My name is Maget Hamed.

I am 12 years old and what I am about to tell you will sound impossible to many people.

But I swear by everything I know to be true that it happened exactly as I describe it.

But the greatest miracle was not my release in the psychiatric ward.

Jesus appears to my father in a dream leading to the conversion of the entire family.

I was born in Herat, Afghanistan in 2012.

But my family fled to Iran when I was only 3 years old because the violence in our country had become unbearable.

My father is a Hassan, one of the most respected Islamic scholars among the Afghan refugee community in Mshad, Iran.

My mother is Fatima, a quiet and devoted woman who has spent her entire life serving Allah and raising her children according to strict Islamic principles.

I have two younger sisters, Zayab and Miam, who are 10 and 8 years old.

We live in a modest apartment in the Kosar neighborhood of Mshad, not far from the holy shrine of Imam Resa, which millions of Shia Muslims visit every year for pilgrimage.

I am telling you this story because on the morning of June 15th, 2024, I stood on the stage of the Imm Resi University Assembly Hall in front of more than 50,000 Iranian students, teachers, and religious officials.

The event was being broadcast live on multiple Iranian state television channels and streamed online to at least 200,000 additional viewers across Iran, Afghanistan, and other Persian-speaking regions.

I was invited to that stage because my teacher, Austad Karimi, had chosen me to lead the opening prayer for the conference, a great honor for a boy my age.

Everyone expected me to recite beautiful verses from the Quran, to call on Allah to bless the gathering, and to inspire the students with my devotion to Islam.

Instead, I gripped the microphone with trembling hands and spoke words that would change my life forever and send shock waves across Iran and beyond.

I looked out at the sea of faces staring back at me from the massive auditorium.

The front rows were filled with important religious scholars wearing turbans and robes, government officials in dark suits, and university administrators who had organized this youth conference to promote Islamic values among students.

Behind them sat thousands and thousands of young people, boys and girls separated by gender, as is customary in our gatherings, all dressed conservatively and waiting for the program to begin.

Giant screens on both sides of the stage displayed my face to everyone in the hall and I could see camera crews positioned around the room recording everything.

My father sat in the second row with a proud smile on his face.

My teacher Karimi stood just off stage giving me an encouraging nod.

They had no idea what I was about to say.

I opened my mouth to begin the traditional Islamic prayer that I had memorized and recited thousands of times in my life, but different words came out instead.

My voice shook as I said.

Three weeks ago, something happened to me that I cannot explain by any logic or reason that I have been taught in all my years of Islamic study.

I saw Isa al- Masi, the one you call Jesus Christ, and he spoke to me in a way that changed everything I thought I knew about Allah, about truth, and about the purpose of my life.

The moment those words left my mouth, the entire auditorium erupted in confused murmuring and gasps of shock.

I saw my father’s face turn pale, his proud smile replaced by a look of horror and disbelief.

Uad Karimi rushed toward the stage stairs, but security personnel held him back, unsure whether to stop me or let me continue since the cameras were still rolling live.

I continued speaking, my voice growing stronger as the fear began to fade and something else took over inside me.

A peace and confidence that I had never felt before in my entire life.

I said, “I know this sounds crazy to you.

I know many of you are angry right now and think I have betrayed Islam and dishonored my family.

But I cannot stay silent about what I experienced because it was more real than anything I have ever known.

For my entire life, I have tried to be the perfect Muslim boy.

I have memorized the Quran.

I have prayed five times every single day without missing once.

I have fasted during Ramadan since I was old enough to fast.

And I have studied Islamic law and theology with some of the best teachers in Mashhad.

Everyone praised me and said I would grow up to be a great imam like my father.

But inside I felt absolutely nothing.

The auditorium had gone almost completely silent now except for some angry shouts from a few of the religious officials in the front rows demanding that I be removed from the stage.

But most people seemed frozen in shock, unable to process what they were hearing from a 12-year-old boy who was supposed to be leading them in prayer to Allah.

I could see confusion and curiosity on thousands of faces, especially among the younger students who were leaning forward in their seats trying to hear every word.

The camera crews kept filming even though some of the organizers were frantically gesturing for them to cut the broadcast, but it was too late.

The footage was already streaming live to hundreds of thousands of people, and there was no way to stop it from spreading.

I took a deep breath and continued my testimony speaking directly into the microphone so that everyone in that massive hall and everyone watching online could hear me clearly.

I said when I prayed to Allah five times a day I was just repeating words in Arabic that I had memorized but did not feel in my heart.

When I read the Quran I understood the words with my mind but felt no connection to Allah.

No sense that he loved me or even knew who I was.

I performed all the rituals perfectly because that is what I was taught to do.

But my soul felt empty and dead inside.

I started to think that maybe something was wrong with me.

That maybe I was not good enough or pure enough to feel Allah’s presence.

I tried harder and harder to be perfect, to pray longer, to memorize more, to follow every single rule without any mistakes.

But the harder I tried, the emptier I felt.

I saw some students in the audience nodding slightly.

And I realized in that moment that I was not the only one who had felt this way.

There were others sitting in that auditorium who had also gone through the motions of Islamic devotion while feeling spiritually dead inside who had also wondered why they could not connect with Allah no matter how hard they tried.

I could see it in their eyes a flicker of recognition and understanding that told me my words were reaching them in a deep place.

The religious officials and older generation were outraged and offended.

But many of the young people were listening with an openness that surprised even me.

I knew I had to keep speaking while I still had the chance before they finally decided to drag me off the stage and silence me by force.

I pressed on, my heart pounding in my chest, but my voice steady and clear.

I said, “Then 3 weeks ago, in the middle of the night, I woke up suddenly and saw a man standing in my bedroom.

The room was filled with a bright light that did not come from any lamp or window.

And this man was dressed in clothes that were pure white and seemed to glow with their own light.

I was terrified at first and thought maybe I was seeing a jin or having a nightmare.

But the presence that came from this figure was not evil or frightening.

It was pure love.

A love so powerful and overwhelming that I started crying without even knowing why.

The man looked at me with eyes that seemed to see everything about me, every thought I had ever had, every sin I had ever committed, every secret I had ever hidden.

But instead of condemning me or judging me, he smiled with such kindness and compassion that I felt my heart breaking open.

The murmuring in the crowd grew louder, a mixture of anger, confusion, and something else that I could not quite identify.

Some people were standing up and shouting for me to stop speaking, calling me a blasphemer and a traitor to Islam.

Others were sitting perfectly still with tears running down their faces.

And I did not understand why until later when I learned that some of them had experienced similar encounters and had been too afraid to tell anyone.

My father had buried his face in his hands and I could see his shoulders shaking.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest knowing how much I was hurting him.

But I also knew that I could not stop now.

Jesus had told me this moment would come and I had to be obedient no matter what it cost me.

I raised my voice to be heard over the growing chaos in the auditorium and said, “The man spoke to me in Dari, my own language, and his voice was gentle but filled with authority.

” He said to me, “I am Isa, and I have loved you before you were born.

You have been searching for me your whole life, and now I have come to you.

” I felt something happened inside my chest when he said those words like a door opening that had been locked my whole life.

I asked him, “Who are you really, and why have you come to me? I need to know the truth.

And he answered me with words that I will never forget as long as I live.

He said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

I am the son of God, and I died to take away your sins so that you can know the Father and have eternal peace.

Come to me, and I will give you rest for your soul.

” That declaration sent the auditorium into complete chaos.

Security guards finally broke through and began running toward the stage from multiple directions.

Religious officials were on their feet screaming that I was committing sherk, the unforgivable sin of associating partners with Allah.

But I kept speaking as fast as I could, knowing I only had seconds left before they would rip the microphone from my hands.

I said, “Jesus also told me something else that night, something about Afghanistan.

He showed me a vision of our country at peace with no more war, no more killing, no more suffering.

” He said to me, “Tell them that I, ISA, will bring peace to all of Afghanistan.

Not through violence or power or force, but through love and truth and sacrifice.

I am the Prince of Peace, and everyone who comes to me will find rest.

” The security guards reached me just as I finished that sentence, grabbing my arms and pulling me away from the microphone.

But the damage was done, or the seed was planted, depending on how you looked at it.

My words had been heard by tens of thousands of people in person and hundreds of thousands more watching the live broadcast.

Within hours, the video would spread across social media and encrypted messaging apps to millions more across Iran, Afghanistan, and the entire Muslim world.

3 weeks before I stood on that stage and declared the name of Jesus before 50,000 people, I was just a normal 12-year-old boy trying to be the perfect Muslim son.

Well, perhaps not completely normal.

My father is Imam Hassan, one of the most influential Islamic scholars in the Afghan refugee community in Mshad.

Our family left Herat when I was three years old because the Taliban had returned to power and my father’s life was in danger due to some of his teachings that they considered too moderate.

We settled in Mashhad because it is one of the holiest cities in Shiao Islam, home to the shrine of Imam Resa and because there is a large Afghan community here where my father could continue his work as a religious teacher and leader.

From the time I was old enough to understand, I was told that I carried a special responsibility because of who my father was and the legacy of our family.

My grandfather was also an imam in Afghanistan and his father before him going back several generations of religious scholars and leaders.

My father used to tell me that I had the blood of righteous men flowing through my veins and that Allah had chosen our family for special service.

He said that I must never bring shame to our name, that I must study harder than other boys, pray more faithfully than other boys, and memorize the Quran more perfectly than other boys.

He said that people were watching me constantly and that my behavior reflected not just on me but on him and on Islam itself.

I understood from a very young age that my life was not really my own.

That I existed to fulfill the expectations of my family and my community.

There was no room for failure, no room for doubt, no room for being an ordinary child who made mistakes and needed grace.

I started attending Islamic school when I was four years old, younger than most children, because my father wanted me to have an early start.

The school was attached to our local mosque in the Kosar neighborhood, and the teachers were all strict men who believed that children learned best through discipline and repetition.

We sat on the floor for hours every day reciting verses from the Quran in Arabic, a language I did not speak or understand at first.

When we made mistakes in our pronunciation or memorization, the teachers would strike our hands with a wooden stick or make us stand in the corner facing the wall for extended periods.

I learned very quickly to be perfect in my recitation because I hated the pain of the stick and the humiliation of punishment.

By the time I was 6 years old, I had memorized the first five chapters of the Quran completely.

And my teachers praised me as one of the brightest students they had ever taught.

I excelled in all my classes because I was terrified of failing and disappointing my father.

I would wake up every morning at 4:30 for the far prayer, then spend 2 hours studying before going to school.

After school, I would attend additional Quran memorization sessions at the mosque, then come home and study late into the night.

I had no time for play or friendship or any of the normal activities that children my age enjoyed.

My younger sister Zanab and Miriam would sometimes beg me to play games with them, but I would tell them I was too busy with my studies and they should not distract me from my important work.

My mother would bring me tea and snacks while I studied and tell me how proud she was of me.

But I could see the concern in her eyes sometimes as she watched me hunched over my books hour after hour with no joy or lightness in my life.

The religious rituals that filled my days became increasingly mechanical and empty as I grew older.

I prayed five times every single day without ever missing a prayer, prostrating myself toward Mecca and reciting the prescribed words in Arabic.

But my mind would wander during the prayers, thinking about my homework or worrying about an upcoming exam or just counting down the minutes until I could stand up and move on to the next task.

I fasted during the entire month of Ramadan from sunrise to sunset.

Abstaining from food and water even though the summer heat in Mshad made it extremely difficult.

But I did not feel any spiritual closeness to Allah during those fasting days.

I just felt hungry and thirsty and tired, counting the hours until I could break my fast and eat again.

I read the Quran every day as part of my studies, and I could explain the meaning of the verses and analyze the grammar and recite them with perfect pronunciation.

But the words did not move my heart or change my life in any meaningful way.

I started to realize around the age of 10 that there was something fundamentally wrong with my spiritual life.

Though I did not have the vocabulary or understanding to articulate exactly what it was, I would see my father leading prayers at the mosque with such confidence and authority, speaking about Allah and Islam with absolute certainty, and I wondered why I did not feel the same certainty or connection.

I would listen to other students in my classes talk about their love for Allah and their desire to serve him faithfully.

And I would nod along and pretend to feel the same things even though I felt nothing at all.

I became very good at performing the role of a devout young Muslim, saying the right things, doing the right things, maintaining the right appearance.

But inside I felt like a fraud, like an empty shell going through the motions without any real faith or conviction.

The worst part was that I could not talk to anyone about these feelings because admitting them would be seen as a sign of weak faith or spiritual sickness.

In our community, doubt and questioning were not acceptable, especially not for the son of an imam.

I was supposed to be an example to other young people, a model of Islamic devotion and commitment.

If I admitted that I felt nothing when I prayed, that the Quran seemed like just words on a page, that I was only following Islam because I had been born into it and not because I had chosen it or experienced it as true, people would be shocked and disappointed.

My father would be humiliated in front of the community he served.

My family’s reputation would be damaged.

So, I kept my doubts and emptiness hidden deep inside, buried under layers of performance and pretense.

And I tried to convince myself that maybe if I just tried harder and studied more and prayed longer, eventually I would feel what I was supposed to feel.

Then in early 2024, something began to shift in the spiritual atmosphere around me.

Though I did not recognize it at the time, I started hearing whispered conversations among some of the older students at my school about strange things happening in Iran and Afghanistan.

They talked about Muslims having dreams and visions of a man in white who claimed to be Isa, the prophet Jesus.

They said that thousands of people, maybe even hundreds of thousands, were secretly converting to Christianity after these supernatural encounters.

The teachers and imams responded to these reports with anger and alarm, warning us that this was a deception from Satan designed to lead Muslims astray.

They said that Christian missionaries were using psychological manipulation and western propaganda to confuse people and turn them away from Islam.

They told us to be on guard against any information or influence that might cause us to doubt our faith.

I was curious about these reports but also frightened by them.

I had been taught my entire life that Christianity was a corrupted religion, that the Bible had been changed and distorted over the centuries, that Jesus was just a prophet and not the son of God as Christians falsely claimed.

I had been taught that Islam was the final and complete revelation from Allah, that Muhammad was the last and greatest prophet, and that anyone who rejected Islam after hearing its message was destined for eternal hellfire.

The idea that people would abandon Islam for Christianity seemed insane and incomprehensible to me.

Why would anyone leave the truth for a lie? Why would anyone reject the final revelation for an outdated and corrupted earlier version? It made no sense unless these people were being deceived by evil spiritual forces or manipulated by enemies of Islam.

But despite my training and conditioning, I found myself thinking about these conversion stories more and more frequently.

What if these dreams and visions were real? What if Jesus really was appearing to Muslims and revealing himself to them in supernatural ways? What would that mean about Islam and everything I had been taught? These questions terrified me because even asking them felt like a betrayal of my faith and my family.

I tried to push the thoughts out of my mind and focus on my studies, but they kept coming back.

Especially at night when I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep.

I would stare at the ceiling in the darkness and wonder what it would be like to actually encounter God, to experience his presence in a real and tangible way instead of just performing religious rituals and hoping they were somehow connecting me to him.

In late May of 2024, my teacher Karimi called me into his office after class one day and told me that he had recommended me for a very special honor.

There was going to be a major Islamic youth conference at Imam Resi University in midJune bringing together more than 50,000 students from across Iran to promote Islamic values and strengthen faith among the younger generation.

The conference organizers wanted a young person to lead the opening prayer and set the spiritual tone for the entire event and Ustad Karimi had suggested me because of my reputation as an exceptional Quran reciter and dedicated student.

He said this would be broadcast on national television and seen by hundreds of thousands of people and it was an incredible opportunity to represent our school, our community and the Afghan refugees in Iran.

He asked me if I would accept this responsibility and of course I said yes immediately because refusing would have been unthinkable.

My father was overjoyed when he heard the news.

He embraced me and kissed my forehead and told me that this was the moment he had been preparing me for my entire life.

He said that Allah was blessing our family and using me as a vessel to inspire Muslims across Iran and beyond.

He began helping me prepare for the event, working with me on my Quran recitation and my public speaking, making sure every word would be pronounced perfectly and every gesture would be appropriate and dignified.

My mother started preparing special clothes for me to wear at the conference.

And my sisters looked at me with awe and admiration, proud that their brother was going to be on television.

The entire community seemed to be buzzing with excitement about my upcoming appearance.

And everywhere I went, people congratulated me and told me they would be watching and praying for me.

But instead of feeling excited or honored, I felt a growing sense of dread and heaviness in my chest.

The weight of everyone’s expectations pressed down on me like a physical burden I could barely carry.

I knew that I was supposed to stand on that stage and lead 50,000 people in prayer to Allah to inspire them with my devotion and strengthen their commitment to Islam.

But how could I do that when I felt nothing myself? How could I lead others to connect with Allah when I had never experienced any real connection with him in my entire life? I felt like a complete fraud, like I was being asked to perform the greatest deception of my life on the biggest stage I had ever stood on.

The closer the date of the conference came, the more anxious and miserable I became.

Though I hid these feelings from everyone around me and continued to smile and act grateful for the opportunity one had been given.

As the security guards dragged me off the stage of the Imam Resi University Assembly Hall, their fingers digging into my arms hard enough to leave bruises, I caught one final glimpse of my father’s face in the crowd.

He was standing now, pushed forward by the chaos erupting all around him.

His mouth open in a silent scream.

I could not hear over the roar of 50,000 voices shouting at once.

Some were crying out in anger, calling for my punishment, demanding that I be silenced permanently for the blasphemy I had just committed.

Others were weeping, their faces twisted in confusion and pain.

And I would learn later that many of them were crying because my words had awakened something in their own hearts that they had been trying to suppress for years.

But in that moment, all I could see was my father reaching toward me.

His expression a mixture of horror, grief, and something else that looked almost like fear.

They brought me to a small office on the third floor and shoved me into a chair.

One of the guards stood by the door with his arms crossed, staring at me with undisguised contempt, while the other made a phone call, speaking in rapid Farsy, too quiet for me to hear clearly.

I sat perfectly still, trying to remember what Jesus had told me in my bedroom 3 weeks ago.

He had warned me that this moment would come, that there would be a price to pay for speaking his name publicly.

He had said, “Do not be afraid of those who can kill the body but cannot kill the soul.

when they bring you before authorities, do not worry about what to say, for the spirit will give you the words you need.

” I whispered those words to myself over and over, trying to calm my racing heart and stop my hands from trembling.

About 20 minutes later, the door opened and three men entered the room.

I recognized one of them immediately, Ayatollah Ramani, one of the most senior religious officials in Mshad, and a man my father had spoken about with great reverence and respect.

He was in his 60s with a long gray beard and piercing dark eyes that seemed to look straight through me.

The other two men were younger, perhaps in their 30s or 40s, wearing the conservative suits of government officials.

One of them carried a laptop computer and a recording device which he set up on the desk in front of me.

The Ayatollah sat down across from me while the other two men remained standing, flanking him on either side like sentinels.

Ayatollah Romani studied me in silence for what felt like an eternity.

His expression was unreadable, somewhere between curiosity and disgust, as if he were examining a strange insect he had discovered crawling across his prayer mat.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and controlled, but carrying an edge of barely suppressed anger.

Majid Hamed, “Son of Am Hassan, do you understand the severity of what you have just done?” I swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I tried to speak.

He continued, “You stood before 50,000 Muslims on a stage prepared for the glorification of Allah, and you spoke the name of ISA Ibn Miam as if he were something more than a prophet.

You committed sherk, the unforgivable sin of associating partners with Allah.

You have brought shame upon your family, your community, and the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Do you comprehend this? I found my voice, though it came out smaller and weaker than I wanted.

I understand that what I said was shocking and offensive to many people, but I cannot apologize for telling the truth about what I experienced.

The Ayatollah’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

The truth.

A 12-year-old boy thinks he knows the truth better than 14 centuries of Islamic scholarship, better than the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, who received the final revelation from Allah, better than the Quran itself.

He leaned forward, his voice rising slightly.

What you experienced was not truth, boy.

It was a delusion, a trick of shade and designed to lead you astray and use you to mislead others.

You have been deceived and now you have become a tool of the enemies of Islam.

One of the younger officials activated the recording device and opened his laptop.

This interview is being recorded for official documentation.

He announced in a flat bureaucratic tone.

State your full name, age, and address for the record.

I provided the information.

my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears, as if someone else were speaking through my mouth.

The official asked, “When did you first begin to have these experiences that you mentioned on stage?” I took a deep breath and decided that if I was already in this much trouble, there was no point in holding anything back.

3 weeks ago, on the night of May 25th, I woke up and saw Isa Al-Masi standing in my bedroom.

He spoke to me and told me that he loved me and had come to give me rest for my soul.

The Ayatollah made a sound of disgust deep in his throat.

And you believe this apparition? You did not think to recite the verses of protection to call upon Allah to protect you from evil spirits.

You did not consider that this might be a jin or a demon impersonating the prophet Isa.

I shook my head.

It was not a demon.

I know the difference.

The presence that came from him was pure love and peace, not fear or evil.

When he looked at me, I felt like I was finally seeing clearly for the first time in my life.

Like everything that had been confusing and unclear suddenly made perfect sense.

The Ayatollah slammed his hand down on the desk, making me jump in my seat.

Nonsense.

You are a child who has been influenced by Western propaganda and Christian missionary materials.

Tell me the truth.

Who gave you these ideas? What websites have you been visiting? What books have you been reading? No one gave me anything.

I insisted, feeling a flash of anger break through my fear.

I have never read a Bible.

I have never spoken to a Christian missionary.

I have never even met a Christian in my entire life.

Everything I know about Islam, I learned from my father and my teachers.

I was the perfect Muslim student, the one everyone praised and held up as an example.

And I felt nothing.

empty, dead inside until ISA came to me and showed me what it means to actually be loved by God instead of just trying to earn his approval through endless rules and rituals.

The words were pouring out of me now faster than I could control them and I realized with a shock that this was exactly what Jesus had promised.

The spirit was giving me the words I needed.

The younger official who had been taking notes looked up sharply.

You saying that Islam made you feel empty? That the religion of 1.

8 8 billion people.

The final revelation from the creator of the universe left you feeling dead inside.

I met his gaze directly, surprised by my own boldness.

I am saying that I performed all the rituals perfectly, memorized the Quran, prayed five times a day, fasted during Ramadan, did everything I was supposed to do, and never once felt any real connection to Allah.

I was going through the motions, performing for the approval of people, trying to make my father proud.

But my heart was completely empty.

When Isa came to me, for the first time in my life, I felt truly seen, truly known, and truly loved.

Not because of what I had done or how well I had performed, but simply because he chose to love me.

Ayatollah Romani stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

He began pacing back and forth behind the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his face flushed with barely controlled rage.

This is exactly the poison that the enemies of Islam are spreading throughout our region.

They pray on young people who are experiencing normal spiritual struggles and doubts, and they offer them a false alternative that appeals to their emotional weaknesses.

Christianity is a religion of ease and indulgence, requiring nothing of its followers except belief in an impossible trinity.

and the blasphemous claim that God would lower himself to become a man and die like a criminal.

Islam on the other hand requires discipline, sacrifice, submission to the will of Allah.

Of course, it feels harder.

Of course, it requires more of you.

That is the test, the struggle that refineses and purifies the soul.

I listened to his words and recognized the arguments I had heard my entire life, the explanations I had tried to convince myself to believe, even when they rang hollow in my heart.

But now, having experienced the love of Jesus, those arguments sounded completely different to me.

Not like profound theological truth, but like a prison guard explaining to an inmate why his chains are actually for his own good.

I said quietly, “If Islam is the true religion, why does it produce so much emptiness? Why are there thousands and thousands of Muslims across Iran and Afghanistan having the same experience I had, seeing ISA in their dreams and visions? Why is Christianity spreading so rapidly in countries where it is illegal and dangerous to convert? You can call it emotional weakness if you want.

But I think people are desperate for something real, something that actually transforms their hearts instead of just controlling their behavior through fear and obligation.

The room fell completely silent.

The two younger officials exchanged nervous glances, and I could see a vein throbbing in Ayatollah Romani’s temple as he stared at me with an expression that seemed to combine fury, disbelief, and something that almost looked like uncertainty.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was dangerously quiet.

You have been completely corrupted.

There is no reasoning with you.

You are either mentally ill, demonically possessed, or deliberately working as an agent of foreign powers to undermine the Islamic Republic.

Regardless of which it is, you are an extremely dangerous individual who must be contained and silenced before you poison more minds with your blasphemous delusions.

He turned to one of the officials and issued a command in rapid Farsy that I did not fully catch, but I heard the words psychiatric evaluation and secure facility.

My stomach dropped as I realized what he was saying.

They were not going to charge me with a crime or put me on trial.

They were going to declare me mentally unstable and lock me away in a psychiatric institution where I could be isolated, medicated, and silenced indefinitely.

It was a tactic the Iranian government had used before with political dissident and religious converts classify them as insane rather than criminal and then make them disappear into the mental health system where they had no legal rights and no access to outside communication.

Please, I heard myself saying, hating the pleading tone in my voice, but unable to stop it.

Please, let me see my father.

Let me talk to my family before you take me anywhere.

Ayatollah Romani looked at me with something that might have been pity if there had been any warmth in his eyes.

Your father is being dealt with separately.

He will be questioned about his failure to properly supervise and educate you, and about whether he bears any responsibility for your descent into apostasy.

As for your mother and sisters, they will be informed that you are receiving medical treatment for a mental breakdown brought on by the stress of your studies.

They do not need to know the full extent of your betrayal.

He nodded to the guards at the door.

Take him to the vehicle.

We will transport him to Imam Resa Hospital for immediate evaluation.

As the guards moved toward me, I felt a surge of panic rising in my chest.

This was really happening.

They were going to lock me away and drug me into silence and no one would ever hear from me again.

My testimony at the conference would be explained away as the ramblings of a disturbed child and the video would eventually be suppressed and forgotten.

I opened my mouth to protest, to argue, to beg for mercy.

But before I could speak, I felt a strange warmth spreading through my chest.

The same presence I had felt in my bedroom when Jesus appeared to me.

And in my mind, as clearly as if someone were speaking directly into my ear, I heard a voice say, “Do not be afraid.

I am with you.

What they mean for evil, I will use for good.

Many will come to me through your witness, even in the darkest places.

” The peace that flooded through me in that moment was completely illogical and impossible to explain by any natural means.

I was being taken to a psychiatric facility where they would likely keep me imprisoned for months or even years, where I would be separated from my family and subjected to who knows what kind of treatment designed to break my mind and force me to recant my testimony.

By any reasonable standard, I should have been terrified and desparing.

But instead, I felt an inexplicable joy and confidence rising up inside me, a certainty that I was exactly where I was supposed to be and that Jesus had a purpose even in this suffering.

I stood up from the chair without resistance and looked directly at Ayatollah Romani.

Thank you for listening to my testimony, I said, and I meant it sincerely.

I will pray for you that ISA will reveal himself to you just as he revealed himself to me.

The Ayatollah’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, and for a moment, I thought he might strike me.

But he simply turned away and waved his hand dismissively, “Remove him from my sight.

” The guards grabbed my arms again, less roughly this time, almost as if my calm demeanor had unsettled them, and they led me out of the office and down a back stairwell to avoid the crowds that were still gathered in the main areas of the university.

We emerged into a parking area where an unmarked white van was waiting with its engine running.

They opened the back doors and helped me climb inside.

And I saw that there were no windows in the cargo area, just metal walls and a single bench seat with restraining straps hanging from it.

As they were about to close the doors, I heard a commotion from somewhere nearby and a voice shouting my name.

Mag.

Mag.

I recognized my father’s voice immediately, horse and desperate, calling out for me through the darkness.

The guards hesitated for a moment, looking at each other uncertainly.

And in that brief window, I leaned toward the opening and shouted back as loudly as I could.

Baba, I love you.

Tell Mama and Zanab and Miriam that I love them.

I say loves you all.

Then the doors slammed shut with a metallic clang, cutting off the sound of my father’s voice, and I was plunged into complete darkness as the van’s engine revved and we pulled away from the university.

I sat on the metal bench in the darkness, feeling the van’s movements as it turned corners and accelerated onto what felt like a highway.

I had no idea where they were taking me or what would happen when we arrived.

I had no idea if I would ever see my family again or if my testimony would have any lasting impact beyond the few minutes I had spoken on that stage.

By all external measures, my situation was hopeless and my future bleak.

But sitting alone in the darkness of that prison van, I began to sing quietly to myself.

A song I had never heard before, but that seemed to flow out of some deep place in my spirit that had been unlocked by Jesus touch.

ISA, you are with me in the darkness.

ISA, you are light when all is black.

You have called me out of empty religion into the joy of knowing you are real.

Though they lock me up and try to silence me, your truth will spread like fire through the land.

Afghanistan will know your name.

Iran will bow before you.

Every nation, every tribe, every tongue will confess that you are Lord.

I sang that song over and over as the van carried me through the night toward an unknown destination.

And with each repetition, I felt the presence of Jesus growing stronger around me, filling the dark metal container with a light that had nothing to do with physical photons, but everything to do with the glory of the one who spoke the universe into existence and who had chosen to step into my bedroom and change my life forever.

The Imam Resa Hospital psychiatric facility was located in a separate building behind the main hospital complex, surrounded by high walls and accessible only through a guarded checkpoint.

When the van finally came to a stop and the guards opened the back doors, I saw that we had arrived at a loading dock area where medical personnel in white coats were waiting with a gurnie and paperwork.

The night air was cool on my face after the suffocating darkness of the van, and I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves for whatever was coming next.

The guards handed me over to the hospital staff like I was a package being delivered and one of them passed a thick envelope of documents to a stern-looking woman who appeared to be in charge.

She glanced at the papers briefly then looked at me with an expression of clinical detachment that made me feel more like a specimen than a human being.

Magid hayed 12 admitted for acute psychotic episode with religious delusions and possible schizophrenic break.

Is this correct? One of the guards nodded.

Those are his symptoms.

According to Ayatollah Romani’s assessment, he is to be held in isolation for evaluation and treatment until further notice from the authorities.

The woman made a notation on her clipboard and gestured to two male orderlys who had been standing beside the gurnie.

Take him toward C isolation room 7.

I will conduct the initial examination in 30 minutes after we complete the admission process.

The orderlys were not rough with me, but they were firm and efficient in a way that made it clear resistance would be pointless.

They led me through a series of locked doors, each requiring a key card to open deeper and deeper into the facility until we reached a long corridor lined with heavy metal doors on both sides.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered and hummed, casting a sickly yellowish glow over everything, and the air smelled of disinfectant and something else I could not quite identify.

a mixture of sweat and fear and despair that seemed to have soaked into the very walls over years of housing broken people.

They stopped at door number seven, unlocked it, and motioned for me to step inside.

The room was small, maybe 3 m x 4 m, with white cinder block walls, a single bed with a thin mattress and no pillow, a metal toilet in the corner with no seat or privacy screen and nothing else.

No windows, no decorations, no color of any kind except the harsh white walls and the gray concrete floor.

There was a camera mounted in the upper corner of the ceiling, its red recording light blinking steadily, watching everything.

One of the orderlys handed me a folded set of gray cotton clothing loose pants and a shirt that looked like pajamas and told me to change out of my conference clothes and leave them on the bed.

Someone will collect them for processing.

Do not try to hide anything in this room.

We see everything.

Then they stepped out and the heavy door swung shut with a hollow boom that seemed to echo in my chest.

I changed into the gray clothes slowly, my hands shaking, not from fear, but from the surreal absurdity of the situation.

Just hours ago, I had been standing on a stage in front of 50,000 people speaking the name of Jesus to the entire nation.

Now, I was alone in a psychiatric isolation cell being treated like a dangerous mental patient.

I folded my conference clothes neatly and placed them on the bed as instructed, then sat down on the thin mattress and looked around at my new reality.

The walls were completely bare except for some scratches and marks that previous occupants had made.

And I wondered how many people had been locked in this exact room for the crime of thinking differently than the authorities wanted them to think.

How many political dissident, how many religious converts, how many people who had simply asked the wrong questions had sat on this same bed staring at these same walls.

I do not know how long I sat there before the door opened again, and the stern woman from the loading dock entered carrying a medical bag and a folder of forms.

She was followed by one of the male orderlys who positioned himself by the door, presumably to prevent me from trying to escape or attack her.

She sat down on a small metal stool that the orderly brought in and opened her folder, clicking her pen with a sharp snap.

I am Dr.

Sadhi, the senior psychiatrist for this ward.

I am going to ask you some questions to assess your mental state.

Answer honestly and completely.

Your level of cooperation will be noted in your file and will affect your treatment plan.

She began with basic questions about my name, age, family background, medical history, and education.

I answered each one calmly and accurately, watching her make notes in my file.

Then she moved on to more pointed questions.

When did you first begin experiencing hallucinations, I shook my head.

I have not experienced hallucinations.

I saw Jesus in my bedroom 3 weeks ago and he spoke to me.

It was not a dream or a delusion.

It was more real than anything I have ever experienced.

Dr.

Sudi’s pen scratched across the paper.

Patient insists his religious vision was real.

Shows no insight into delusional nature of experience.

Do you hear voices when no one is present? Again, I shook my head.

I heard Jesus speak to me that one night and sometimes I sense his presence and hear his voice in my heart.

But I do not hear random voices telling me to do harmful things.

If that is what you are asking.

More scratching of the pen.

Patient reports ongoing auditory experiences he attributes to religious figure.

demonstrates poor reality testing.

Have you had thoughts of harming yourself or others? This question angered me and I had to work to keep my voice level.

No, never.

Jesus came to me with a message of love and peace.

He told me that he wants to bring peace to Afghanistan to heal the violence and suffering in my country.

There is nothing harmful or dangerous about what I experienced or what I said on that stage.

The only reason I am here is because I told the truth about something that threatens the power structure you are all trying to protect.

Dr.

Sod he looked up from her notes, her expression hardening.

Patient displays paranoid ideiation and grandiose delusions about personal importance.

Shows hostility toward authority figures and lacks appropriate respect for medical professionals.

I realized with growing horror that nothing I said would make any difference.

She had already decided what my diagnosis would be before she ever entered the room.

And she was simply going through the motions of an examination to create documentation that would justify whatever treatment they wanted to impose on me.

This was not about helping me or determining the truth of my mental state.

This was about creating a paper trail that would allow them to keep me locked up and silenced for as long as they deemed necessary.

I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me.

And for the first time since I had been arrested, I felt the peace and confidence beginning to crack under the weight of my circumstances.

Dr.

Sodi continued her questions for another 20 minutes, asking about my sleep patterns, my appetite, my relationships with family and friends, my academic performance, and dozens of other details that she carefully recorded in my file.

Finally, she closed the folder and stood up, smoothing her white coat with an air of finality.

Based on my initial evaluation, I am diagnosing you with acute psychotic disorder with religious delusions, possibly early onset schizophrenia.

You will begin a course of antiscychotic medication starting tomorrow morning, and you will remain in isolation until your symptoms stabilize.

You will also participate in daily therapy sessions designed to help you recognize the irrational nature of your beliefs and develop healthier thought patterns.

Do you have any questions? I looked up at her.

This woman who had never experienced what I had experienced, who had spent her entire life operating within a materialistic framework that denied the possibility of supernatural encounters, and I felt a sudden rush of compassion for her instead of anger.

She was just as much a prisoner as I was locked inside a worldview that could not accommodate the reality of a god who loves his creation enough to step into it personally.

“Yes, I have a question,” I said quietly.

Have you ever experienced anything that could not be explained by your psychiatric training? Have you ever wondered if there might be more to reality than what you can measure and categorize in your files? For just a moment, something flickered across her face, surprise, maybe even a hint of uncertainty, but it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

She turned toward the door without answering, and the orderly stepped aside to let her exit.

Medication will be administered at 0800 hours tomorrow morning.

Do not resist or there will be consequences.

Then she was gone and the door boomed shut again and I was alone once more in my white cell with the blinking red eye of the camera watching from the corner.

I lay down on the thin mattress and stared up at the ceiling, feeling the full weight of my situation pressing down on me.

They were going to drug me, to pump my body full of chemicals designed to suppress and numb and alter the way my brain functioned.

I had heard stories about what antiscychotic medications could do to people.

the drowsiness, the confusion, the emotional flatness, the way they could make you feel like you were living inside a thick fog where nothing seemed quite real anymore.

Would I still be able to sense Jesus presence after they started medicating me? Would I still be able to pray and worship and remember the truth of what had happened to me? Or would the drugs eventually succeed in erasing my certainty, making me doubt my own experience, convincing me that maybe it really had all been just a delusion after all? The fear was starting to creep back in, cold fingers wrapping around my heart, and I could feel the darkness of that cell seeping into my soul.

I closed my eyes and tried to pray, but the words would not come.

My mind felt scattered and panicked, unable to focus on anything except the terrible uncertainty of my future.

How long would they keep me here? Weeks, months, years? Would my family be allowed to visit? Or would they be told to stay away for my own good? Would anyone outside these walls even remember my testimony? Or would it fade into obscurity as just another strange incident that got briefly mentioned and then forgotten? As I lay there spiraling into despair, I suddenly remembered something my mother used to say when I was very small and would wake up crying from nightmares.

She would come to my bedside and stroke my hair and whisper, “Maj Jan, when you are afraid in the darkness, speak the names of Allah and his light will come to you.

” It was a Muslim prayer practice, reciting the 99 names of Allah as a form of protection and comfort.

But now lying in this psychiatric cell, I found myself whispering different names into the darkness.

Isa, Emmanuel, prince of peace, good shepherd, light of the world, bread of life, resurrection and the life, alpha and omega, king of kings and lord of lords.

With each name I spoke, I felt the fear loosening its grip on my heart.

felt the darkness being pushed back by a light that had nothing to do with the harsh fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling.

I kept whispering the names of Jesus.

And as I did, I began to remember everything he had told me in my bedroom that night 3 weeks ago.

He had not promised me an easy path.

He had not said that following him would protect me from suffering or persecution.

In fact, he had explicitly warned me that speaking his name would cost me everything.

But he had promised that he would never leave me, that he would be with me even in the darkest valley, that nothing, not death, not life, not angels or demons or anything else in all creation, could separate me from his love.

I sat up on the bed, suddenly feeling the presence of Jesus so strongly in that tiny cell that it was as if the walls themselves were glowing with his glory.

I looked around the bare white room and realized something profound.

They could lock up my body, but they could not touch my soul.

They could put me in isolation, but they could not separate me from the one who had called me into relationship with him.

They could drug me and interrogate me and try to convince me that I was insane, but they could not erase the reality of what I had experienced.

I had been touched by the living God, and that truth was now woven into the very fabric of my being in a way that no psychiatric treatment could ever undo.

I stood up and walked to the center of the cell, directly under the blinking camera, and I raised my hands toward heaven in a posture of worship that I had never been taught, but that seemed to flow naturally from the depths of my transformed heart.

And there, in that place designed to break the human spirit and crush all hope and resistance, I began to worship Jesus with a freedom and joy I had never experienced in 12 years of mandatory Islamic prayers.

I did not care that they were watching me on their monitors.

I did not care that they would add this behavior to my psychiatric file as further evidence of my delusion.

I only cared about pouring out my love and gratitude to the one who had saved me from the emptiness of dead religion and given me a reason to live that was worth any cost.

I do not know how long I worshiped there, singing songs that came from some place deep in my spirit, declaring the names and attributes of Jesus over that psychiatric ward, praying for Dr.

Sadhi and the orderlys and the guards and even Ayatollah Romani.

But when I finally stopped and opened my eyes, I noticed something that made my heart skip a beat.

The red light on the camera was no longer blinking.

At some point during my worship, it had gone dark.

Either the equipment had malfunctioned or someone in the monitoring room had deliberately turned it off because they could not bear to watch what I was doing.

Either way, for the first time since entering this cell, I was truly alone and unobserved by human eyes.

I smiled to myself, recognizing this as a small gift from Jesus.

A moment of privacy in a place designed to eliminate all privacy.

I lay back down on the thin mattress.

And this time, when I closed my eyes, there was no fear or panic, only a deep and abiding peace that made absolutely no logical sense given my circumstances.

I fell asleep with a prayer of thanksgiving on my lips.

And I dreamed that I was walking through the streets of Herod, my hometown in Afghanistan, that I had not seen since I was 3 years old.

But in my dream, the city was transformed.

No more rubble from bomb strikes, no more armed soldiers patrolling the streets, no more women and children begging for food.

Instead, there were gardens and fountains, children playing and laughing, families walking together in safety and peace.

And in the center of the city square stood a man in white robes with arms outstretched in welcome.

And I knew without being told that this was ISA and this was the future.

He had promised me a day when Afghanistan would finally know true peace because its people had come to know the prince of peace.

I woke to the sound of the cell door opening and harsh fluorescent light flooding the room.

An orderly I had not seen before stood in the doorway holding a small paper cup with pills and another cup filled with water.

Medication time, he announced in a board monotone.

Take these and swallow them while I watch.

Then open your mouth so I can verify you did not hide them.

This was it, the moment I had been dreading.

If I took the pills, I would be agreeing to let them alter my consciousness and potentially dull my connection to Jesus.

If I refused, they would hold me down and forcibly inject me with something even stronger.

Either way, my body was not my own anymore.

I was property of the state, a problem to be managed and controlled.

I looked at the pills in the small paper cup, two white tablets, and one yellow capsule.

And I heard Jesus voice in my spirit saying, “Take them.

Trust me, I am Lord even over the chemicals they think will silence you.

They cannot stop what I have started in you.

” So I took the cup, placed the pills in my mouth, and swallowed them with the water while the orderly watched with his flashlight shining into my mouth to make sure I had not tucked them under my tongue or against my cheek.

“Good,” he said with a note of approval.

“First dose complete.

You will start feeling the effects within an hour.

Most patients report feeling calmer and less agitated.

” Then he left and the door closed and I sat on my bed waiting to see what would happen to my mind.

The effects came on gradually, a kind of gentle heaviness spreading through my limbs, and a softening of the sharp edges of thought.

Colors seemed slightly less vivid, sounds slightly more muffled, and my mind felt like it was operating just a fraction of a second slower than normal.

It was not unpleasant exactly, more like being wrapped in a thick blanket that dulled all sensation and created a buffer between me and the intensity of my emotions.

I noticed that I felt less anxious about my situation, less urgent about everything, as if someone had turned down the volume on all my feelings by about 30%.

But what surprised me actually was that the presence of Jesus did not fade or diminish at all.

If anything, it seemed to grow stronger and clearer in contrast to the medication induced fog that was settling over my natural consciousness.

It was as if Jesus was demonstrating to me that he existed in a dimension that psychiatric drugs could not touch.

That his spirit communicated with my spirit in a way that bypassed the neurochemical processes the medication was designed to suppress.

I could feel him there with me in the cell closer than my own breath, whispering words of encouragement and love that cut through the pharmaceutical haze like a shaft of pure light piercing thick clouds.

Over the following days, a routine was established that would define my existence in ward C of the Imam Resa Hospital psychiatric facility.

I woke each morning to the medication orderly bringing my pills.

After taking them, I was given a breakfast tray of bland food, usually some kind of rice porridge and tea, which I ate alone in my cell.

Then around midm morning, I would be escorted to a therapy room where Dr.

Sade he or one of her colleagues would conduct interrogation sessions disguised as psychological counseling.

They would ask me endless questions about my vision of Jesus, probing for inconsistencies in my story, suggesting alternative explanations for my experience and trying to convince me that what I had perceived as a supernatural encounter was actually a stressinduced hallucination brought on by the pressure of my religious upbringing.

I answered their questions patiently and honestly, but I refused to deny the reality of what had happened to me.

This frustrated them tremendously, and I could see their growing annoyance as day after day I maintained my testimony despite their best efforts to break it down.

They tried different tactics, sometimes gentle and sympathetic, sometimes harsh and confrontational, sometimes appealing to my intelligence by presenting scientific explanations for religious experiences.

But nothing they said could shake the foundational certainty that had been planted in my heart when Jesus touched me.

I knew what I knew and no amount of psychiatric theory could convince me otherwise.

The afternoons were the hardest part of each day.

After the therapy sessions, I would be returned to my isolation cell where I had nothing to do except sit and think and wait for time to pass.

They did not give me any books to read, any activities to occupy my hands, or any human contact except for the brief interactions with medical staff.

The isolation was designed to be psychologically crushing, to break down my sense of self and make me desperate for any kind of relief or escape.

Many people in my situation would have started to doubt their own sanity, would have begun to wonder if maybe the doctors were right, and they really were delusional.

The trying to make trouble.

I pressed my mouth close to the wall and spoke as clearly as I could while keeping my voice low enough not to alert the guards.

My name is Magic.

Yes, I’m a follower of ISM.

He appeared to me in my bedroom and told me that he loved me and wanted to give me rest for my soul.

Everything I said on that stage was true.

What about you? Why are you here? There was a long pause and when Resa spoke again, I could hear emotion in his voice that had not been there before.

I am here for the same reason as you.

I had a dream about ISA 6 months ago.

He told me that he was the way to the father and that I should follow him.

I tried to keep it secret, but my wife discovered that I was reading a Bible I had downloaded on my phone.

She reported me to the authorities because she was afraid she would be punished for knowing about my apostasy and not turning me in.

They arrested me and brought me here for psychiatric treatment instead of putting me on trial.

I think because they did not want the publicity of another conversion case.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes as I realized what Jesus had just done.

He had not allowed me to be truly alone in his place.

Right on the other side of the wall, separated by a few inches of concrete and plaster, was another believer who had also encountered the risen Christ and was paying the price with follow.

We were brothers in a persecution that made our faith more real and precious than any comfortable religion could ever be.

Reza, I whispered urgently.

We are not alone.

ISA is with us in this place.

He promised me that he would never leave us and he is keeping his promise right now.

Can you feel his presence? I heard what sounded like muffled crying from the other side of the wall.

And then Ray’s voice came back choked with emotion.

Yes.

Yes, I can feel him.

For months, I have been in this cell thinking that I was abandoned and forgotten.

That maybe I had made a terrible mistake and God had turned his back on me because I was too weak to stand up under persecution.

But hearing your voice, knowing there is another believer just on the other side of this wall, imagine this is an answer to prayer.

I did not even know how to pray.

From that day forward, Reza and I developed a secret communication system.

We would tap on the wall to alert each other when it was safe to talk.

Usually in the afternoon when the ward was quietest and the staff was least attentive, we would share our testimonies with each other, encourage one another with whatever fragments of scripture we could remember, and pray together through the wall for our families and for the other patients in the facility and for the guards and doctors who are holding us captive.

We even figured out how to worship together, taking turns singing quiet hymns or speaking prayers of thanksgiving that the other could barely hear, but could join with in spirit.

These conversations became the lifeline that sustained me through the grinding monotony of psychiatric imprisonment.

Knowing that Reza was there, that I was not the only one suffering for the name of Jesus, gave me a strength and courage I could not have manufactured on my own.

We laughed together about the absurdity of the therapy sessions where psychiatrists tried to convince us that our encounters with the son of God were nothing more than chemical imbalances in our brains.

We cried together when we talked about our families and how much we miss them.

And we dreamed together about a future day when Iran and Afghanistan would be filled with believers who worshiped Jesus openly without fear of imprisonment or death.

Imagine, Reesa said to me one afternoon during one of our wall conversations.

Do you remember what the early apostles said when they were arrested for Jewisa? The religious authorities commanded them to stop speaking about it.

And Peter answered, “We must obey God rather than win.

” That is what we are doing, you and I.

We are obeying the higher authority even when the earthly authorities try to silence us.

We are part of a story much bigger than ourselves.

A story that has been unfolding for 2,000 years and will continue until every knee bows.

Every tongue confesses that Jesus Christ is real.

I smiled against the cold concrete wall, warmed by my brother’s words and by the truth they contained.

Yes.

And one day, Reza, we will stand together in freedom and tell everyone about what Jesus did in this place.

We will tell them that even in a psychiatric prison, even drugged and isolated and treated like we were insane, the presence of Jesus was more real to us than anything else in the world.

They cannot stop this, my friend.

No matter how many of us they lock up, no matter how much medication they force into our bodies, they cannot stop the gospel from spreading through Iran and Afghanistan like wildfire.

Two years have passed since that unforgettable night when I stood on a stage and spoke the name of Jesus before 50,000 people.

Two years since the security guards dragged me away and locked me in that psychiatric cell where I met my brother Resa through a concrete wall.

2 years since my father’s face went pale with horror and my world turned completely upside down.

I spent 4 months in that facility before international pressure and a secret network of believers finally secured my release.

When I walked out of those doors, I was not the same frightened 12-year-old boy who had entered.

I had been refined by suffering, strengthened by isolation, and filled with an unshakable confidence that Jesus was exactly we claimed to be.

3 months after my arrest, my father came to visit me in the psychiatric wound.

He sat across from me in the sterile visitation room, his eyes red from sleepless nights, his beard grayer than I remembered.

He looked broken.

For the first 5 minutes, he could not speak.

He just wept.

Finally, he whispered magic.

I have been praying to Allah everyday for him to cure you of this madness.

But last night his voice cracked.

Last night Isa came to me in a dream.

My heart nearly stopped.

I reached across the table and gripped his trembling hands.

He stood in front of me wearing white robes.

My father continued, tears streaming down his weathered face.

And he said, “Hassan, your son is not sick.

He is telling the truth.

I am the way, the truth, and the life.

Stop fighting me and come home to the father who loves you.

When I woke up, I knew magic that everything you said was true.

Within 6 months, my entire family had secretly given their lives to Jesus.

My mother, who had spent her whole life in quiet Islamic devotion, encountered Christ during her prayer time and fell on her face weeping at the love she felt.

My sister Zanab and nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:es 38-39