I SAW HIM COMING

one of my Muslim mentors from the pesantren, or Islamic boarding school. His sole passion in life was to train young people like me in the ways of Islam.

The teacher shoved an American flag into my arms. "Burn this flag," he ordered. "It will be a demonstration of your loyalty to Islam."

I didn't know what burning a flag would do for Islam, but I knew the punishment I would face if I did not burn it. In order to save my own life for the last year and a half, I had pretended to be a part of the radical training. On the outside I was denying my Christian roots, but on the inside I was fiercely loyal to the God of my youth, Jesus Christ. Day after day, the brainwashing pounded against everything I believed in. Somehow, I was able to imitate the monotonous prayers, ceremonies and military exercises without letting them really become a part of me. But the flag I held in my hands was solid evidence that the stakes were getting higher.

Although I didn't want to burn it, I was keenly aware of the punishment for disloyalty to Islam. I was 19 when militants from the Laskar Jihad—Indonesia's largest and most violent Islamic group—came to my village in February 2000. More than 5,000 jihad, or holy war, warriors chanted curses and threats at us, bombed our beach and rushed into our village to attack us.

It was difficult to know how to respond to such violence. What would God have us do? Our church was set on fire immediately. People were running in all directions amid the acrid smoke and chaos. My family had only simple farm tools to defend ourselves, so we joined the others who ran into the jungle to avoid being captured or killed. My cousin, Johannes, and his wife ran into the jungles separately, each thinking that the other had their 6-month-old baby. When they met and realized what had happened, my cousin ran back to the village to find his house on fire. He ran into the back of the house, grabbed the baby and fled into the jungle again. But this was one good rescue story amid a score of others that broke my heart and challenged my faith.

For the next two weeks my family and other village survivors hid in the jungle, foraging for coconuts and leaves to eat while avoiding the watchful eyes of the militants. I wandered, stupefied with grief, as stories trickled in of despicable acts of violence against Christians, even small children. I knew that God loved us, but I had seen the very darkest side of evil. My mind felt numb with it all. Again, I wondered how God would have us respond to such appalling violence.

CAPTURED

Food became scarce, and my grieving had to be laid aside as survival became paramount. Johannes and I joined a few other boys our age, and we went to the ocean to find food for our families.

I realize now how careless we were. Within moments, the Laskar Jihad captured us.

After our capture, the rest of our village eventually surrendered. The militants killed my pastor and four elders from our church. I cried for them, but I also cried in fear for myself. What would become of my family and me after this?

I didn't have to wait long for an answer. Old and young alike were forced to be circumcised and say Muslim prayers in a Muslim cleansing ceremony. Two boys, one girl, Johannes and I were taken to Java and placed into five separate Islamic training schools. Now I was alone in a hostile world.

Although I had several teachers, one mentor was assigned to watch me carefully, night and day. My mentor told me right away, "If you go to this school and do well here, you can go back to your village and show them what a good Muslim is."

Later, I learned that they were planning to send most of us on a military strike in Afghanistan.

The training at the pesantren was extensive: Quranic teachings, prayer models, military training and ingrained hatred for non-Muslims. I went through all the motions of the Islamic prayer, but all the while I cried out to Jesus to give me my life again. Relentlessly, they tried to break my will.

God, how should I respond to this brainwashing? Daily I wrestled with the question. Often, I scolded myself for missing my parents so much. I was 21 now, no longer a child, but I yearned for my family. The thought that I may never see them again tormented my sleep.

After a United States attack on Afghanistan, we were told we must prove our loyalty to Islam by participating in a demonstration in front of the U.S. Embassy in Jakarta.

I looked at the flag in my hand. What was I to do? If I did not light it, I would face severe punishment—perhaps even torture or death. I lit the flag.

Muslims all around me praised my efforts and congratulated my loyalty to Islam. TV cameras focused their lenses on me, and journalists snapped pictures. I was their puppet, an automaton going along with orders to save my life. Again, I felt the heat of shame tingle down my spine. I was utterly alone.