How a Pastor Found the Courage to Defy a Dictator

Evan Mawarire never thought of himself as a revolutionary. In a gripping new memoir, he tells the story of how he went from a humble clergyman to the leader of a movement that helped the Zimbabwean people find their voice. 

By Evan Mawarire

February 2025

Evan Mawarire had no intention of leading a mass antigovernment movement. But when the Zimbabwean pastor posted a video to Facebook in April 2016, draped in the national flag, voicing his frustration at the poverty, corruption, and repression brought by longtime dictator Robert Mugabe, it struck a chord. The video sparked a viral social-media series under the hashtag #ThisFlag that grew into a national movement to hold Mugabe accountable. Since public protest in Zimbabwe is illegal, Mawarire called for the opposite: a national strike. That July, more than eight million Zimbabweans stayed home from work and school for a day, and the nation ground to a halt. #ThisFlag was one of the most successful movements in Zimbabwe’s history, and inspired subsequent boycotts and protests that eventually forced Mugabe from office in 2017 (only to be replaced by his right-hand man, Emmerson Mnangagwa, shortly after). But the movement’s success also made Mawarire a target. He was arrested in 2016, 2017, and 2019 on charges of subversion, and faced continued violence and threats. He now lives in exile in the United States.

Following is an excerpt from Evan Mawarire’s new memoir Crazy Epic Courage: How A ‘Nobody’ Challenged Brutal Dictators and Moved a Nation.

Be careful, my son, these people are dangerous. They’re hyenas, and if you choose to fight hyenas, understand that if you flinch, they’ll grab hold of you, and they don’t let go till they’ve eaten you . . . all of you.”

My dad’s words flooded back to me.

Nothing in my life prepared me for this kind of a moment. Having spent much of my adult life as a pastor, I never thought that one day, I’d be a fugitive, on the run for my life and my family’s.

Hiding in the dry, knee-high savanna grass, I lay as still as possible. My entire body ached from tensing, trying not to snap any more twigs beneath me. My real cover was a dense, wide wall of four-foot-high bushes. The broader surroundings of acacia and musasa trees sparsely mingled with freshly hewn stumps, told the story of a nation of desperate people. The soil on the ground where I lay felt crunchy from the myriads of tiny termite tunnels leading from drying tree stumps to nearby termite hills. I could hear and feel my heart pounding, drowning out the high-pitched chirps and buzzes of the crickets and cicadas that tend to dominate the Zimbabwean bush at night. The sun would be coming up soon and I would be facing a daunting task, one with zero margin for failure.

The limited choices for a man on the run are never easy, but the goal is always clear: evade detection and keep moving.

Through the thicket of dried-up, intertwined branches of the bush in front of me, I could see the border crossing point. If the information I had was correct, this was the small concrete bridge that would take me across a dry riverbed and into neighboring Botswana. In the darkness, it was possible to just get up and run for the bridge. I estimated I’d reach the crossing in less than two minutes. But there was the small matter of a checkpoint: a rusted bar gate stretching across the dirt road leading to the bridge. Next to the barrier was a small wooden cabin. A soldier with a rifle slung over his shoulder paced multiple times in and out of the cabin. Occasionally, he came out to puff on a cigarette. Other times, he emerged to wee on the tree next to the cabin. If he spotted me, it was all over. But even if success was guaranteed, I couldn’t take that option. In fact, I could have gone through numerous other unmonitored crossing points. But they wouldn’t get me to safety — not without an exit stamp from Zimbabwe in my passport. Without it, I’d be deported back to Zimbabwe.

A stone’s throw from the cabin was a red brick building, slightly smaller than a full-sized tennis court. In front of the entrance a flagpole hoisted a tattered Zimbabwe flag. The building was the immigration control department — my second and only option. I would have to enter the building, submit my passport and get it stamped by an official, then walk out to breezily cross the bridge in the slight hope that no one would identify me. Not likely. Nearly the whole country knew who I was, and by now everyone probably knew I was a wanted person.

Just two nights earlier, I sat in a prison cell, terrified, demoralized, and with no hope of freedom. I was beaten, relentlessly interrogated, threatened with death, and finally charged with attempting to overthrow the government of Zimbabwe. Robert Mugabe, the notorious dictator who’d been president of our country for thirty-six years, wanted me convicted and sentenced to twenty years in prison.

Thousands of people courageously assembled at the courts, demanding my release. In uncharacteristic defiance, they knelt in prayer and song, vowing not to leave. To disperse the growing crowds and quell a brewing revolution, I was freed. A secret message from a police chaplain who sympathized with our cause informed me that my release was temporary. There was a plan to rearrest me in the early hours of the morning. In that small window of time between my release and the planned rearrest, I managed to escape. Now there I was, six hours away from my home in Zimbabwe, trying to make my crossing at a small, secluded border — on the run from the hyenas my dad warned me about when I first spoke out against Mugabe.

Dad’s description was accurate. In Zimbabwean cultural beliefs, hyenas don’t enjoy the best reputation. They’re known as frightful, mystical accomplices of witches, lending themselves as night horses to those who bring curses, misfortune, and calamity. In the African wild, hyenas are scavengers. They live off the remains of the hunts of lions, leopards, and cheetahs. As an unrelenting hostile gang, they’ll often successfully challenge a predator for its fresh hunt too. Their physical appearance doesn’t exactly help this devilish perception. Their hind legs are shorter than their front ones, giving their spotted, shabby-furred body an awkward, backward slant. With a dog-like snout, an ever-present saliva-dripping grin, and a bone-chilling, high-pitched giggle, they’re terrifying creatures to encounter.

This is what ZANU-PF (Zimbabwe African National Union–Patriotic Front) — Mugabe’s political party that had ruled Zimbabwe for thirty-six years — was like: a terrifying, salivating mafia gang of laughing hyenas that never ate enough of others’ meals. For decades, Mugabe led his marauding cackle of comrades in destroying the lives of ordinary Zimbabweans. His brutal political violence, blatant corruption, and deep injustices took away lives, basic rights, and the slightest chance at living a decent life. Thousands died over the years due to poor health systems that no longer had basic resources like bandages and simple medicines.

Mugabe himself received all his medical treatment in Singapore. He and his wife regularly commandeered the national airline’s plane to be treated in worldclass hospitals far from the ones he’d destroyed. His blatant political violence killed even more as he held onto power. Over the years, the economy crashed multiple times, forcing many into poverty or fleeing as economic migrants. The ZANU-PF party had, in a very real sense, laughed as they stripped away every ounce of dignity that Zimbabweans tried to hold onto.

I chose to take on the hyenas, perhaps not fully aware of what I was doing — and what it would cost — but fully convinced it had to be done. Completely oblivious to what was about to unfold in just forty-eight hours, I’d posted a picture of myself to Facebook, holding the Zimbabwe flag. The caption said:

It’s midnight, independence day is here. Couldn’t sleep jus thinking about what the future holds for my country or what my country holds for the future. I can’t deny the facts anymore and I can’t cry anymore even though it hurts so bad. Got no more tears, got no more breath to heave a sigh of disappointment. So I jus sit in silence and hug my flag coz it’s all i can do to try and keep it together. There is only one thing left to do and to do it wholeheartedly and without reservation. From Zambezi (a river on the northern border) to Limpopo (a river on the southern border) let something PHENOMENAL breakout! My God is not dead and certainly not deaf . . . .”

On the picture itself I emblazoned the words “The night has been long and the pain much to bear, HEAL OUR NATION LORD.”

I don’t know why I posted all of that, but it just felt right to do it.

I was a nobody in the world of politics and civic society, and in a nation with a large Christian population, even our congregation of about forty people was a micro-church. On the wall in my small church office was a plaque with the inscription, “Start where you are with what you have, and the world will respond to your passion.” I’ve always believed that a well-lived, meaningful, and fulfilling life is one devoted fully or in part to bettering other people’s lives.

This journey of confronting the dictatorship in Zimbabwe was, in part, about living out that inscription on my church office wall. I just started where I was, with what I had, and a crazy but epic journey of finding my courage together with millions of others unfolded. That’s what this story is about, courage — the decision to act for the things we care about the most. Each one of us has a unique courage inside to do the amazing things that fulfill us and change everyone around us for the better.

I may probably never know the full extent of the impact of the many incredible things we attempted — but I know that even in my most painful persecutions, when all I could do was pray as my life hung in the balance, I saw the raw passion of a people who found their courage and believed in their power to change things. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.

It worked!

From cities across the country, people posted and sent pictures and videos of empty streets and closed businesses. It was amazing to see images of Harare, the nation’s capital, empty — on a weekday. Schools, banks, and shops were closed. Excitement gripped us as we scrolled through dozens of Facebook and Twitter posts.

Sitting in the safe house kitchen, the urge to see the impact of the shutdown in person was overwhelming. Despite Fraddy’s firm warnings I couldn’t shake the need to witness it with my own eyes. I wanted to capture the silent streets and shuttered shops myself, to record a video that showed the power and reality of what we’d set in motion.

Prudently, we switched cars. In a small hatchback Honda Fit, we drove out of the safe house and headed for the central business district of Harare. The road into town was eerily quiet. If anything, driving around with no one else on the roads was more dangerous. Henry quipped about how the government-owned newspaper, The Herald, would find it impossible to lie about this one. Surely it was obvious to everyone that the shutdown succeeded. We drove down Samora Machel Ave., the usually busy main city road where the Reserve Bank building and other major banks are located. It was completely deserted. Not even newspaper vendors were out. In my heart, I was excited and fearful at the same time. If the government did not consider us a threat before, now they did. Deep down, I knew their response wouldn’t be light.

We’d been warned by some of our movement supporters who worked for internet service companies that a directive went out from the government to close the internet on the day of the shutdown. It seemed too extreme to believe — it had never happened in Zimbabwe before, and we doubted they’d follow through. But we underestimated their desperation. At first, videos took longer to upload, then images stopped loading, and soon, even a simple Google search wouldn’t refresh. Initially, we worried this blackout would disrupt the shutdown. Surprisingly, it did the opposite. Without access to any information of what was happening, and with no explanation why the internet was down everywhere, even more people stayed home, unsure of what was unfolding.

A BBC news crew called me for an interview. On meeting, they told us riot police beat up people in some of the residential areas. My heart sank knowing people had been hurt. Even though I’d explicitly called for nonviolence and prayer for the nation, I knew the government would accuse us of inciting violence. As the day ended, little information circulated about what was happening in other cities. Later that evening, the internet was restored and with that, disturbing video footage of police brutality surfaced.

In one of the videos, evidently shot by a police officer on his phone, people were dragged out of their homes and beaten. Repeatedly, they beat the soles of their feet with baton sticks. In one clip, a young mother holding her baby pleaded with police to stop beating a man lying on the ground, presumably her husband. A police officer whose epaulets showed his senior rank took the woman’s baby from her, and as he held the child, his junior officers began beating the mother too. I wept watching the barbarity.

That night at the safe house, our team wrestled with the decision about the next steps. The shutdown was a massive success, but now the team was divided.

“We should strike again while the iron’s still hot,” Henry pressed, his voice charged with urgency. “People are fired up. Let’s call for another day.”

Fraddy, ever the pragmatist, looked at him in disbelief. “What if this turns into a full-blown uprising, Henry? Are we ready for the kind of chaos that could bring? People could get hurt.” His voice was tight with frustration, as he paced across the room. “We can’t just throw people into danger without a plan.”

I shared Fraddy’s concern, with an added reason. “We told people to prepare for one day, and they made sacrifices for it. Asking them for more without warning — it’s not fair,” I said. “For many, skipping a day of work means losing a meal for the day. We can’t betray their trust by pushing them into something they haven’t fully prepared for.”

The room fell into a tense silence as we weighed the risks and the power of what we’d already achieved. We were exhausted, yet none of us could sleep — Mugabe’s regime would be plotting its response. I lay awake, staring into the darkness, feeling the weight of the people’s trust and the uncertain road ahead.

“If Something Happens to Me . . .”

Moving to a new safe house every day took its toll. Now in our third house, I hadn’t slept well in days, apprehensive about the police looking for me. The state-owned newspaper and TV station ran stories daily reporting, “Mawarire’s shutdown failed,” and “#ThisFlag movement is nothing but a Facebook page.” What they said didn’t bother me because the millions who participated in the shutdown knew the truth.

I sensed a new boldness surging in people from the success of the shutdown. A sense of solidarity and camaraderie seemed to flow in the conversations I was watching online. Even then, however, the “what’s next?” question haunted us on social media.

After days of hiding, running, and trying to plan a next move, our entire team was exhausted. I was physically shutting down from sleep deprivation and the constant stress of being on the run. Fraddy finally found another home to hide for a few more days. Derreck — a middle-aged white man who’d spent his career fighting for democracy and the rule of law in Zimbabwe — was our host this time. While many white people either left or stayed silent after being targeted by Mugabe’s party, Derreck not only stayed, but refused to back down from speaking out against ZANU-PF misgovernance. As a legal expert, he was well-versed in challenging the regime, and his resilience was inspiring.

“You need to pace yourself, Evan,” he told me. “This is a long journey, and the people you’re up against are in it for the long haul. Rest and recuperate whenever you can.”

I didn’t fully grasp his advice then, but his words would resonate in the trials that lay ahead. I urged my friends Fraddy, Marshal, and Henry to go home and rest, to check on their families, even though they wanted to stay with me. I felt a pang of guilt for bringing them into this storm.

That night, a message came from my wife, [Samantha]. The police contacted her, asking about my whereabouts. My heart sank — it was clear they were closing in. Kuda called me later that same night to go over possible scenarios and at the end of our call, he presented me with a difficult ask.

“My big homie, I know this isn’t easy,” Kuda began, his tone far more serious than usual. “But you’re leading well and I want to commend you for that. But also, you know as well as I do — you’re going to get arrested sooner or later. You can’t run forever — we need to face that fact.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. I remained silent. “I spoke with pastor Frank earlier today and he suggested something that I think is very important.” Kuda continued, “We need you to record another video, but not to post right now. Record it in advance. Tell the people what to do if these meatheads arrest you, or if . . . if something worse happens.”

The thought of it felt like a punch to the gut. “So, you’re asking me to record my own . . . death note?” I managed, trying to keep my voice steady.

Kuda’s silence said it all, finally he replied, “Yes. It’s hard for me to ask, but it’s necessary my bro. I’ll keep the video safe and only release it if they take you.”

I swallowed hard, realizing what he was asking of me. It wasn’t just a precaution. It was preparation for the worst. And somehow, on that call with Kuda, I knew he was right. This video would be my final message to the people if the regime silenced me forever.

It was, without a doubt, the hardest video I ever made.

“Fellow citizens, Evan Mawarire here. If you’re watching this video, it means I’ve either been arrested or I’ve been abducted. It’s a video that we recorded in preparation for a day like this one.”

I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. Even as I recorded it, I thought about how possible it was that in just a few hours, I could be dead or holed up in a torture chamber in some unknown place. I continued with even more vigor:

“I want you to know that no matter what has happened to me, you and I have done well in speaking up to build our country. As you watch this, I may be no longer with you today. But I pray that you have triumphed. From today onward, don’t give up building this, our country. Maybe we shall see each other again, or we may never see each other again. We may have succeeded in our goals by now or we have not succeeded. Whatever the case, keep holding this government to account and don’t let them get away with it. Be determined, and remember to pray for this country. Remember this flag is our flag. It’s our country, so keep building it. The Bible says no weapon formed against you shall prosper. Do well for yourselves and for your children. Evan Mawarire here, goodbye.”

Ending the recording, tears rolled down my face as I thought about possibly never seeing my wife and children again.

Years earlier I preached a sermon titled “Appointment with Death.” The crux of it was, if you want to live life fully, with no limits, accomplishing all you can, your fear of death must be resolved early. This was my moment of resolving that fear as I moved ahead.

With the shutdown now days behind us, everyone in the country settled back into their daily routines. Nothing changed, except that I was now a fugitive. Separated from my family, I felt alone and stuck with a movement that seemed to come alive only when I uploaded a video.

Samantha’s call came again, and this time, it was worse. A group of men — likely thugs from ZANU-PF’s violent youth wing — showed up at our door, threatening my family, demanding that I surrender myself. This had gone too far, and it was time to stop the threats. I immediately called the Zimbabwe Lawyers for Human Rights hotline, pleading for help. They assured me a lawyer would come in the morning. That night, my prayers were raw and desperate, broken by silent tears and long stares into the darkness, wrestling with the fear of what might come next.

“Causing Chaos”

The next morning, Harrison Nkomo, a lawyer sent from Zimbabwe Lawyers for Human Rights, reached out. On the phone, his words were to the point.

“Pastor, I’ve spoken to the commanding officer of law and order at Harare Central Police station; they want to interview you today.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, hoping for a more comforting answer.

“They want you to turn yourself in, and from my experience, they’ll likely arrest you today.” He paused for a split second and added, “I suggest we comply so that we avoid a situation where they find you themselves. And I guarantee they’re looking for you as we speak. Also, it’ll take the pressure off your family.”

He didn’t need to say more after that.

“I’m ready, come get me now. Let’s go.”

Clutching my Bible, with my flag draped around my shoulders, Harrison and I walked into the strikingly unkempt Harare Central Police Station. Every wall I looked at was either grimy or the paint was peeling in vast sections. The old colonial-style brass window latches were blackening with years of collected dirt. Large sections of the parquet floors were missing in random parts, and the rest of it was bare concrete smothered in uneven, slippery clumps of wax floor polish.

A plainclothes police officer met us at the reception area, signaling for us to follow him. Behind us, two uniformed officers appeared, shadowing our steps as we moved deeper into the station’s dim, winding hallways. The faded paint on the walls drank up the sparse light from a few flickering fluorescent tubes overhead, casting a cold, dull glow. In the winter chill, the building felt like a tomb. As we walked past partially open office doors, I noticed glowing heaters inside, seemingly reserved for the higher-ups. The officer led us into a dingy meeting room cluttered with battered desks and chairs, remnants of a long-abandoned classroom. Pointing to the floor in front of the assembled chairs, he barked in Shona, “Gara apo!” (sit there).

Arrested people are forced to sit on the floor in Zimbabwe. They’re also forced to remove their shoes. It’s part of how the police assert dominance and instill shame. Stuck on the walls around the room were unframed, torn-edged posters. One showed the police service charter, detailing how they’re committed to serving the public honorably. Another one was emblazoned with an anti-corruption message. How ironic, I thought. On the far wall was an even bigger framed picture of President Mugabe. It was flanked by smaller frames bearing pictures of the police commissioner and his other senior officers.

Harrison pulled up a chair next to me, striking small talk as he tried to distract me from the mistreatment I was already receiving. Then three men and a woman dressed in civilian attire entered the room. The woman sat down on a chair close by, as the two men asked Harrison to move out of the way so they could stand over me. None of them introduced themselves. Looking up, I could see the one man’s belly hanging over his belt, shirt buttons strained. Looking down at me, he began asking questions. He wanted to know everything about my family, my job, where I lived, how much money I earned, and eventually, why I was “causing chaos” in the country. Harrison intervened.

“Is he under arrest? You know you’re not allowed to treat him like this until you have charged him.”

Everyone in the room chuckled at Harrison’s comments. They didn’t care about the law.

“We can ask him whatever we want,” my interrogator said. He turned to the officer who’d led us into the room earlier and gave him an instruction. “Go and tell the commanding officer we are ready.”

A few minutes later, the officer returned with a man whose very presence seemed to drain the room of the little warmth. Tall and lean, his dark, pockmarked face was a mask of chilling indifference, yet there was a sinister energy about him that filled the space with dread. As he entered, everyone except Harrison and me snapped to attention, saluting him with nervous precision. He returned the gesture with a slow, almost mocking salute, each step he took adding weight to the silence. His light brown suit hung loosely on his wiry frame, amplifying his ghostly presence. This was Crispen Makedenge, a man whose reputation for brutality haunted activists and opposition politicians alike. With a cold, expressionless face, he raised his hand, signaling for me to stand. The air was thick with tension as he began to speak in a low, controlled tone.

“You’re being charged with inciting public violence.” His gruff, guttural voice made him even scarier. “You are also suspected of stealing a police helmet and a baton stick, so we will search your house today. Also, where’s your phone and laptop? We want them.”

The Search

I knew I hadn’t incited any violence, and I certainly did not take any police gear. These items were to be their evidence against me in court. I feared they would plant them ahead of the search. I’d intentionally left my phone and laptop at the safe house; I didn’t want to give those up. Without delay we were off to my house for the search. Handcuffed, they sat me flanked by two armed officers in the back of an open police pickup truck.

Shame tormented me as I dreaded Samantha and the children seeing me in handcuffs. It would be the first time seeing them since I’d hurriedly disappeared off to a safe house almost a week earlier when the shutdown was about to happen. Before we’d driven off from the station, I’d asked Harrison to call her and tell her what was happening. Specifically, I asked Harrison to tell Sam that I didn’t want my kids there when I arrived; they couldn’t see me like this.

Returning to that familiar parking lot was a bitter twist of fate. Barely a week earlier, sitting in my own pick-up truck, I’d recorded the video that called the nation to rise up and defy Mugabe. Now, hands cuffed and spirit wavering, I sat in the same parking lot in the government’s pickup truck, shackled and subdued, Goliath had won it seemed.

Samantha came down to meet us and even before she spoke, her presence calmed me. I could see she was fighting her own fear, yet her strength was steady. I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, forced a smile, raising my bound wrists with a weak attempt at self-deprecating humor. “Well, here I am. This is what your husband become,” I said.

She nodded gently, a quiet, understanding smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her hand rested firmly on my lower back, instantly grounding me. Then, in a moment that surprised everyone, she turned to the officers behind me and offered to get them water or juice, a simple act of grace that seemed to throw them off balance. They accepted and she served them.

Returning to me, Sam leaned in close to tell me something in my ear. Her voice barely a whisper. “The kids are okay, they’re safe . . . including this little one” she said as she rubbed her visibly protruding belly, I’d been so scared that this crazy mission I was involved in would affect her and our unborn child. Her hand lingered on my back. Her touch, her calm — everything about her steadied me.

Entering my home with the police, I felt terrible for having brought this intrusion into my family’s safe space. Samantha still stood beside me, gently rubbing my back occasionally. The policemen went through everything, turning over couch cushions and pulling out books and paperwork. They rummaged through our clothes, ruffled through my children’s beds, and sifted through their toys. It sickened me to helplessly watch them violate my home. The search turned up nothing, as expected.

“Where’s your phone?” barked the lead officer.

I asked Samantha to bring it and hand it over. Ahead of my arrest, Marshal and Henry sent a decoy phone and laptop to Samantha so that my real phone and laptop remained safe.

The next stop was my church office. Arriving in handcuffs, escorted by police, I again feared embarrassment. Instead, those who saw me applauded as I entered our building. Few things could’ve been as uplifting to me as the grace and admiration shown to me by people I cared about the most, especially on a day I was at my lowest. The biggest fear to being courageous is the sense of shame that comes with failure. There is no guarantee there will praise for your fight or stance. Therefore, it must be settled early and firmly that the yardstick for continuing your mission is not the approval of people around you.

Welcome to Baghdad

The police search of my small church office turned up nothing, so they brought me back to Harare Central Police Station. This time, they led me down to the dreaded “Baghdad” cells, where I would wait — possibly indefinitely — for a bail hearing. Harrison cautioned me against hoping for a quick release; things here could drag on without mercy.

Nicknamed after the devastation of Baghdad in the Iraq War, these cells were a nightmare made real: dark, filthy, and suffocating with the stench of sweat, urine, and rot. I was placed in the largest cell, already packed with around twenty-three other men, all held on various charges. As soon as we were let in, the inmates scrambled for the ragged blankets scattered across the cold concrete floor, rushing to claim spots as far away as possible from the grimy toilet bowl in the corner. The last blanket, smeared with feces, was left untouched.

Having walked in last, I found myself near the toilet bowl, where the stench was so overpowering it stung my eyes and made my stomach churn. I fought back the urge to throw up, knowing I couldn’t bear to have my face anywhere near that filthy bowl. The reality of it hit me hard — here I was, confined in the kind of place I’d once only heard horror stories about, surrounded by strangers and with no certainty about what would happen next. I huddled into myself, trying to block out the sights and smells, wrestling with the overwhelming sense of despair that hung thick in the air.

As we were led down into the Baghdad cells, one of the young men inside recognized me and offered a quiet greeting. From across the cell, he could see I was sitting with my head down, hunched over my knees, lost in my thoughts.

“Don’t let it get to you too much, boss. You’ll end up with high blood pressure,” he said with a faint, sympathetic smile.

I managed a nod, acknowledging his effort to be friendly, though I wasn’t really in the mood for talking. All I wanted was to be out of there, back home with my family. In the dim light that seeped in from the corridor, I could make out his outline as he shuffled closer.

“They got you because of the stay-at-home thing?” he asked, then answered his own question. “It’s political, right?”

“Yes, it is,” I replied, forcing some optimism into my tone. “But this won’t last forever.”

He didn’t stop there, though. “They caught me and my friends taking stuff from a shop,” he admitted, nodding towards a few others lying near him. “It’s tough out there, Pastor. We’re all just trying to survive.”

There was a raw honesty in his voice, a mixture of shame and resignation. His openness surprised me.

“I understand,” I replied. “I’m just a man trying to make things better, trying to help my family . . . same as you.” As I said it, I realized that, in different ways, we were both in here because we were doing what we felt we needed to do.

“But things will change,” I said, drawing on whatever pastorly strength I could muster to encourage him. “Nothing lasts forever.” I shifted, trying to get comfortable on the hard floor, and leaned my head back onto the wall, hoping he’d sense I was ready to rest.

But before I could close my eyes, he called out across the room, “Anyone got an extra blanket for the pastor?” From somewhere in the shadows, a blanket landed at my feet. It smelled horrible, but in the cold and darkness of Baghdad, it was an unexpected and welcome blessing.

With a little peace settling over me, I asked my fellow inmates if they would join me in prayer. For those who agreed, we sang the church hymn chorus “Garai Neni” (Abide with Me). That simple act of singing and praying, huddled together in the chill of Baghdad, brought a calm I hadn’t felt in days as we hid from one safe house to the next. For the first time since the shutdown, I fell asleep easily . . . unaware of the nightmare waiting ahead.

Evan Mawarire is a pastor and advocate for freedom and justice. He held fellowships at the National Endowment for Democracy, Stanford, University of Pennsylvania, Yale, and Johns Hopkins, on democracy and nonviolent movements. He speaks to audiences around the world on finding courage and starting change, and is author of Crazy Epic Courage: How A ‘Nobody’ Challenged Brutal Dictators and Moved a Nation. Evan now lives exiled in the United States.

Excerpted from Crazy Epic Courage: How A ‘Nobody’ Challenged Brutal Dictators and Moved a Nation by Evan Mawarire. Copyright © 2025 Evan Mawarire. Used by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.

Image credit: JEKESAI NJIKIZANA/AFP via Getty Images