who were there for equally unfair reasons.

I thought of Haviba every night, listening to her cough that seemed to get worse by the day.

Part of me wanted to go back, confess my weakness, and surrender to their fate.

But at the same time, I knew my only chance of survival was to move on.

I created a routine to try to maintain my sanity. I would wake up early before everyone else and spend a few minutes praying silently, recalling the verses I could still memorize.

I worked in the cotton fields during the day under the blazing sun. My hands bled, but I wouldn’t stop.

It was my way of coping with the pain. One of those days I met Abdi.

He was a young man imprisoned for helping foreign journalists. And even in the most difficult conditions, he had a light on his face that seemed unshakable.

His faith reminded me of my father’s. He asked me as we worked side by side, “Do you believe in God?”

Talking about religion, there was a death sentence, but something in his gaze made me feel comfortable answering.

“Yes,” I said cautiously. I believe there’s something bigger than all of this. He smiled.

Me too, he replied. Sometimes when the work is unbearable, I recite the Psalms in my head.

Do you know Psalm 23? At that moment, my heart raced. Psalm 23. How had I not thought of this before?

The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures.

He leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. I felt as if those words were holding me.

Even though I was on the brink of despair. The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.

The words flowed from my lips with a sense of comfort I hadn’t felt in a long time.

He makes me lie down in green pastures. I repeated softly as I looked at Abdi, whose smile seemed to bring a spark of light to the darkness around us.

Those words which had previously sounded distant now held a deep and real meaning. With Abdi, I found a friend.

And more than that, a brother. Together, we began meeting secretly with other Christian prisoners, each sharing their faith carefully and discreetly.

Amidst the oppression, we discovered a small group of people who, despite everything, still believed.

Ahmed, the former soldier, was among us. He had encountered Christ on the battlefield, and his faith was as firm as a rock.

There was also Ysef, a history teacher who had been arrested for teaching facts the regime considered subversive, and Hassan, a doctor who had been arrested for treating Christian refugees without regard for government regulations.

Together, we shared short prayers during breaks, pretending to be just discussions about how to survive in prison.

But what really happened there was a silent exchange of hope. Brothers and sisters, Ahmed whispered in one of the meetings.

We are not here by chance. God has a purpose even in this place. His words stuck in my mind.

There in that prison camp, I began to understand that my situation was not just a fight for survival.

It was an opportunity to bring light to the deepest darkness I had ever known.

But with each passing day, maintaining my disguise became more difficult. I’d started faking a cough, something that allowed me to speak in a horse voice.

But soon, the pain in my throat reminded me of how much this disguise was costing me.

One night, Omar, my cellmate, watched me as I tried to swallow the little food I was given.

Mahmood, he said, “You eat like a bird.” “Are you sick?” I improvised a story about stomach problems, but I could see the concern in his eyes.

He knew something was wrong, and it was only a matter of time before someone asked the questions I didn’t want to answer.

It was then that things began to get even more complicated. A new guard arrived at the camp.

His name was Farhan, and his reputation for being cruel to young prisoners spread quickly.

There was something about the way he looked at me that gave me chills. His eyes seemed to penetrate my soul as if he were trying to unlock a secret I didn’t want revealed.

One afternoon, he pointed at me with his cane and said, “You come here.” My heart raced.

I walked toward him, trying to remain calm, but my legs were shaking so badly I thought he could hear the sound.

“How old are you?” He asked, his voice low and full of suspicion. Um, I replied, trying to make my voice as deep as possible.

He gave me a piercing look. Um, you look pretty young for your age. Are you sure you’re not lying?

I didn’t know what to do. I was desperate. No, sir, I said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the cold sweat on my hands.

He watched me for a moment, as if searching for something in my face. The silence seemed to last forever.

Finally, he stepped back and said, “Get back to work.” And I quickly walked away, trying to hide the tension, gnawing at me.

That night, Omar found me in our cell, trembling. “What happened, boy?” He asked with concern.

“I think he knows,” I whispered, unable to hide the fear that was beginning to grip me.

“I couldn’t tell Omar the whole truth. I didn’t want to put anyone else in danger.

The tension was building with each passing day. Every time I saw Farhan, I felt as if he could see through my disguise, as if he knew I wasn’t who I said I was.

It was then that Abdi, with his bright, hopeful gaze, offered me a possible way out.

During one of the breaks, he approached me and whispered, “Mahmud, some of us are planning something.

We’re trying to get out of here.” “What?” I asked in disbelief. “Next week, there will be an operation.

The government will transfer prisoners. We will mingle with the soldiers.” And in the confusion.

We will break through the main gate. The chance to escape is now. I felt torn.

The idea of escape was appealing, but also fraught with danger. If we failed, the consequences would be dire.

But looking at Abdi and remembering Ahmed’s words, I realized this was an opportunity to break out of this prison.

Perhaps even to do something greater than simply escape. I knew that somehow this journey wasn’t just mine.

God was with us. The idea of escaping seemed impossible, but desperation made me consider all the options.

How? How would it be possible to escape from such a guarded, impenetrable place? Abdi explained with an almost disconcerting calm.

We now had uniforms thanks to a guard who, by some miracle was understanding. But there was a problem.

We needed more people for everything to work. If we formed a small group, we would be easily noticed.

If we were too large, we risked attracting even more attention. The plan was risky, almost suicidal.

If we were caught, the punishment would be immediate. We would be killed on the spot.

But staying in the camp, waiting to be discovered, would also lead to the same fate.

Death was certain, whether inside or out. When I asked Abdi what to do, he didn’t have easy answers.

He just looked at me with silent seriousness. That night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was full of conflicting thoughts.

I thought about my mother, my father, the life I had left behind. I thought about the women in the women’s ward, how I was leaving them.

But I also thought about the promise I made to God that I would use my life to serve him, no matter the cost.

Sir, I prayed silently with a heavy heart. If this is your plan, give me strength.

If not, close this door. The next day arrived slowly, like torture. The work in the cotton field seemed even more unbearable.

The heat, the fatigue, the fear, everything blended into a whirlwind of emotions. During a break, Abdi approached and with a discreet gesture handed me a package.

Inside was the guard’s uniform. The fabric felt like the weight of my fate, something I could no longer avoid.

“Remember,” he whispered. “When the trouble starts, go straight to the guard’s bathroom near the main gate.

Change there and then join us.” The morning was heavy, charged with a tension that seemed ready to explode.

And then what no one expected happened. A sandstorm filled the sky, transforming the day into a haze of chaos.

Military vehicles arrived, and the confusion spread quickly. It was the perfect moment to act.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone around me could hear it. I made my way to the guard’s bathroom, trying to remain calm, even though my hands were shaking with nervousness.

Inside the small building, I quickly changed my clothes. My uniform was a little tight, but it fit.

When I emerged, I found a guard at the door. He looked at me hesitantly and asked me a question.

Who are you? Moadishu reinforcement. I tried to control my voice, making it more authoritative.

Yes, sent to assist with the transfer, I replied without hesitation. He regarded me for a moment, seemingly convinced, and then nodded, continuing on his way.

The first lie. And it had worked. In full uniform, I walked to the main gate where I met Abdi and two other prisoners, also disguised as guards.

We formed a line and began walking purposefully. The chaos around us was so intense that we were barely noticed.

The guards were preoccupied with the prisoners being transferred, and the commotion distracted them. One of the guards even nodded to us.

And then, with what seemed like a sigh of relief, we passed. We left. The sensation was strange, as if the impossible had happened.

Every step I took took me further away from the field, but also led me into the unknown.

The desert air was heavy and hot. Each step on the sandy ground seemed to pull me back, but my fate was already sealed.

We walked for hours until reality set in. We were in the middle of nowhere.

There was no food, no water, no shelter. I could hear in the distance the sound of vehicles.

They were still behind us. We have to split up. Abdi said urgently, “If you catch us together, we’ll all fall.”

We hugged briefly, our hearts heavy. We prayed softly, a silent but faithfilled prayer, and then we dispersed.

Each of us went our separate ways, seeking freedom, but also survival. I headed east toward the Kenyon border.

I didn’t know what to expect, nor what the route would be like, but something inside me told me I was going in the right direction.

I was alone, but with a greater power guiding me. The desert with all its vastness seemed to swallow me with every step.

But I knew that although I was in the unknown, I was not alone. God was with me, the desert stretched out before me like an unforgiving expanse.

And with it, the encounter that would change everything. Somalia at night is not a place easily described.

The cold is biting almost like sharp blades. And during the day, the heat is so intense it seems to drain all the energy from an exhausted body.

I walked alone through that arid, lifeless land. Each step a silent victory against the fear that tried to consume me.

I had been walking for over 6 hours when I came across something that at first glance looked like nothing more than a field of destruction.

Burnt and crumpled military vehicles lay scattered across the sand like abandoned toys. Their metal twisted by explosions and the wear of time.

The smell of gunpowder and death still lingered in the air like a spectre of what had happened there.

The battle was already a thing of the past. Perhaps weeks, perhaps months ago. But among the remains of the conflict, I found what might be my only chance of temporary survival.

A soldier’s uniform. His bones, already decayed by the sand and heat, were partially covered by the earth, but his clothing was reasonably intact.

The idea of dressing in a dead man’s clothes repulsed me. But the truth was, the guard uniform I wore wouldn’t get me very far in hostile territory.

Breathing heavily and hands shaking, I did what had to be done. I changed my clothes.

The uniform, too big for me, served its purpose. It hid my feminine figure well, and the loose sleeves and pants disguised my body.

I tied the belt tightly, trying to fit in as tightly as possible. With my shaved hair, my face covered in sand, and my body wrapped in military fatigues.

It seemed in the dark of night that I might have been just another young, lost, and emaciated soldier.

I searched the wreckage around me for anything useful. I found a canteen half full of murky water, some military rations that were still sealed, and most importantly, a small compass.

It would allow me to steer eastward toward the Kenyon border. But amid the rubble, something else caught my attention.

A military radio, halfbroken, but still working. When I tuned in, the voices in Somali sent a chill down my spine.

They were discussing a massive search for concentration camp escapees. My name, Amina Hassan, was mentioned.

My heart stopped for a moment. Prisoner Amina Hassan is extremely dangerous. A deep voice said, “She’s a Christian fanatic, a propagandist.

There’s a $1,000 reward for her alive. $1,000. That amount could support an entire family for a year in Somalia.

Every person I encountered was a risk, a potential threat. The radio continued broadcasting instructions about the hunt, but I hurriedly turned it off, feeling the weight of the words echoing in my mind.

The crescent moon barely illuminated the path, but it was enough to help me avoid holes and sharp rocks.

My military boots, though uncomfortable, were more suitable than my old prison shoes. But even so, my feet were covered in blisters.

It was already dawn, and I needed to find shelter. I spotted a small village in the distance.

Its ruins looming against the horizon. The pain in my legs and feet increased with each step, but I couldn’t stop.

The adobe houses were destroyed. The roofs collapsed, and the walls were pockmarked with bullet holes.

The scene was a reminder of the suffering that war had brought to this land decades ago.

I took refuge in the basement of a house whose roof was still partially intact.

It was cramped, dark, and I could barely move without doubling over, but it offered the relief of shelter.

Here, at least, I wasn’t at the mercy of the relentless sun or prying eyes.

I could finally rest, if only for a few hours. The tension in the air was palpable.

But deep in my soul, something told me I was headed in the right direction.

Even without knowing what tomorrow held, I felt that God was with me, guiding me through the darkness and chaos.

I ate a small portion of the military rations and took a modest sip of water, knowing I had to ration every drop and morsel.

Sitting in the makeshift shelter, it was the first moment of calm I’d had since the escape.

For the first time, I ate and drank without the immediate pressure of being hunted, but I still felt a heavy weight on my soul.

I had escaped a concentration camp, dressed in uniforms stolen from dead soldiers, and now I was being sought as a fugitive.

But there was something new. For the first time, I was free. With my hands still trembling, I grabbed the small Bible I’d managed to hide and began reciting the verses I’d memorized over the months of imprisonment.

The words of Psalm 23, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me were like bomb to my weary soul.”

It was a reminder that even in the worst case scenario, God was with me.

That night brought me the feeling that despite the fear, hunger, and loneliness, something greater was guiding me.

The plan was simple but risky. Walk at night to avoid being seen and rest during the day whenever possible.

However, the desert was not only inhospitable territory. It was also a hunting ground, and the hunters were not far away.

On the third night of my journey, fate showed me just how close death could be.

I was following a deserted road that seemed abandoned when I saw lights in the distance.

The sound of engines reached me even before the lights approached. Instinctively, I dove to the side behind some rocks.

My body nearly paralyzed with fear. The men’s voices speaking in Somali made my heart race.

“Someone passed by here recently,” said a voice, followed by another. “The footprints are fresh.

I felt as if the sound of my heartbeat was loud enough to be heard from miles away.

I stood still, silently, praying that my presence would be ignored, that the men would pass by without noticing me.

The voices continued to echo and time seemed to stretch. An eternity dragging slowly by as I remained hidden.

My breath held. Then finally, the tension began to dissipate when I heard the engines revving and the headlights fading.

They had driven off, but the shock was a reminder that the road I was following was a deadly risk.

There, in the heat of the night, I made a decision. I needed to stray from the beaten path and venture deeper into the desert where it would be harder to be found.

But the chances of survival were slim. I changed direction, heading south, where the terrain was more uneven, filled with ravines and large rock formations that might have offered some cover.

However, the change of direction also brought new dangers. As I moved through one of these ravines, which seemed like just another stop in the desert, I encountered something unexpected.

At first, I thought it was my grave. Ahead of me, the dry well opened up in the ground.

It was a circular structure about 3 m in diameter, surrounded by stone walls that had been built by nomads in times past.

The well seemed deep, the stone walls worn by wind and sand. It was undoubtedly a relic of the life that had once passed through this desert.

But in that moment, it wasn’t just a vestage of the past. It was a possible salvation.

And then the sound I dreaded. Vehicles. They were coming. The sound of engines piercing the silence of the night made me freeze.

There were no rocks around to hide behind, and the only option was the well.

Without thinking, I quickly approached the edge and with a hasty leap began to climb down the rough stone walls, my hands slicing into the uneven surfaces.

Adrenaline drove me down faster until I finally managed to hide at the bottom. That feeling of being below ground level, out of sight, gave me brief relief, but panic soon set in.

The vehicles stopped just above me. I could hear the men moving about, their boots pounding the ground, their voices arguing about what to do.

They were so close I could almost feel the heat of their breath. The tracks ere, said a deep voice, chilling me to the core.

He must have taken another route. My heart pounded in my throat. They were so close.

Every word I heard was like a distant warning cry. I was there, hidden, but I didn’t know how long my luck would last.

Search the area, ordered another, more authoritative voice. He can’t have gotten far. My hands were sweaty and shaking.

My only chance was to wait, listen, and remain undetected. As the voices and footsteps faded, I stood there motionless, praying the well would be large enough to hide me long enough.

But I knew time was a luxury I didn’t have, and that at any moment, my luck could change.

Now it was clearer than ever. I could no longer trust anything, not even myself.

The desert was my enemy, but it was also the only place where freedom, even temporary, was still possible.

Still trapped at the bottom of the well, my body exhausted and aching, I remained motionless, my hands tightly gripping the rocks.

Each second that passed seemed to drag on forever, and I knew that if I let go, my fate would be sealed.

The fall would be fatal, and the chances of survival, after so many days of escaping, would be non-existent.

Panic threatened to overwhelm me, but I focused, breathing heavily, waiting for the sound of the engines to fade completely.

It was hours before the silence of the desert finally returned. An absolute silence, immense and crushing.

When I tried to climb again, exhaustion hit me with all its force. My hands were cut and bleeding.

My fingers cracked. They could no longer hold on the slippery rocks. With each attempt, a growing sense of helplessness overcame me.

I was trapped with no way out. I stood paralyzed, staring at the vastness of the desert.

The endless darkness surrounding me. Hopelessness washed over me and a cold sense of abandonment washed over me.

I screamed softly, but I knew there was no one in the desert to hear me.

No one who could help me. And if anyone did appear, it would surely be someone seeking a reward, willing to hand me over.

Death seemed closer than ever. However, amidst this abyss of solitude, something happened. I found a small ledge in the well wall, a slight protrusion in the rocks where I could rest.

It was small, but enough for me to sit and catch my breath. I took a deep breath and began to reflect.

I had some water and some military rations. If I rationed them carefully, I might have enough to survive for a week at most.

Then, without warning, the memory of Joseph’s story at the well came to mind. How he, trapped in a hopeless pit, had been used by God in ways he could never have imagined.

Perhaps God was doing the same with me. I didn’t know what would come next, but my life was no longer my own.

It was in God’s hands. Lord, I prayed, my voice reverberating off the cold walls of the well.

If this is my end, let it be according to your will. But if you have other plans for me, show me the way.

I didn’t expect an immediate answer, but what I felt was a peace that at first frightened me.

Amidst all that despair, a strange calm enveloped me. For the first time in days, I wasn’t running away.

I wasn’t disguising myself. I wasn’t trying to be someone I wasn’t. I was simply Amina Hassan, a young Christian woman.

And I had placed my life in God’s hands. The night that followed was endless.

The darkness was absolute. There were no stars, no light, only silence and the distorted sounds of the desert.

The wind made noises that sounded like distant voices and insects transformed into approaching footsteps.

I stood there alone, unsure of what tomorrow would bring. But for the first time, I wasn’t afraid.

I felt a presence, something stronger than any sensation I’d ever experienced. It was as if God were there in the well with me, filling that space in an inexplicable way.

The second day brought with it a new sense of calm. My water was running low.

My food was almost gone. But somehow my soul felt at peace. It was as if instead of being consumed by hopelessness, I was being sustained by something greater.

I spent the day in prayer, reciting passages from the Bible. And for the first time, I wasn’t asking for immediate salvation or help.

I was simply connecting with God in a deeper way than I ever imagined possible.

On the third day, when I was practically exhausted, something extraordinary happened. I was asleep, my body exhausted and my mind delirious with hunger and thirst.

When I was awakened not by a sound, but by a sensation, I was no longer alone in the well.

I opened my eyes and in the darkness, something revealed itself to me, something that would change my life forever.

What happened in that well was much more than a simple miracle. It was an encounter with the very essence of God.

As the stone walls surrounded me, I felt my life until then marked by pain and the struggle for survival completely transform.

Jesus, in his immense compassion, not only met me in my despair, but also restored me with indescribable strength.

He didn’t call me to hide from death, but to face a future filled with purpose.

When he said, “Your suffering was not in vain. I saw you in prison.” Those words echoed in my soul as if a great curtain of sadness and uncertainty had parted, allowing light to shine in.

I had been a prisoner of fear, pain, and loneliness. But now I was a free woman, free not only from the physical prison, but from all the invisible chains that had held me captive.

What touched me most was the way he called me, my precious daughter. So simple, so profound.

I wasn’t just another survivor, but a beloved daughter of God with a specific calling.

When he told me what was to come, the future that awaited me, the sense of despair that had filled my heart for so long dissipated like mist at dawn.

Not only would I survive, but I would have a mission. I would be a light in the world, a beacon of hope for others who, like me, were lost in the shadows.

The visions Jesus showed me were vivid and detailed, like a movie unfolding before my eyes.

I saw myself caring for women who had been abused, marginalized, and voiceless, just like me.

Build a refuge, he said. Bring hope, share the truth, bring the love of Christ to places where people are desperate, where the pain is unbearable.

I would be the one to bring light to broken hearts. When he promised me, “You will rise from this hole,” I felt a power invade my being.

Something far greater than my own human capabilities. That promise, that unshakable trust, was like a protective mantle that spread over me.

I was no longer alone. I had a mission and nothing could stop me. And then on the third day of my stay in that well, something miraculous happened.

The rope. In desperation, I had prayed for a way out, a way to escape.

But I never imagined it would be something so simple and yet so grand. The rope appeared out of nowhere, as if it had been lowered directly from the heavens.

There was no one up there, no human being to help me, but the rope was there, intact, as if placed by invisible hands.

It was a clear confirmation that I was no longer abandoned. God had heard me, and he was lifting me out of that well, not only physically, but spiritually.

As I climbed the rope, a new sense of relief washed over me. Each step took me further out of the darkness, further toward freedom.

Daylight shone on the horizon, and I knew the journey would still be difficult. But now I knew God would be with me every step of the way.

The desert, that hostile and unforgiving place. No longer seemed so intimidating. I was no longer alone.

From the moment I emerged from that well, I was no longer the same. Amina, the fugitive, the prisoner, had died there.

I was reborn as someone with a purpose. I now walked with the certainty that God had chosen me to be an instrument of his light to bring freedom and healing to those who suffer.

When I looked at the rope, still dangling from the well, I knew it represented more than just my physical escape.

It was a symbol of God’s immeasurable grace, a grace that had lifted me from the depths of despair and led me to a future full of possibilities.

The journey to Kenya would continue and it would be full of challenges. But now I had something no one could take away from me.

A clear vision of my calling and the assurance that God was with me every step of the way.

I can still clearly recall every word, every gesture, and most of all the look he gave me.

But what touched my heart most was the immense compassion in his eyes. It wasn’t just any compassion, but one that overflowed with mercy without judgment or condition.

I remember Jesus saying, “Nothing you’ve ever gone through has been in vain. Every tear, every moment of pain and fear, every sacrifice, all of it planted seeds for the harvest that is about to come.

As I continued my solitary journey through the desert, these words echoed in my mind.

I reflected on everything I had experienced up until that moment. My capture, the torture in prison, the desperate escape, and even that well in which I had nearly lost my life.

It seemed impossible to comprehend at that moment. But looking back, I realized that everything was interconnected, part of a greater plan that was only now revealing itself to me.

Then the visions began. It was as if I were watching a movie of my own life, but with clarity and purpose.

One of them showed me a small but welcoming office in Nairobi. I was there talking to women who, like me, had suffered in indescribable ways.

Their faces bore the weight of trauma, but their eyes shone with a spark of hope.

And as I shared my story with them, I heard a soft voice say to me, “See.”

The vision became clearer. One of the women, her eyes lost and her expression blank, had been raped by soldiers and lost her children.

She was about to give up on life, contemplating suicide. But something changed in her expression as she listened to my testimony.

Something in my story touched her heart, making her believe that even in the midst of pain, there could be redemption.

She will find the strength to carry on. Jesus said. Soon another vision appeared. I stood before a group of refugee women in Daab, a camp where hopelessness seemed to dominate.

I not only shared my story with them, but also offered something more. Practical solutions.

How to get back on your feet. How to take the first step, how to organize your life in a world that seemed to be crumbling around you.

Most striking, however, was when Jesus showed me another image. Me sitting with a woman who didn’t speak English, helping her translate documents.

Your knowledge, your education, all of this has a purpose. He told me, “You will be a bridge between them and the world.

But the most powerful vision without a doubt was the last.” I was standing before a large crowd speaking at an international conference.

My talk was about religious persecution, human rights, and most importantly, the need to create safe havens for women who suffer in silence.

Jesus told me, “Your voice will reach places many cannot. Your testimony will open hearts and move mountains.

Your example will inspire action where before there was only indifference. As I walked through the desert, reliving these visions, I was overcome with a mixture of humility and courage.

How could I, a simple fugitive, ever be able to help so many people? But as always, Jesus’s voice echoed in my mind.

With man, this is impossible. But with God, all things are possible. The next 6 days, after my experience at the well, were very different.

I walked with renewed purpose, without fear, without haste. Now my journey was no longer an escape, but a mission.

I acted wisely, not just out of necessity. When I found a small oasis where nomadic shepherds tended their flocks, instead of hiding as I would have before, I approached it with confidence.

Something inside me had changed. I was no longer at the mercy of despair, but walking with the certainty that God was guiding me every step of the way.

My military uniform raised some eyebrows when I arrived at the small camp. But when I explained that I was lost and looking for my unit, I was greeted with more warmth.

An elderly pastor looked at me curiously and with a calm smile said, “Brother, you’re a long way from any military base.

Are you sure you’re going in the right direction?” I took a deep breath before replying, “God is guiding me.”

It was a simple answer, but there were no better words to express the truth I felt in my heart at that moment.

The old man watched me closely as if searching for something beyond words. After a long silence, he said, “May Allah protect you on your journey.”

But there was something in his gaze, as if he knew more than he let on.

2 days later, I finally reached the border between Somalia and Kenya. The scene unfolding before me was chaos.

Refugees, soldiers, smugglers, and all manner of opportunists roamed the region with no clear control.

Official checkpoints intermingled with numerous informal crossings where people paid bribes to cross. I knew the Somali military uniform would be a problem in Kenya, so I did what I could to camouflage myself, swapping it for worn civilian clothes I found in a refugee camp.

I dressed like a displaced young woman with worn pants and a dirty shirt. But there was something still holding me back.

I had no documents. I wasn’t Amina Hassan on paper, but Mahmud, someone whose identity was marked on wanted lists.

There was no record of me anywhere. Confused and with no way out, I remembered the words of Jesus.

I will make a way where there is no way. It was this confidence that gave me the courage to approach one of the informal border crossings where a middle-aged man was helping other refugees cross in exchange for money.

I had nothing but my story. Sir, I told him in my best agile, a language I’d learned in school, I’m a persecuted Christian fleeing Somalia.

I have no money, but I know of human trafficking routes used by traffickers that might be of interest to the Kenyan authorities.

The man looked at me more closely. Human trafficking was indeed a serious problem in the region, and information like the one I had would be invaluable.

“What kind of information do you have?” He asked curiously. Cautiously, I began to recount the routes I had seen during my escape.

It wasn’t a lie. They were simply observations I’d made unintentionally, but which now seemed to have great significance.

Interesting, he murmured. I know someone in the Kenyan authorities who might be interested in this, but I need assurances that your information is accurate.

Let me get through and then you can give me all the details you have.

If your information is false, you could be reported. It was a tremendous risk, but a part of me knew that everything that happened was part of a bigger plan and that God would guide me.

After a moment’s hesitation, I agreed. That night, I hid in the back of a truck with other refugees.

When we reached the first checkpoint on the Kenyan side, the man spoke quietly to the guards, presumably explaining my situation.

I was removed from the truck and taken to a small office where a Kenyan officer questioned me about human trafficking routes.

I was terrified, but I knew I couldn’t turn back. God had led me this far, and now I trusted him.

Even though the risks were high, I answered truthfully, sharing everything I had witnessed during my escape.

My information was clear and detailed enough to convince the officer I was telling the truth.

“What is your legal status?” He asked. “I’m a Christian refugee from Somalia,” I replied, maintaining Mammud’s identity.

“I’m seeking asylum.” I knew the asylum process would be long and complicated, but now, for the first time in months, I was in a safe place.

I was assigned to a temporary refugee camp in Daab. It was a city made of tents and makeshift structures that stretched as far as the eye could see, housing more than 200,000 people who had fled conflicts across the region.

Daub was a place of intense contrasts. There, hope mixed with despair as families tried to rebuild their lives amidst constant uncertainty.

I was housed in a small tent shared with three other young people. I maintained my identity as Mahmood, fearing that revealing the truth about who I really was would further complicate my legal situation.

But at night, when the camp fell silent, I knelt in prayer, thanking God for bringing me there safely.

In my first days in Daab, I began to realize the immense needs of the refugee women, widows, mothers with young children, young women who had fled forced marriages, women who had lost everything except the clothes they wore.

One afternoon, I saw a woman sitting alone near her tent, her eyes empty as her baby cried in her arms.

I approached, asking quietly if she needed help. She looked at me blankly, replying weakly, “My milk dried up.

My baby is hungry, but I haven’t eaten in 2 days. I didn’t think twice.”

I gave her my daily ration of food, explaining that I wasn’t hungry. She began eating with silent urgency, and in that moment, I realized this was just the beginning.

There were thousands of women and children like her in the camp and they were all waiting for something, for a chance.

That night, the visions Jesus showed me at the well came back to me. I saw women like that, searching for a little hope, and I saw myself helping.

But at that moment, I didn’t know how I would do it without revealing my true identity.

The answer came unexpectedly. During my second week in Daab, a Kenyan social worker named Grace visited the camp.

She was a devoted Christian working for a non-governmental organization that focused on supporting refugee women.

“Do you speak English?” She asked when she saw me helping a family set up their tent.

“Yes,” I replied, a little surprised by the question. “Impressive,” she said, smiling. “We need translators to help communicate with the refugees in Oali.

Would you be interested in volunteering?” It was the opportunity I’d been looking for. Being a translator would allow me to connect with women, better understand their needs, and most importantly, help them without raising suspicions about my true identity.

Without hesitation, I accepted the offer. I began working with Grace 3 days a week, translating during counseling sessions and helping women fill out forms to request assistance.

Even though I was playing a supporting role, something inside me knew I was beginning to live out the purpose God had shown me to help women who, like me, needed a little compassion, a helping hand, and above all, hope.

It was during my fieldwork that I heard stories that simultaneously broke my heart and strengthened my resolve.

One such story was that of Lima, a 30-year-old woman. She told me, her voice breaking, how she was forced to watch her husband die before her eyes before being raped by several soldiers.

“I’m no longer human,” she whispered, the words heavy with pain. “I’m just broken flesh.”

“Fatima, a little older than me, ran away from home when her family tried to marry her off to a 60-year-old man with three wives already.

“I’d rather die than be another man’s property,” she said, her eyes burning with fierce determination.

Every story I heard reminded me of Jesus words at the well. These women I knew were the ones I was called to serve.

But at the same time, I felt a growing frustration. Even though I was close to them, I couldn’t be completely honest.

Couldn’t connect fully. I was maintaining my masculine identity when I knew I could be more effective as a woman.

How could I truly understand their pain if I still wore the guys of Mahmud?

One day while translating for a group therapy session, a woman looked me in the eye and suddenly said, “There’s something different about you, Mahmood.”

My heart sank. She watched me with unusual intensity. “You understand our pain in a way other men don’t.

It’s as if you’ve seen the women you love suffer.” My heart raced. She could see right through the disguise.

I tried to maintain my composure and nodded, speechless. But when she continued, her words touched something deep inside me.

You lost your mother, your sister, didn’t you?” She said. Only someone who has seen the women they love hurt could have such compassion in their eyes.

At that moment, something inside me snapped. How could I continue with this disguise? I knew that to fulfill the mission God had given me.

I couldn’t hide who I truly was for much longer. The shame and pain I felt at being in a body that wasn’t mine, but at the same time helped me survive began to weigh more heavily.

That night, after another day of prayer, I knelt in my tent and sought God’s guidance.

Lord, I whispered into the darkness. You’ve shown me a future where I help these women, but how can I reveal my true identity without risking everything I’ve achieved so far?

How can I be authentic without destroying my security? Then, unexpectedly, the answer came through grace.

During our work together, she had begun to notice something peculiar in me, a unique compassion for these women, a sensitivity that was unusual.

Grace, being a dedicated Christian, had realized how much I cared and approached me with a suggestion.

I’ve been watching your work, Mammud, she said softly. You have a special gift for connecting with these women.

Have you ever considered specializing in trauma therapy? I looked at her in surprise. I’d love to, but my legal situation is complicated.

I don’t know if I can. She interrupted me with a smile, knowing there was more to it.

And then the truth I’d been so afraid to reveal began to take shape. After weeks of prayer and reflection, I knew I needed someone to trust.

And Grace, with her empathy and faith, seemed like the right person. Grace, I said, making sure we were alone.

I need to tell you something, but I need you to promise me you’ll keep it a secret.

She nodded seriously. Of course, you can trust me. I took a deep breath, knowing I could no longer live a lie.

I am not who I appear to be, I began, and with a trembling voice, I told my entire story.

My escape from Somalia, the suffering, the disguise, and everything I had experienced up until that moment.

She listened to me silently, absorbing every word. When I finished, she didn’t say anything right away.

All she did was hug me silently. And in her embrace, I found more compassion and acceptance than I could have ever imagined.

My true identity, as Amina Hassan, had never felt so distant as in that moment.

I had finally let out everything I had hidden for so long. My capture, my days in prison, my escape, my transformation into Mahmood, the experience in the well, and of course, the vision God gave me calling me to serve persecuted women like myself.

Grace listened in complete silence, her eyes widening as I shared the details of my journey.

Each word I spoke seemed to hang heavy in the air. But when I finished, her eyes were brimming with tears.

I couldn’t help but notice how touched she was. “Amina,” she whispered. And for the first time in months, I heard my real name spoken.

“That sound made me feel alive again, like I was finally coming home.” “My dear,” she said.

Your story is extraordinary, but also extremely dangerous. Her concern was palpable, and I knew she was thinking about the risk of my identity being discovered.

I know, I replied calmly. But I also know that God has called me to this work.

I cannot continue living a lie while these women who have suffered so much need to know that someone truly understands them.

Grace thought for a long moment, and I held my breath, waiting for her answer.

Finally, she spoke. Is there a way? My organization, she began cautiously, has connections with lawyers who specialize in complex asylum cases.

If we present your case correctly, emphasizing both your religious persecution and your gender, you may be able to receive special protection.

Anna, but what if it doesn’t work out? I asked, my heart clenching with fear of the unknown.

She looked at me with a calm, confident look. Then we’ll continue to look for other options.

But Amina, if you truly believe God has called you to this work, we must trust that he will open the necessary doors.

These words echoed within me, and I immediately remembered Jesus’s words at the well. I will make a way where there is no way.

And in that instant, I knew that was the path I was meant to follow.

That night, after much reflection and prayer, I made a decision that would change my life forever.

I wrote a letter to the refugee authorities revealing my true identity and requesting that my case be re-evaluated so I could receive the special protections afforded to persecuted women.

The fear of discovery consumed me and for a moment I considered the risk of being deported back to Somalia where execution awaited me, but I remembered Jesus’s words, “Fear not, for I am with you.”

2 weeks later, the response arrived. My case had been assigned to a lawyer specializing in religious and gender-based persecution.

“Grace accompanied me to the meeting where, for the first time in almost a year, I introduced myself as Amina Hassan, not Mahmood.”

“Your story is remarkable,” the lawyer said after reviewing my statement. “As of women who have suffered religious persecution and managed to escape concentration camps are extremely rare, and this one has documentation and testimonies that prove its veracity.

I believe we have an excellent chance of not only obtaining asylum, but also permanent residency.

For the first time since my capture, I felt a lightness I hadn’t felt in months.

Not only was my safety assured, but now I felt I could finally fulfill the mission God had given me.

As we left the lawyer’s office, Grace tenderly took my hand. “Amina,” she said, her voice soft.

“Are you ready to start the real work?” “What do you mean?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

She smiled and explained. My organization wants to offer you an official position as a trauma counselor for refugee in Malian women.

I was speechless for a moment. The opportunity seemed surreal, but at the same time, it all made sense.

The salary isn’t high, Grace continued. But it includes job training, housing in Nairobi, and most importantly, the chance to help hundreds of women, women like you.

Her words connected with the visions Jesus showed me at the well. A vision of myself helping other women, providing support, comfort, and guidance to those who had lost everything just as I had.

I was being called to this. I felt tears streaming down my face. It was no longer fear I felt, but immense gratitude.

It was confirmation that God was guiding every step of my journey. Yes, I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.

Yes, I’m ready. And in that moment, I knew my journey was just beginning. I had waited my whole life for that moment.

On October 15th, 2019, exactly 7 months after my capture in Moadishu, I boarded a bus bound for Nairobi.

I carried only a small suitcase with everything I owned. But the heaviest and most significant thing was my heart full of anticipation.

For the first time, I was traveling like myself, Amina Hassan, without hiding, without disguising, without fear.

Grace accompanied me that day, sitting beside me as the Kenyon landscape unfolded before the bus window.

She noticed my hands trembling slightly, and with a gentle smile, she asked, “Are you nervous?”

I took a deep breath, looking out the window at the vast plains and small villages.

With a smile on my face, I replied sincerely, “It’s like my whole life has been preparation for this.”

Nairobi immediately impressed me. The city was vibrant, full of life and energy. Something inside me began to vibrate with this new energy, a feeling that I was finally where I was supposed to be.

My new home was simple, a modest apartment in Eastley, the neighborhood the locals affectionately called Little Moadishu.

It had one bedroom, a welle equipped kitchen, and most important to me at the time, a small living room where I could receive the women who would come seeking help and advice.

On my first night, I knelt on the cold floor of the apartment and spent hours praying.

Lord, I murmured, my voice full of gratitude. Thank you for bringing me here. May this place be a refuge for broken hearts.

The official work began a week later when I joined Women’s Hope International. My supervisor, Dr.

Sarah Mangui, was a clinical psychologist with 20 years of experience working with traumatized refugees.

On my first day, she looked me in the eye and said, “Amina, your story gives you unique credibility with our clients, but remember that your personal experience needs to be complemented by solid professional training.”

For the first 3 months, I underwent intensive training. I studied trauma counseling techniques, learned about resources available to refugees, and most importantly, absorbed the stories and lessons the women themselves were willing to share.

But the most valuable training without a doubt came from my direct interactions with women.

The first to come to me was Sarah, a 25-year-old woman who had arrived in Nairobi with her two children after escaping an abusive marriage.

During our first session, she looked at me with eyes deeply lined with exhaustion and said, her voice trembling, I can’t sleep.

Every night I see his face. I hear his voice threatening me. We were sitting in my small office which I had decorated with warm colors to create a welcoming atmosphere.

On the wall hung a verse from Isaiah 6:3. Give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning.

Sarah, I began softly. What you’re feeling is completely normal after everything you’ve been through.

But I want you to know something very important. She looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and pain.

And I continued, “You survived. You escaped. You protected your children. That is extraordinary, incredible strength.

She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears, and asked with visible pain. But will it ever get better?

I smiled, trying to convey a calm I was struggling to find myself. It will get better, I promised her.

But remember, healing doesn’t mean going back to who you were before. Healing means becoming who you were always meant to be, someone refined by the fire, but not consumed by it.

After six sessions, when I felt I had built a solid foundation of trust between us, I decided to share my own story with Sarah.

I watched her expression change from hopelessness to quiet admiration and then slowly to a spark of hope.

“You were really in prison?” She asked, her eyes full of disbelief. “I was,” I replied with a soft smile.

“And you escaped disguised as a man?” She looked astonished. “Yes,” I confirmed. And if I could survive this, you can too.

More than survive, you can thrive. At that moment, I realized I was finally fulfilling my God-given mission.

The vision he had shown me at the well was being realized before my eyes, not in a grand or dramatic way, but through small gestures of compassion and support that could transform lives.

I was there, truly present, like Amina, helping women get back on their feet, one story at a time.

The second case that deeply affected me was that of Sina, a young woman whose body was marked by deep scars.

She had been brutally burned by her own family after they discovered she had converted to Christianity.

During our first session, she showed me her hands and arms covered in marks that seemed to tell the story of unbearable pain.

“Look what they did to me,” she said, her voice low but filled with a strength I couldn’t ignore.

“How can I live looking like this? Who will love me?” She asked. The hopelessness in her words piercing my heart.

That night, as I drove home, I thought about how I could help her see beyond her pain.

I worked with Zab for almost a year, helping her process the trauma, rebuild her self-esteem, and understand that what happened to her didn’t define who she was.

I connected with surgeons who offered their services proono. But the greatest work I did was helping SAB see her scars, not as evidence of rejection, but as marks of resistance, of survival.

Sayab, I told her once during a session, watching her hands tremble as she touched her scars.

Each of these marks is a testament that God’s love for you is stronger than the hatred of those who tried to destroy you.

You are beautiful. Not in spite of these scars, but in part because of them.

It was a long road, but a year later, Sob graduated from the program. She wore a short-sleeved blouse at the graduation ceremony, proudly displaying her scars as if to say to the world, that doesn’t define me.

I’m more than that. These marks, she said, gently touching her arms. I used to think they were proof that I was rejected.

Now I know they are signs that I was chosen by God for something special.

6 months after arriving in Nairobi, I received an unexpected invitation to a meeting with Dr.

Mangi, my supervisor. He looked at me with a genuine smile and said, “Amina, the results you’ve achieved are extraordinary.

The women you’ve counseledled have significantly higher recovery rates than average. What do you think your secret is?”

I looked at him, feeling the weight of my own journey, and the journey of the women I was helping.

I think it’s because I don’t treat them like an expert who has all the answers, I replied calmly.

I come as a sister, I continued. Someone who has walked through similar valleys. Someone who has found life on the other side.

And that’s what I want them to see. There is life after pain. There is hope after suffering.

Dr. Mangi seemed satisfied with the answer. That’s exactly why, he said with a shrewd look.

We want to expand your role. Would you be willing to develop a specific program for Somali refugee women who have suffered religious persecution?

This is how the Sisters of Hope program. This program has undoubtedly become the most rewarding work of my life.

It combines individual counseling, group therapy, vocational training, and legal support for women facing unique challenges, including the trauma of religious persecution.

As I approached my second anniversary in Nairobi, my work began to gain recognition. I began receiving invitations to speak at international conferences, a voice I never would have imagined when I was hiding in prison, fearing for my life.

It was exactly as Jesus had shown me in the visions at the well. My voice would reach places others couldn’t.

The first time I spoke before an international audience was at a United Nations conference in Geneva.

I stood at that podium looking out at delegates from dozens of countries and I remembered the frightened young woman who had been torn from her home just 3 years earlier.

My voice rang out firm and clear. My name is Amina Hassan. I’m here to speak for the women who have no voice, to tell the stories of those who have been silenced.

I shared my own story, but more importantly, I shared the stories of the women I met along the way.

I spoke about the urgent need for safe havens for refugee women, the importance of specialized mental health services, and the unique challenges faced by women fleeing religious persecution.

At that moment, as I looked at the delegates, I felt I was fulfilling the mission God had entrusted to me.

It wasn’t just my story that was being heard, but the stories of all the women who had suffered in the shadows who still faced fear, pain, and invisibility.

In every word, every sentence was a reflection of the many lives I had touched, and also of those still to be reached.

With a heart full of gratitude and determination, I knew this was just the beginning of a work that would never end.

At the end of my presentation, applause echoed throughout the room. The warmth of the standing ovation was immense.

But what truly touched my heart was the look on the faces of the women who approached me afterward.

They had tears in their eyes, some even trying to hide their emotion. But their words remained etched in my memory.

You spoke for me, for all of us. That night, back in my hotel room in Geneva, I sat by the window, gazing out at the mighty Swiss mountains stretching out before me.

So far from my homeland, yet somehow so close in spirit. This was the place where everything began to make sense.

Where the difficult journey seemed at last to find a clear purpose. Lord, I whispered, my eyes closed and my heart grateful.

When you found me in that hole, you promised that you would use my story to touch lives.

Thank you for keeping that promise. As I sat there barefoot on the cold floor and hands resting on the Bible, I had treasured through all my years of suffering.

A sense of peace washed over me. I knew that despite everything I had experienced, the pain, the loss, the fear, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

And that moment there in Geneva was a reflection of a transformed life. A life that now reached thousands of others sharing light and hope.

Today, as I tell you this, from my office in Nairobi, I can see the Gong Mountains in the distance, their soft, mysterious silhouettes on the horizon.

My office where so many stories of pain have been shared but also of overcoming where the voices of the women I’ve met echo in every corner.

On my desk are photos of over 200 women who have gone through our program over the past 5 years.

Each face a story of suffering transformed into strength. A narrative of resilience, courage, and renewal.

And my pocket Bible, the one I thought had been destroyed in the concentration camp, was returned to me by a former guard.

He converted to Christianity after hearing my story and somehow felt it was part of his own redemption.

The Bible’s pages are stained and worn, but the words within remain as powerful as ever.

Each morning before I begin work, I read the same verse that sustained me through my darkest days.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

Psalm 23:4. It’s a promise that has been fulfilled throughout my life and continues to unfold in ways I never could have imagined.

At night, before I sleep, I whisper the same prayer I prayed at the well when the darkness seemed absolute, when all I had was my faith.

Use me, Lord, to bring your light to places where others need to see your love.

And so, as I revisit the stories of all the women who have walked through our doors, those who found refuge, and those still on the path to healing, I know this is my mission, my truth.

This is not just my story. It’s the story of every person who had the courage to survive, escape, rebuild, and now help others do the same.

It’s the story of a God who never abandons his children, no matter how deep the hole they find themselves in.

Because in the end, the pit that once swallowed me also brought me out, stronger, more alive, more grateful.

And now in every word I share, I see the reflection of a love that knows no end.

A love that is capable of healing the deepest wounds and transforming darkness into light.

This is the testimony of a faithful God. And by his grace, this is just the continuation of a journey of transformation and hope that will never end.

She Pretended to Be a Man to Survive: A Christian’...

She Pretended to Be a Man to Survive: A Christian’s Incredible Escape from Persecution

She Pretended to Be a Man to Survive: A Christian’s Incredible Escape from Persecution

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