[Music] My name is Ibraim Kamis and I have seen the face of hatred in the eyes of those who swear to serve Allah by persecuting those who follow Christ. I will tell you my story not merely as a recounting of events but as a living testimony of God's power in the largest nation in Africa where the cross has become a symbol of resistance and hope. It all began on a stifling afternoon in May 2019 in the dusty streets of North Kartum where the desert heat mingled with the aroma of spices and the call to Muslim prayer.
Sweat ran down my forehead as I walked among the stalls of the Alsuk Al-Shabi market, completely unaware of the eyes watching me from the shadows. In my mind, I was reviewing the verses I would share that night with our small group of believers in the basement of an abandoned store. The Sudin National Security Police, known for their brutality against Christians, had been monitoring my movements for weeks.
In our country, where Islamic law rules with an iron fist, being a Christian is considered treason, not only against the state, but against the very essence of our cultural identity. The regime has perfected the art of religious persecution, turning the life of believers into a daily exercise in survival. Ibraim Kamis.
The shout cut through the air like a whip, causing my heart to stop for an instant. Three men in civilian clothes emerged from the crowd. The golden badges glinting under the relentless Sahara sun.
In the name of the National Security Department, you are under arrest for apostasy and illegal missionary activities. Their words echoed in my ears as rough hands grabbed me. The market crowd scattered like sand in the wind, leaving an empty circle around me.
No one wanted to witness it. No one wanted to get involved. In Sudan, being associated with a Christian can mean social death or worse.
"Your little church in Algerif West has been very busy lately," one of the officers whispered in my ear as they handcuffed me. "Did you think you could convert our people to your foreign religion without consequences? " The cuffs bit into my wrists as they dragged me toward an unmarked white pickup truck, and I remembered the words my mother had whispered to me years before.
My son, to follow Christ in Sudan is to choose the path of martyrdom. But remember, the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church. Brothers who hear me, what I'm about to share is not a fictional story.
It is my testimony of how God's power can manifest even in the darkest cells of Cobra prison. Regime keeps its instruments of torture and where many Christians have disappeared without a trace. This is the story of how the gospel continues to flourish in a land of the faithful.
They pushed me into the vehicle and as the doors slammed shut, I could see in the distance the minouret of the Alan Mosque rising against Cartum's burning sky. I did not know then that it would be the beginning of a descent into an earthly hell where my faith would be what I could imagine and where I would discover that the strongest chains cannot bind the power of the Holy Spirit. The streets of Port Sudan were silent witnesses of my childhood where the salty aroma of the Red Sea mixed with the incense of the mosques.
My father Ahmed Kamis was a respected Imam at the Alraman mosque known to Islam and his strict interpretation of Sharia. Like many Sudin children, I grew up among the echoes of the five daily prayers and the teachings of the Quran, memorizing suras, and learning to hate anything considered infidel. Our home located in the traditional Al-Midan neighborhood was a perfect reflection of Muslim devotion.
Portraits of Mecca adorned the walls and the sound of corrupt filled every corner. My father made sure that my two brothers and I grew up on the right path, severely punishing any deviation from Islamic teachings. But it was my mother, Amira, who secretly planted the first seeds of faith in my heart.
For years, she kept a secret that could have meant her death. Before marrying my father, she had come to know. At night, when my father was at the mosque, she would whisper stories to me about a god of love so different from the distant and stern Allah about Ibraim, she would say softly as she prepared Kisra in the kitchen.
There is a love greater than the fear they teach us. There is a God who became man for us. Her words were like drops of water in the desert of my soul, though at the time I could not fully understand their meaning.
My mother's double life was a silent testimony of resistance by day hijab and performed her prayers with perfect precision. But in the solitude of her room, she read fragments of a small Arabic Bible inside an old Quran. I discovered it by accident when I was 12 and the terror in her eyes made me grasp the gravity of her secret.
Everything changed in 19 when local religious or to suspect my mother's western tendencies. One day while cleaning the house, I found a crumpled letter hidden under her mattress. It was a warning from the committee for the promotion of and prevention of vice.
They had seen her speaking with Christian women at the market. The pressure on our family intensified. My father, his reputation in the community became stricter and more watchful.
Beatings became more frequent and fear became our constant compion. But even in the midst of oppression, my mother found ways to keep her faith alive. One night, after a particularly severe beating, my mother called me to her side.
With tears in her eyes, but an inexplicable piece on her face, she handed me her small Bible. "Keep it," she whispered. "Someday you'll understand why I am willing to die for what is written in these pages.
" Those were the last words I heard from her. The next morning, she had disappeared. My father told us she had gone back to her family in Casala, but the look in his eyes told a different story.
We never knew for certain what happened to her. But rumors in the neighborhood spoke of an apostate who had been dealt with according to Islamic law. Brother who hears me.
That was when the seed of truth began to germinate in my heart, watered by the tears of a mother whose final act of love was to give me the word that would change my life forever. Her sacrifice was not in vain, though it would take years for me to fully grasp the depth of her faith and the price she was willing to pay for it. The hallways of the University of Cartoum became the stage for my spiritual transformation.
It was 2005 and I had been sent to study civil engineering following my father's wishes to maintain the family's prestige. The Sudin capital with its colonial buildings and bustling streets was an entirely different world from the conservative Port Sudan of my childhood. Amid equations and structural calculations, my mother's small Bible remained hidden at the bottom of my suitcase.
A constant reminder of a love I did not dare explore. During the day, I was the model Muslim student. I performed my prayers, fasted during Ramadan, and participated in the university's Islamic group activities.
But in the solitary nights, my mother zenated in my mind like a distant echo. Everything changed when I met Hassan, a classmate who seemed different from the rest. There was something about his gaze, a peace that contrasted with the constant restlessness I felt inside.
One afternoon after a particularly difficult class, he invited me to have tea at a small cafe near campus. Between sips of cardamom tea, the conversation shifted to spiritual matters. Ibraim, he said quietly, looking around cautiously.
Have you ever wondered if there's more than just rules and rituals in the search for God? His words struck a chord in my heart. That night, Hassan revealed that he was part of a small community of Christians who gathered secretly in the suburbs of Kartum.
The meetings took place in a dusty basement in the Bahi district under the guise of a study club. Every week, a small group of believers gathered to worship in whispers and study the word. Among them was a young medical student whose father had been killed for his Christian faith and the elderly Malik who had survived decades of persecution while keeping the flame of the gospel alive.
The first time I attended, my heart pounded so hard I feared the others could hear. The contrast between the fervent yet contained worship of these believers and the mechanical rituals I had practiced all my life deeply impacted me. There was no ostentation here, only a genuine devotion that reminded me of my mother.
The God you're seeking, Malik told me one night, is not a distant God who demands your submission through fear. He is a father who left his throne to find you. He spoke.
He pulled a worn Bible from his jobber, so similar to the one my mother had left me. Tears began to run down my cheeks as I told them about it. Over the following months, each meeting felt like water for my thirsty soul.
I learned to see the scriptures with new eyes, discovering that the Jesus my mother loved was not just a prophet, but the son of God who had given his life for me. The night I finally surrendered to Christ, that small underground room filled with a quiet yet profound joy. My baptism was done in secret in a rusty bathtub in that basement.
As the water streamed down my face, weight was lifted from my shoulders. Now I understand, mother, I whispered in my heart, why you were willing to die for this. The transformation in my life was gradual but profound.
I began to see my engineering career not just as a profession but as a tool for the kingdom. They started planning ways to use our knowledge to serve the persecuted Christian community. Every construction project became an opportunity to create safe spaces for believers.
But as my faith grew, so did the danger. The security services had intensified surveillance at the universities, looking for any sign of Christian activity. Several of our brothers disappeared without a trace.
Each gathering could be our last. Each hug might be a final goodbye. Brother who hears me, it was during those university years that I learned that following Christ in Sudan means walking on a razor's edge.
Each day was a deliberate choice between the safety of conformity and the dangerous freedom of true faith. But as the elderly Malik would say, the real question is not whether we're willing to die for Christ, but whether we're willing to live for him every day, no matter the cost. The years following my graduation of silent but significant growth for our underground church.
I settled in North Cartoum, using my engineering profession as a cover for our real ministry. The Algerf West neighborhood with its narrow streets and run-down buildings became the center of our operations. Amid blueprints and meetings with contractors, God was building something far more significant.
A physical structure. Our network began to grow organically. We set up cells of four or five believers who met in different places, back rooms, basement, and even occasionally abandoned construction sites.
I supervised. Each group had its own communication code. A broom left leaning against a wall meant meeting cancelled.
Rachel, an Ethiopian nurse working at the North Cartoon Hospital, became a key player in our ministry. Her job allowed her to move freely around the city without raising carrying messages and Christian literature hidden in her medical bag. Every syringe I carry, she would say with a smile, is an opportunity to inject the love of Christ into this city.
The system we developed was meticulous. Every new believer went through a period of observation before being introduced to a larger group. We had to be cautious.
The religious police had infiltrated other underground churches before. Malik drawing on decades of experience taught us to recognize the signs of an informant. Questions that were too specific, excessive interest in names and locations, offers of help that seemed too generous.
One of our most effective innovations was the scripture memorization system. Since physical Bibles were too dangerous to carry, each member memorized different chapters. The word of God cannot be chained, Malik reminded us, quoting Paul.
They can burn our Bibles, but they can't erase what is written in our hearts. Our ministry extended beyond secret meetings. We established a support network for the families of Christ or had disappeared.
Rachel coordinated a system to distribute medications and food. I used my contacts in the construction industry to provide work for believers who had lost their jobs because of their faith. One particularly memorable night, we blew believers in the backyard of an abandoned house.
Among them was Zab, a young Muslim woman who had found Christ after Rachel treated her at the hospital. Her testimony reminded us all of the transformative power of the gospel. In Islam, I feared God, she said.
in Christ. For the first time in my life, I love God. But with each new convert, the risks increased.
We began to notice increased surveillance around our usual meeting. Unmarked cars parked for hours near our homes. Strangers followed us in the market.
Danger was a constant shadow that followed us. One afternoon, while supervising a construction site, a worker approached me discreetly. Engineer, he whispered.
The religious police have been asking questions about you at the mosque. They say they never see you at Friday prayers. We stepped up our precautions.
We changed meeting locations more frequently. We devised new routes to reach our rendevous points, taking elaborate detours to see if we were being followed. Each new convert was both a victory and a potential risk.
Despite the growing danger, our community continued to strengthen. Past persecutions had taught us that the Sudanese church was like the desert acacas. Its roots grew deeper in the driest soil.
Every new threat pushed us to depend more on God and on one another. Brothers, I shared at one of our gatherings, each day we live is a miracle and an opportunity. We don't know how much time we have, but we know that every moment counts for the kingdom.
I did not know then how prophetic those words would be. The noose was tightening around us, and we would soon face the most severe test of our faith. But as the elderly Malik constantly reminded us, in Sudan, the price of following Christ is high, but the cost of not following him is infinitely greater.
Betrayal came cloaked in friendship. Ysef, a seeming young man who had joined our group three months earlier, turned out to be the very instrument the National Security Department had been waiting for. His presence at our gatherings, which we are prayers, was in fact the seed of our destruction.
February 2019 marked the beginning of the end. The signs were there, but in our eagerness to see the church grow, we ignored the warnings. Ysef asked increasingly specific questions about our network, names, meeting locations, contacts in other cities.
His curiosity, which at first seemed like a genuine desire to learn, concealed a more sinister purpose. There's something about him that doesn't convince me. Rachel had warned me one afternoon while packing medicines for a Christian family in need.
His questions, they're too precise, but our concerns blinded by my desire to see the best in people. Fear can make us distrustful, I answered. Isn't that exactly what the enemy wants to sew among us?
The first unequivocal sign of trouble came when Hassan disappeared. He failed to show up for a Sunday gathering. Extraordinary for him.
The next day, his apartment was empty, showing clear signs of a police search. The terrified neighbors refused to talk, but their looks said it all. A week later, Rachel was intercepted at the hospital.
The religious police interrogated her for hours about her suspicious activities. They released her. The message was clear.
They were closing in. They knew details of our private conversations. Rachel told me trembling.
Someone has been watching us very closely. The final blow came in the form of a raid during one of our prayer meetings. It was a humid night in Kartum in the basement of an abandoned store in Alger.
Ysef had insisted it was a safe place and we naively believed him. In the middle of a whispered hymn, the doors burst open. The beam of flashlights blinded us as security agents flooded the place.
In the name of the Republic of Sudan, you are all under arrest for apostasy and illegal Christian activities, announced a cold voice. Amid the confusion and shouts, I saw Ysef standing next to the officers, his face an expressionless mask. For a moment, and in his gaze I saw not remorse, but the satisfaction of a mission accomplished.
Yousef, I whispered as they handcuffed me. May God forgive you as we must forgive you. His response was a crooked smile.
Allah does not forgive infidels. What followed unfolded with calculated brutality. They separated us immediately.
Men and women into different vehicles. As they shoved me into a truck, I saw the agents begin to demolish our meeting place. Christian books, handmade himnels, and the few Bibles we had were thrown into a pile to be burned.
At the detention center, the interrogation began immediately. The officer in charge, a man named Khalil, seemed to know every detail of our activities in the past months. We have everything documented, he said, laying out photographs on the table, every meeting, every secret baptism, every delivery of Christian literature.
The question is, how much do you want to suffer before giving us the names we're missing? The most painful part was discovering the extent of Ysef's betrayal. For 3 months, he had meticulously documented our activities, taken secret photos, and gathered names and addresses.
He had earned our trust only to turn us into the authorities. His infiltration work had been so thorough that he even had recordings of our prayers and songs. Your little church no longer exists.
Khalil sneered, showing me photos of our meeting place being demolished. Your brothers and sisters are being arrested as we speak. The seed of Christianity will be uprooted in Sudan.
Through the thin walls of my cell, I could hear the screams of other detainees. I recognized Sarah's voice, singing a hymn between sobs. Somewhere close, someone else recited verses from the Psalms.
Our church, physically destroyed, was still alive in the hearts and voices of the faithful. That night, in the solitude of Christ's words rang with new strength. Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.
Ysef's betrayal, like Judas's, would only prove that Christ's church cannot be destroyed by human treachery. While sirens howled in the distance and guards patrolled the corridors, I began for my detained brothers and sisters, but also for Ysef. Father, I whispered in the darkness, "Forgive him, for he doesn't.
" In that moment of deep anguish, I discovered that the true test of our faith was not surviving persecution, but maintaining the love of Christ, even for those who betray us. The doors of Cobra Prison slammed shut behind me with a metallic clang that reverberated like the seal of my fate. This infamous detention center, known throughout Sudan as the place where the regime's enemies vanish, would become my home for the coming months.
Seemed laden with suffering and despair. Officer Khalil, who led the interrogations, operated with the precision of a surgeon and the cruelty of a butcher. Here in Cobra, he explained with a cold smile, we have special methods for dealing with those who try to contaminate Sudan with foreign religions.
His words were the prelude to the hell that was about to unfold. The first days followed a pattern designed to break both body and spirit. A cell so small I could barely lie down.
The concrete floor my only bed. The heat was suffocating. cartoons temperatures often exceed 45° C, and in those unventilated cells, the air grew thick and stifling.
Interrogations began at dawn and could last until late at night. The preferred technique was the desert eagle. They forced me to stand under the scorching sun in the courtyard without water or rest.
Christ walked on water, they would mock. Let's see how long you can stand on fire. Took shifts every 4 hours, but I had to remain motionless.
If my knees bent, I was whipped. If my head drooped from it, they woke me with scalding water. Baptism water, they joked with cruel irony.
Time became an abstract concept, measured only by the sun's movement and the intensity of the pain. Between the sun sessions, they took me to the purification room, a windowless chamber where the interrogation continued. Khalil had a particular method.
He alternated between physical violence and seemingly friendly conversations. Ibraim, he would say in a paternal tone, all this can end. We just need the names of the foreigners who fund your church.
The distribution routes for Bibles, contacts in other cities. Hallucinations began on the fifth day. Exhydration made the walls seemed to move.
I saw faces in the shadows and heard voices that didn't exist. In my delirium, I spoke with my mother, asking her forgiveness for not having understood her sacrifice sooner. One particular night is etched in my memory.
They had hung me upside down, and as the blood rushed to my head, and my muscles screamed in pain, I began to recite Psalm 22, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? " A young guard, unsettled by my resilience, asked me in a whisper, "Is it worth all this for a foreign god? " The answer came to my lips without thinking, "He is not a foreign god.
He is the god who became Sudin to save us. " The guard struck me to silence me, but I saw something that gave me hope. A spark of curiosity, perhaps even recognition.
Days turned into weeks. My body became a map of scars and wounds, each one telling the story of a different torture session. They fed me just enough to keep me alive, no more.
Hard bread and murky water became my daily diet. The communion of suffering I called it in my prayers. Through the walls I could hear other prisoners screams.
Some nights when the guards were distracted we exchanged Bible verses and whispers. I discovered there were five Isel. We took turns singing hymns in very low voices.
Finding solace in our shared faith. One morning with a new strategy. Your friend Rachel has been very cooperative.
He lied, showing me photos of her in what appeared to be another prison. She has understood that Allah is merciful to those who repent. My heart sank at the sight of those images.
But something inside me told me Rachel would never betray her faith. Do you know why Christians are so dangerous to Sudan? Khalil asked me during a particularly brutal session.
because they offer hope and hope makes people question the established order. His words intended to demoralize me actually confirmed the power of the gospel even in the darkest circumstances. The tortures continued, each more creative and cruel than the last.
They used electric shocks, simulated drowning, and sensory deprivation. Yet in the midst of the greatest pain, I experienced moments of spiritual clarity that defied all logic. It was as if the more they tried to break my body, the stronger my spirit became.
Brother who hears me, there is a kind of strength found only in absolute weakness. When you have been stripped of everything except your faith. In those moments, Paul's words took on new meaning.
When I am weak, then I am strong. My cell in Cobra became my school of faith where I learned that physical chains cannot bind the spirit of one who has been set free by Christ. In Cobb's darkest moments when pain and exhaustion threaten my last breath of hope, God began to move in ways I can only describe as miraculous.
The first sign of his intervention came through a guard named Abdul, the same one who had questioned me about my faith during my torture. One night, while I was cleaning the floor of my cell after a particularly brutal interrogation, Abdul made sure no one was watching and slipped a small package to me along with the dirty rag. Inside, I found a piece of fresh bread and a hastily written note, "Your God is speaking to me in dreams.
" My heart leapt at these words. Even in this place of darkness, the light of Christ was reaching hearts. Over the following days, Abdul began to ask discreet questions during his shifts.
Why did your god choose to suffer? He whispered while pretending to inspect my cell. How can you forgive those who torture you?
Each question was a crack in the wall of darkness that surrounded us. Gospel's light to seep through. But God's intervention was not limited to Abdul.
I started noticing subtle changes in the prison. Other guards began to show small acts of compassion, an extra glass of water, a slight reprieve during interrogations, a kind word whispered in secret. The seed of the gospel was sprouting in the most unlikely soil.
One morning, as they led me to another interrogation, I heard something extraordinary. Someone softly singing a Christian hymn in one of the cells. It was the voice of a guard.
The song stopped abruptly when others approached, but the message was clear. The Holy Spirit was at work in Coba. Through Abdul, I began receiving news from the outside.
The church, far from being destroyed by the raids and arrests, had grown stronger. Believers are meeting in smaller, more discreet groups, he but they are more committed than ever and arrested, has inspired 10 more to investigate Jesus. One especially significant night, Abdul told me his entire story.
He had once been assigned to oversee the executions of Christians, and the peace on their faces as they faced death had deeply disturbed him. "They died differently," he said, as if they knew something we didn't. Now, after weeks of secret conversations and reading fragments of the gospel he had acquired, he was on the verge of a lifechanging decision.
The most surprising transformation happened during a torture session. While Khalil supervised my punishment, one of the new guards suddenly refused to continue. "I can't," he simply said, removing his latex gloves.
"Something is wrong here. " He was immediately relieved of his post, but the incident sent ripples of unease through the staff. Kobe's walls built to contain and break the human spirit were bearing witness to the transforming power of Christ.
Whispers of faith traveled from cell to cell, guard to guard. Even some of the Muslim prisoners began asking questions about the God who gave Christians such brother who hears me. I learned that there is no place so dark light cannot penetrate.
No heart so hardened that his love cannot reach it. In the bowels of Koba, intended to extinguish Christian faith. God was igniting new flames of hope.
Abdul eventually made his decision. One night in the darkest corner of my cell, he whispered his first prayer to Christ. If you are real, he said trembling.
Make me as strong as those I've seen suffer for you. That night, in silence and secrecy, the church in Cobra grew by one more. of cartoon was stifling that July morning in 2019.
The ceiling fans barely moved the heavy air as I was brought before Judge Muhammad al-Rashid known for his strict enforcement of Islamic law. The charge apostasy attizing crimes that in Sudan could carry the death penalty. My body weakened by months of torture in Cobber could be scars and bruises with a silent testimony of the price of my faith.
In the courtroom, I recognized familiar faces, members of my old mosque, neighbors who with smiles and now looked away. My father Ahmed sat in the front row, his face like stone. Ibraim Kis began the judge, his voice booming in the hall.
You have been accused of abandoning Islam, the true religion, and of corrupting others with foreign beliefs. The evidence is overwhelming. One by one, witnesses took the stand.
Yuf, the informant, presented photographs, recordings, lists of names. Each piece of evidence was another nail in my cross. But then something unexpected happened.
Abdul, the guard from Cobra, who had found Christ, as a surprise witness. With a firm voice, he began describing the tortures he had witnessed. If his faith is false, he asked the court, "Why do we need so much violence to fight it?
" The judge ordered his immediate detention, but his words had planted a seed of doubt in the room. My father asked to speak. He rose slowly as meeting mine for the first time in years.
My son, he declared, has brought shame to our family and our faith. But his voice wavered slightly. I ask the court for mercy.
I was to guide him back to the right path. In his words, "I heard not only shame, but a hint of fatherly love I thought was lost. " The prosecutor delivered his final argument.
"This man has not only rejected Islam, but he has built a network to contaminate others. His very existence is a threat to the purity of our nation. He demanded the maximum penalty, death for apostasy.
" When I was given the chance to speak, I stood with difficulty. The hall fell silent. Honorable judge, I began, I will not defend myself for loving Christ because that would mean denying the greatest truth I have ever known.
But I ask you, can truth be destroyed by the sword? Does a true faith require violence to sustain it? The judge bruskly interrupted me, but something had changed in the atmosphere.
Even some of the guards looked uneasy. After a brief deliberation, the judge pronounced sentence. Instead of the death penalty, I would be a Udan.
I had 48 hours to leave the country with the warning that returning would mean immediate execution. The decision caused shock. For some, it was too lenient.
For others, too harsh. As they took me back to my cell, I heard my father arguing heatedly with the prosecutor. The last words I heard from him were, "At least my son is willing to die for what he believes.
" The next 48 hours were a whirlwind. Officials at the Ethiopian embassy, alerted by contacts in our underground church, processed emergency documents. Rachel, who had been released weeks earlier, risked her safety to bring me some clothes and money gathered by the church.
"My last night in Sudan, while I waited in a detention cell near Cartou's airport, Abdul managed to visit me one final time. " "Your expulsion," he whispered, is a victory. The execution would inspire more people to investigate why someone would be willing to die for Christ.
As the plane took off from Cartoon the next morning, I looked out the window at the city that had been my home. Tears ran down my face, not of sadness, but of hope. Though they expelled me, I whispered.
I know the seed of the gospel was planted. God is still at work in Sudan. In my heart, I knew that my departure was not the end, but the beginning of a new chapter in the story of the Sudin church.
Abdul's last words rang in my mind. Your testimony has planted seeds that no storm can. Today, from my refuge in Adis Ababa, I look back and see how God has thread of my story into a tapestry of his grace.
The Sudin church, far from being destroyed by persecution, continues to grow in the shadows. News arrives through secret networks. New believers baptized in the darkness of night and basement.
Lives transformed by the power of the gospel. Abdul, who risked everything for Christ, now leads a small group of believers inside the same Cobra prison where I was once tortured. His silent testimony continues to draw other guards and prisoners to the truth.
As he says in his encrypted messages, the walls built to contain the faith have become the church's foundation. Rachel remains in cartoon. Her work at the hospital becoming a ministry of both and spiritual healing.
Every day she faces the danger of being discovered, but her response is simple. If God is for us, who can be against us? Through her, I've learned that even some members of the religious police have begun to question their beliefs after witnessing the unbreakable faith of the Christians they persecute.
My father, to my surprise, wrote me a letter a few months ago. He did not express approval of my faith, but his words revealed a heart. My son, I do not understand the path you have chosen, but I cannot deny there is something in you that has changed.
something that makes me wonder. It's a small crack in the wall, but I know God can use even the smallest opening to let his light in. The Sudin church continues to face challenges.
Raids persist. Detentions continue, but with every new martyr, the faith grows stronger. As the elderly Malik once said, "Ye, the blood of the martyrs does not cry out for vengeance, but for conversion.
" And we see this truth unfold as more Sudin intrigued by the Christians unwavering faith begin to seek answers. Brothers who hear me, my testimony is not unique. It is one among thousands of stories of how God is at work in Sudan.
Every day, believers risk their lives to gather in Christ's name. Every night, new converts whisper their first prayers, discovering a freedom that no prison can contain. To those who live in countries where religious freedom is a right, I ask, do not take this blessing for granted.
Your prayers are like lifelines for the persecuted church. When you pray, prison walls tremble, the hearts of persecutors soften, and the faith of the persecuted grows stronger. And to my brothers and sisters in Sudan, I say, stand firm.
The night may be dark, but dawn is coming. Every tear shed, every scar received, every sacrifice made in the name of Christ is being used by God to build his church in our beloved nation. As Abdul said in his last message, persecution can destroy buildings, burn Bibles, and imprison believers, but it cannot stop the advance of the kingdom of God.
This is the truth that sustained my faith in Koba's cells and it is the truth that continues to transform lives in Sudan today. May God find us faithful to the end and may his kingdom continue to advance in Sudan one heart at a time. The seed has been planted and not even the most severe persecution can hinder its growth.
As it is written, the gates of hell shall not prevail against his church.
