[My sharing at CFC's TWR Themed: "Rejoice, Take Courage. Return to Galilee."]
Even though I was a bit hesitant, I decided to join Singles For Christ (SFC) back in 2002 after our PPC president at St. Jude Parish in San Clemente, Tarlac convinced me. At first, I wasn't sure about it, but I went ahead, finished all 12 sessions, and graduated, though I didn't really commit to its call to mission. I saw myself as just another Catholic who was content being a 'good' Catholic—praying my devotions, going to confession, receiving communion, and keeping up with my Sunday obligation. I felt like joining SFC would disrupt my easygoing Catholic life and the little comforts I enjoyed in my free time, so you can imagine how tough it was for me to get involved with CFC Singles.
That year, I got hit with measles, a nasty viral infection that really knocked me down. I couldn't stand, walk, or even eat, and the pain was almost unbearable. Just a tiny bit of light made my eyes burn like fiery sensation. So, I had to keep my eyes shut all the time and wrap myself in dark cloth, or I’d block out the windows with heavy curtains to keep my room pitch black. While I was in the hospital, I got some really bad news: my mom had been taken to the hospital after having a stroke. Even though I was in pain and didn’t show it much, I was really worried deep inside. I loved my mom more than anything else; I was her “mama’s boy”, and that connection stays with me even after she passed away. To me, she was my whole world, and the idea of living without her was unimaginable. I could feel my world starts to crumble, leaving me feeling broken and helpless. This was the start of my FAITH JOURNEY.
Few days after her first stroke, she had her second stroke. She lost her speech; she couldn’t say a word. And the difficult part was she couldn’t read nor write because she never went to school so she couldn’t communicate and express her feelings. And that was very frustrating for her. She became easily irritated and she cried a lot. I watched her in pains, and I couldn’t stand it. I had to help her, but my paycheck barely covered my own bills. Finding a job in the Philippines that could take care of both my needs and hers was tough. So, it seemed like the only sensible choice was to go abroad as an OFW.
Honestly, it wasn't a great plan, and it made me pretty anxious. I worried that working overseas would mean giving up my own comforts, like hanging out with friends and family or travels. Big decision to make and I have to take it. My love for my mom pushed me to take this leap. So, I landed a job in Saudi Arabia, a place known for its strict rules. And yes, it turned out to be just as I expected.
Living in that place was really tough for a practicing Catholic. I was stationed in a barren desert area that felt empty and pretty depressing. The closest city, Jeddah, was an hour away, and there were no churches, no masses, or sacraments. In Saudi Arabia, they only recognize Islam, so having a Bible, a cross, or any Christian symbols, or even making the sign of the cross or questioning Muhammad and Islam could get you into serious trouble. I kept telling myself, 'Whatever happens, God is in control.' “BAHALA NA ANG DIYOS!”
The first three years were bearable, but definitely not easy. I worked as an executive secretary, starting my day at 6:00 AM to 6:00PM, and in between trips from my work to Jeddah, at times, I tutored my boss’s only son, working until 10 PM. My work hours were anywhere from 12 to 16 hours a day, six days a week.
On my days off, I sold fish (naglalako) to other Filipinos, often utang pero may tubo. In my room, I ran a small sari-sari store, selling things in tingi-tingi, like one-riyal cooking oil, vinegar, soy sauce, garlic, onions, and more, for additional income.
In 2005, I left Saudi Arabia, but since there weren't many job options in the Philippines that could match my overseas pay, I decided to head back to Saudi Arabia a year later to work for a new company. This time, I was in the city. While I was doing my ISO training, I met a Filipino who happened to be our brother from CFC SOLD who asked me about my religious affiliations. I was a bit hesitant to answer because I thought it wasn't safe to entertain such questions in Saudi Arabia. But he looked like a Christian to me, so I took my best shot and told him I was Catholic. He was really happy to hear that and asked if I knew about CFC. That’s when it hit me—I was already a member of CFC as a Singles! And so, I CLAIMED it!
He invited me to a Household prayer meeting that week, and it was such a joyful experience—something I had been missing. After that, I couldn’t wait for the next meeting. Every week, we, Singles would get together without any set agenda, and it became a regular thing for us. Sometimes, we just hang out by the sea at Al Corniche. And before I was deported from Saudi Arabia, we managed to run two Christian Life Programs (CLPs) for Singles For Christ, bringing about fifteen new members into our community, which kicked off the pioneering Singles For Christ group in Jeddah. I felt so blessed because I was called to be part of building Christ's mission of spreading the Word, within our Filipino community in Saudi Arabia for the CFC community.
MY DEPORTATION.
Talking about deportation, my time in the desert was tough, but city life turned out to be even harder. I technically entered Saudi Arabia for the second time legally, but due to my lack of proper documents, I was considered an illegal alien. Their laws required me to leave before my three-month visa expired or to get my Iqama sorted out in that timeframe. I ended up overstaying because my visa ran out, which made my situation against the law. I had to stay under the radar to avoid the authorities. I would hitch rides on big trucks or lie down in the backseat or squeeze into trunk of a car just to get to work without getting caught by the police. I did the same whenever a brother would pick me for HH prayers or CLPs. I had to stay completely out of sight. I desperately needed this job for my mom anyway. After nearly a year of this, I chose to go for voluntary deportation because the stress and fatigue from living like that became unbearable.
This whole experience really tested my faith and reliance on God's providence. I remember it was March 18, 2007. At that time, I had no clue how I was going to leave the country. Without an exit letter from my sponsor or kafiil—which I didn’t have because I was in hiding—it was impossible to get out of Saudi Arabia. Luckily, one of our SFC brothers connected with MIGRANTE stepped in to help me with the deportation process. But first, I had to convert to Islam as a requirement. This was a strategic move to boost my chances of getting deported quickly and ensuring a safe exit. As a new Muslim, I had to learn about the principles of Islamic TAUHEED, memorize, reciting and chanting verses from their Quran, and learn to declare the Shahada. Plus, I had to pay a "bribe".
I ended up shelling out around SAR 1,500 (US$400) to a Filipino Muslim Imam. Of what I knkow, part of that cash was allegedly meant to pay off an authority who was behind a 'staged raid' on a place that housed runaway maids. Allegedly, these maids had become the unofficial 'wives' of lonely Filipinos and other expats, living together like real couples, which is considered haram, or unlawful, in Saudi Arabia.
That unforgettable night was filled with trauma and is forever etched in my mind; it was a truly terrifying experience. The mood was dark and gloomy, making me feel like my life was about to end. I was secretly accommodated with other Filipinos in an empty basement room of a building that was about to be raided, where these expatriates were involved in shady affairs. To convince the raiding cops that we were legit Muslim pilgrims who had just finished the hajj and overstayed while working off the books, we were told to sleep in just our pants. We had to apply on some used, grimy dark oil on our bodies, toss sand in our hair, and smear it on our faces to look like we were desert workers. Behind us was a nasty kitchen, filled with dirty pots and plates with leftover food, plus a small, messy table that suggested we were too busy working to clean up or shower.
Around 8 PM, we were told to lock the door, lie down, and try to catch some sleep while we waited. After that, our SFC brother (MIGRANTE) and the Imam left us to deal with our uncertain situation, on our own. I pretended to be asleep, hiding my fears in the darkness of our room. The gloomy darkness outside were more intense that fear started to creep in. Honestly, terror started filling my mind—scared of every scenario that played out in my imagination. With my eyes closed, I could vividly envision every potential outcome, and my heart raced uncontrollably. I felt like I might pass out. Just like a ship being tossed by violent wind and strong waves, faith is the sole anchor that kept me firmed, strong, positive, and daring. I believed God wouldn’t abandon me in time of distress. I also found solace in thinking about the good times I had with my mom.
In our room, a heavy fear hung in the air, nobody wants to be near the door. I’ve found a position at the far end, trying to distance myself from the door. We were all quiet, also because we did not really know who each other was. The silence was deafening. We stood there, unprepared for whatever is about to happen. Our emotions were high like boats tossed in a stormy sea, while the night outside was strangely calm, almost as if it was hiding some frightening danger. I could hear everyone’s hearts racing, so loud it drowned out my own heartbeat. We were frozen, like zombies, too scared to move. The only sounds were our heartbeats and the heavy breaths we breathe. We all knew the police could show up at any moment. I was so scared that my body shook uncontrollably, just like the guy next to me. Even though it was sweltering hot, I was soaked in sweat but felt cold inside.
As midnight drew near, our fears turned into reality. The quiet night was broken by the terrifying screams of women, the cries of children, and the shouts of men. The calm atmosphere shifted to chaos, filling us with a deep fear I had never felt before. THIS IS IT. IT’S TIME. THIS IS REAL. Like a warrior, I had to face this challenge. I didn’t want to pretend but I knew, danger was near, I tightened my hold onto my FAITH in one hand, and God’s shield in the other, as if He was reminding myself to TAKE COURAGE FOR I AM WITH YOU. I prayed, “Lord, if this is the moment, please let this pass… NOT MY WILL BUT YOURS.” Like a fighter who surrenders, I CRIED and offered my spirit! But I begged, “Lord, please keep us safe. Don’t let a single hair on my head be harmed.” [Lk, 21:18].
I was deep in prayer when suddenly, there was a loud banging at the front door. Panic set in, and I yelled, ‘DIYOS KO PO!’ We all jumped up from our mats and backed away from the door, fear taking hold as we screamed for our God, ‘DIYOS KO PO! DIYOS KO PO!’ Our bodies shook with terror. Outside, police were shouting, “Hadhih alshurtat, aiftah albab!” (This is police, open the door!) They repeated it three times, threatening to kick it down if we didn’t comply. After a moment of hesitation, one of us finally mustered the courage to open the door. As it swung open, we were confronted by ten officers pointing high-powered weapons at us, their flashlights nearly blinding. I felt passing out. Then, a four-star general stepped forward, locked eyes with me, and asked, “Ant, ma usmuk?” (You, what's your name?" At first, I thought he was talking to someone else, so I pretended not to hear. But he shouted again, “ANT, MA USMUK!” (YOU, WHAT'S YOUR NAME?!) Shaking, I replied, “Naam, ana OMAR AHMED,” (Yes sir, I am OMAR AHMED), my Muslim name. He then told me to write down the names of my friends—their Muslim names. Thankfully, none of us were harmed; not even a hair on my head was touched! Truly, God had heard my prayers. I felt an immense wave of relief after that.
We got to the deportation center around 2:00 a.m. I was exhausted, tired, super hungry, and really thirsty. With chains and handcuffs on, I stayed on my knees for hours, just like everyone else. We weren't allowed to stand or sit, so finding any comfort was impossible while we waited for the booking to finish. I couldn't shake off the anxiety about what was coming next, while staring right at those heavy fetters of iron bars of the prison.
After being arrested for sixteen hours, I finally ended up in a cramped prison cell. Inside, I met people from all sorts of backgrounds, including many undocumented folks, but most were Filipinos who had made news back in 2007 for an illegal protest at the Jeddah consulate. The place was packed, noisy, and really dirty. As soon as I walked in, I was hit with the stench of rotting smell of food piled up, and the bathroom was just as bad, filled with a horrible smell from accumulated urine and human waste, with cockroaches crawling everywhere. The prison cell was really depressing, totally devoid of any human dignity. I felt thankful for my faith because it helped me stay grounded. Without my belief in God, I worry I would have fallen into despair. I'm sure that my faith acted like a shield, allowing me to get through those tough times.
Since I was a Muslim "convert", I had to join Muslim inmates for daily prayers five times a day, from dawn to dusk. As they bow down facing Mecca, I bowed my head in respect to my God. While they recited Quran verses, I found comfort in saying Psalm 23. When they declared the shahada, I expressed my faith in Jesus as my Lord, God and King. After their prayers, they greeted each other with ‘salam alaikom,’ and I responded with ‘Peace from the Lord,’ thankfully most of them didn’t speak English. Plus, when they raised their index fingers to as a sign of their belief in Tauheed (the oneness of Allah), I raised mine too, representing my faith in ONE powerful, ever-faithful, merciful, loving God: the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Prison meals were never served on proper plates; they were dished out in a way that stripped us of our dignity. Each bite was worse than the first. The bread was way too salty, and the meat was just terrible—bland and hard to swallow. We got chunks of camel meat or whole chickens boiled in salty water, and that was pretty much it for our meals. The leftover food would just pile up on the smelling awful and rotting food I saw during my first day. My taste buds weren't too picky, but I could tell the difference between decent food and this. This stuff had no human care put into it at all. But compared to my experience of starvation when I was a kid, this wasn't too hard to deal with. I chose to focus on the good, as my faith taught me. I didn’t complain and accepted my reality with hope. Wisdom led me to embrace acceptance and creativity, while faith pushed me to make wise choices.
How did I turn my terrible meals into something that benefited my soul? I was inspired by a man named Sergei Kozlov from Russia, who claimed to have experienced Our Lady during his tough times in Siberia. I heard his story at a Marian apparition symposium in college. It seemed like prison food was just as bad everywhere, as he felt the same way. I decided to follow his lead. I took the salty bread and pinched off little pieces, turning them into beads. With each bead I ate, I said one Our Father, ten Hail Marys, and one Glory Be, not realizing I was completing the Holy Rosary as I finished my meal. My focus was on my prayers, not the taste. This way, I turned my suffering into a way to connect with God. Even though I felt like complaining, I chose to give thanks instead.
From March 18 to April 5, I witnessed some really intense riots with various racial and national groups. Sadly, these events led to fatalities, and grieving families will be getting their loved ones back in cold coffins.
I WAS SET FREE!
On Thursday, April 5th, just before the Islamic day of rest, I hit my 18th day in prison. Out of nowhere, I felt a deep spiritual awakening. I was convinced that THAT DAY was my DAY OF DELIVERANCE. I was filled with immense JOY, I didn’t know why. I was so inspired that I was singing praising songs. I felt I needed to be clean so I decided to take a shower, even though I knew the smell of urine and feces from the washroom would still be there. But honestly, I didn’t care about the stench; I had gotten used to it. I was also coughing up blood, but that didn’t bother me either. All I wanted was to feel clean because I believed THAT DAY WAS MY DAY OF DELIVERANCE. With my eyes fixed on the iron bars, I told myself positively, “The same door I came, the same door I will walk out free,” while I envy watching little birds mayang bahay freely flying in and out of the prison, snatching up roaches for a quick bite.
During the daily routine, a police warden would come into the prison cells with a list of inmates set for release. The roll call was long, but my fake name, Omar Ahmed wasn't on it. A Filipino inmate, who had been locked up for over 90 days, pointed out that no Filipinos had been freed yet, which was disappointing. This made me feel down too, like God had turned His back on me. I started to feel more and more negative and betrayed. My emotions went numb, and I lose interest in praying or even think of God anymore. I went back to my cardboard mat, cried, feeling betrayed, worn out by my shattered hopes and broken spirit. I thought to myself, ‘Even if I don’t pray, two things will happen. Either I’ll get out or rot here in prison.’ So, I figured prayer was pointless. Without realizing it, I already succumb myself in the shadows of doubt if God really was with me.
Then the massive iron gates of the prison creaked open again, calling may fake name, ‘Omar Ahmed, Omar Ahmed.’ Caught up in my own feelings of despair, I wasn’t paying attention. I didn't realize that that moment was my turning point. I kept tripping over my own doubts, completely missing the fact that God was already calling me, answering my prayers for a fresh start. My lack of faith had made me deaf to His calling already unfolding right on that perfect time.
‘KABAYAN, SINO SI OMAR AHMED?’ “THAT’S ME! Ako si Omar Ahmed.” I WAS JOYFUL, tears streamed down my face once more! What a tremendous joy—I couldn’t explain it. A joy that is so pure!
Why did I fall away so easily? Why was my faith so weak? Why did I lose hope so quick? Why did I lose trust to His promises? Why did I question his faithfulness? Acknowledging my vulnerability and profound weakness, I WEPT! For I had been dead, yet now I am alive. I was lost, but now I have been found. I was broken, yet now I am whole again. I faced rejection, but now I am embraced. I was wounded, and now I am healed. I was imprisoned, and now I AM FREE! I was weeping, and now I am dancing, praising! If I would not praise God, THE VERY STONE WILL SPEAK on my behalf. That’s the JOY I felt, gushing and cannot be contained. INDEED GOD MANIFESTED, HE WAS WITH ME all of those times. HE DIDN’T LEAVE me.
I realized he permitted me to endure those painful experiences so that one day-- TODAY, in this remarkable gathering of believers, in this hallowed HALL, I can testify to you that YES, WE HAVE A GOD WHO IS TRULY FAITHFUL EVEN WHEN WE FEEL UNDESERVING OF IT. With the pure JOY of deliverance, I stand before you as WITNESS and declare it to you that OUR GOD IS TRUE TO HIS PROMISES! HE WILL ALWAYS BE WITH US! He is PURE LOVE. He is MERCY! He is KIND! Slow to anger and abundant in kindness. Truly, HE WAS AND HE IS.
As I walked out of the prison, once again in cuffs and chains, I found myself kneeling in deep respect. I bowed down to the dirt, letting my forehead and lips touch the ground, realizing that moment, the PLACE WAS HOLY! Because it was there, God revealed Himself to me. I began to see that my mother’s illness wasn’t meant to BREAK MY SPIRIT but rather to soften my stubbornness, to be meek and humble and obedient. It helped me TAKE MY FIRST STEP IN MY FAITH JOURNEY.
I thought mom needed me, but I soon understood that I was NEEDING GOD more than my mom. I lost my mother 6 years ago with heavy heart but rather focusing on losing her, I focused on what I gained because of her.
I glanced back at the prison cell, seeing my fellow Filipinos crying behind bars. Their sorrowful expressions seemed to ask, ‘Why you? Why not us?’ I feel sorry for their pain. I pointed upwards, sending a silent message: ‘God is with me, and He’s with you too; PRAY. Trust that it truly makes a difference.’
I arrived back to the Philippines on Good Friday, April 6th, 2007, feeling thankful that through all my struggles, HE WAS WITH ME, guiding me to where I am today.
THANK YOU! and with that, may God be praised.
