The Bell That Called: Caesar's Journey

The midday sun blazed over Karbala as Caesar Ali made his way through the crowded streets. Born and raised in this holy city—the heart of Shia Islam in Iraq—he had spent his entire life surrounded by the rhythms of religious devotion. The call to prayer five times daily, the solemn processions during Ashura, an Islamic feast, the pilgrimages that brought millions to his hometown—these were the markers of time, the familiar cadence of existence.

But something had shifted within Caesar. Working in civil defense and media had exposed him to realities that troubled his conscience. He had witnessed the bitter fruits of sectarian violence, seen how faith could be weaponized, how easily the name of Allah could be invoked to justify the exclusion—even elimination-of those who believed differently.

"For sure Allah doesn't order one person to kill another in His name," he would later reflect, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much. "This isn't faith; it's a flawed system pretending to be divine directive."

These questions had haunted him for more than a year, following him through his daily prayers, shadowing him as he participated in the rituals that had once provided comfort but now felt hollow. He searched for answers within his tradition, diving deeper into Islamic texts and teachings, hoping to find a path through his growing disillusionment. But theu all pushed him to become an atheist.

The journey for truth eventually led him to Baghdad, about 50 miles from his home. 

Al-Mutanabbi Street, the famed street named after one of the greatest Arab poets, beckoned with its promise of knowledge. Bookstalls lined the narrow street, offering everything from ancient religious texts to modern scientific works. Caesar found himself drawn to philosophical and scientific volumes, including works by Stephen Hawking—explorations of the universe that approached existence from angles entirely different from the ones he had known.

It was during one of these literary pilgrimages that he heard it—the clear, resonant tone of a church bell cutting through the cacophony of the marketplace. In all his years, he had never set foot inside a Christian church. Christians were a tiny minority in Iraq, increasingly marginalized, often targeted. Their houses of worship were cultural curiosities to him, not places of spiritual significance.

Yet something about that sound pulled at him. Without planning to, Caesar found himself walking toward the source of the bell, until he stood before the church entrance.

Outside, he observed the priest organizing community members for a cleaning day. Volunteers swept the courtyard, polished windows, and tended to the modest garden surrounding the building. Without overthinking, Caesar approached the priest.

"Hello, how are you?" he asked simply. "Do you need any help with anything?"

The priest regarded him with mild surprise but welcomed his offer. Caesar made a small gesture of goodwill, placing 5,000 Iraqi dinars in the donation box. The priest, noting his interest in the bell tower, invited him to climb the stairs and see it for himself.

From the height of the tower, Caesar looked out over Baghdad—the city of his nation's past glory and present suffering. When he descended, he asked the priest about the church, about Christianity, but received only vague answers. Perhaps the priest was cautious; discretion was wisdom in a country where conversion could be life-threatening.

As Caesar prepared to leave, something unusual caught his eye—a vendor on the church grounds selling various items: electrical gadgets, mobile phone accessories, and Bibles. It seemed an odd collection, this mixture of the sacred and mundane. He scanned the entire book market on Al-Mutanabbi and realized he hadn't seen a single Bible for sale in the mainstream stalls.

Without fully understanding his own motivation, Caesar purchased a Bible for 5,000 dinars—the same amount he had donated inside the church. The vendor wrapped it in a black plastic bag, as if both of them understood the potential consequences of being seen with such a book in certain areas.

The journey back to Karbala was tense. Caesar felt hyperaware of the book in his possession. When he arrived home, he placed the wrapped Bible on his bookshelf, among his other acquisitions from Baghdad. Unlike the philosophy and science volumes, which he eagerly unwrapped and began reading, the Bible remained covered.

Three days passed before courage and curiosity finally overcame his hesitation. Late one night, when the house was quiet, Caesar unwrapped the black plastic bag and opened the Bible, beginning with the Old Testament. The stories were simultaneously alien and familiar—echoes of narratives he had heard in his own tradition, yet with significant differences.

When he encountered passages he couldn't comprehend, he took a tentative step further into unknown territory. Using a secure connection, he searched online for Christian resources that might help him understand what he was reading. He found a website called Bishara (Good News) and made contact with its administrator—a young man who, Caesar soon learned, had himself converted to Christianity from Islam.

The conversations were halting at first. The website administrator, while friendly, lacked deep theological knowledge. But he served as a bridge, connecting Caesar to Michel, a Palestinian Christian from Bethlehem who became his first true guide into Christian scripture.

From that point forward, Caesar's hunger for understanding grew insatiable. He would call Michel at all hours—3 AM, 4 AM—desperate with questions about passages he had read, concepts that challenged everything he had been raised to believe. Michel patiently walked him through the texts, explaining context, clarifying meanings, connecting the dots between Old and New Testaments.

"I was thirsty," Caesar would later describe it, using the metaphor of spiritual thirst that appears in both Islamic and Christian traditions. "Not the kind of thirst quenched by water, but by truth."

For six months, this long-distance discipleship continued. Then Michel did something that would forever alter Caesar's path—he connected him with a local underground Christian in Iraq, someone who could provide in-person guidance. For safety reasons, Caesar never publicly shared this person's name. In a country where apostasy could still bring deadly consequences, such precautions were necessary.

Their first meeting was nearly derailed by circumstance. The revolution in Baghdad had erupted, with protesters filling streets, demanding political reform. Security checkpoints made movement difficult. For two days, Caesar searched for the church where they had agreed to meet, navigating roadblocks and demonstrations.

When they finally connected, Caesar expressed his spiritual hunger directly: "I'm thirsty."

His new mentor replied with gentle challenge: "Why don't you get baptized, don't you drink water?"

"No," Caesar responded, "I need to learn first. I need to know."

The mentor respected his caution, providing books on Christian spirituality and discipleship. Later, Caesar was introduced to another mentor from Duhok in northern Iraq, expanding his underground network of support.

From 2018 to 2020, Caesar immersed himself in study. He read voraciously, discussed endlessly, questioned thoroughly. His journey was intellectual as well as spiritual—a comprehensive examination of the faith he was considering embracing.

By early 2020, Caesar felt ready. "I was spiritually filled," he recalled. "I loved Christ and was prepared for baptism—to publicly acknowledge my new faith."

Then came the cruel twist of timing—COVID-19 swept through Iraq, forcing churches to close, prohibiting gatherings, making the baptism ceremony impossible. Like so many life events during the pandemic, Caesar's public declaration of faith was postponed indefinitely.

The delay carried particular poignancy for him. In a region where Christians had faced persecution for generations—where ancient communities had been decimated by war, extremism, and emigration—each new believer represented hope for continuation. Each baptism was not just an individual milestone but a small act of resistance against extinction.

As Caesar waited for the pandemic restrictions to lift, he reflected on the journey that had brought him to this threshold. It had begun with questions about violence done in Allah’s name and led him to a faith centered on a Man who had refused violence even when facing execution. It had started with a bell that called him into an unfamiliar building and culminated in a calling that had reshaped his entire understanding of existence.

The black plastic bag that had once hidden his Bible now lay discarded. The book itself sat openly on his desk, pages marked, margins filled with notes, spine creased from repeated reading. What had once been contraband had become constitution—the foundation document of his transformed life.