We live in a very remote place, and for many years our lives felt marked by limitation. I, Juan Carlos, cannot walk and depend on a wheelchair. My wife Martha can walk, but because she is visually impaired, she cannot see the path ahead. Each day, we faced our challenges together: I would guide the way, and she would push my chair. It was our simple rhythm of survival.

When I first heard about the Bible studies happening in our area, I was curious. I had heard people whisper that the Makuwa—the white missionaries—were teaching about a God who forgives sins and gives eternal life. I had spent my whole life fearing spirits, offering sacrifices, and doing what our traditions demanded. But inside, I always felt empty and afraid. So one day, I decided to go.

They used to come to me with fear in their eyes. They called me N’kayi—the one who speaks with spirits. I held the charms, the chants, the power. Or so it seemed. Mothers brought sick children to my doorstep. Men asked me to curse their enemies. I wore fear like a crown. But no one ever asked how I slept at night.

I had been at my position for ninety-two days. Ninety-two days of holding the line, waiting, and wondering if any of us would make it out alive. I’m an infantryman from the Donetsk direction. Our unit was defending a school building shaped like the Ukrainian letter “П.” It was supposed to be a strong position—but soon we were completely surrounded.