This testimony has been viewed by millions, condemned by governments, and is being shared in secret across the Middle East.

What you’re about to hear is not just one man’s story.

It’s evidence of something the authorities can’t control, can’t stop, and can’t explain.

And if you’re watching this, it may not be an accident.

My name is Darius Cavani.

For 12 years, I served in Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and Security, specifically in the division that monitors and suppresses religious disscent.

My job was simple.

Find Christians, arrest them, stop the spread of what we called Western corruption.

I was good at my job.

I believed I was protecting my country, my faith, my people.

I had arrested over 200 believers.

I had raided dozens of house churches.

I had interrogated pastors until they broke, until they gave up names, until they begged for mercy.

I thought I was serving God.

I had no idea I was fighting him.

Then one night during a raid that should have been routine, I encountered something I couldn’t arrest, couldn’t explain, and couldn’t forget.

The man in white appeared, not to the Christians I was hunting, but to me, and everything I thought I knew shattered in an instant.

Today, I’m a wanted man in my own country.

My face is on government watch lists.

My family has disowned me.

My former colleagues have orders to arrest me on site.

But I’m telling this story because millions need to hear it.

And because the same Jesus who found me in the darkness is still searching for others.

Maybe even you.

ACT1 the cage 130 pri I was born in Thrron in 1985 3 years after the Islamic Revolution transformed Iran into a theocratic state.

My father, Raza, was a mid-level bureaucrat in the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance.

My mother, Zara, was a school teacher who taught Islamic Studies to young girls.

We were not wealthy, but we were devout.

Our entire lives revolved around the mosque, around prayer, around service to the Islamic Republic.

From the time I was 6 years old, I was taught that Iran was surrounded by enemies.

America, Israel, the West, all of them wanted to destroy Islam and corrupt our youth.

Christianity was presented not as a legitimate faith, but as a tool of imperialism, a weapon used by foreign powers to weaken Muslim nations.

I believed every word.

I excelled in school, particularly in religious studies and political science.

My teachers praised my devotion, my memorization of the Quran, my understanding of Shia theology.

When I was 18, I was recruited into the Basie, the volunteer paramilitary force that enforces Islamic law in the streets.

I wore the uniform with pride.

I patrolled neighborhoods, confronted women whose hijabs were too loose, confiscated forbidden music and films, broke up parties where young people were dancing or drinking.

I thought I was doing God’s work.

By the time I was 22, I had been recruited into the Ministry of Intelligence.

My superiors saw potential in me.

I was zealous, disciplined, and uncompromising.

They assigned me to the division that dealt with religious threats, specifically the monitoring and suppression of Christian activity.

At that time, in 2007, the government was just beginning to realize they had a serious problem.

For decades after the revolution, the Christian population in Iran had been small and manageable.

There were the ancient Armenian and Assyrian Christian communities, ethnic minorities who had been in Iran for centuries.

They were tolerated as long as they kept to themselves, didn’t evangelize, and didn’t cause trouble.

But something new was happening.

Muslims, ethnic Persians, people who had been raised in Islam were converting to Christianity.

And they were doing it in large numbers.

At first, the government assumed it was the work of foreign missionaries.

Western agents infiltrating the country and deceiving vulnerable Iranians with money or promises of visas.

But as we investigated, as we arrested people and interrogated them, we discovered something far more disturbing.

These converts weren’t being reached by missionaries.

They were having dreams.

I remember sitting in a briefing room in 2009 listening to a senior intelligence officer present data on the Christian problem.

He said that in the last 5 years the number of known converts had increased by 300%.

He said that house churches were multiplying faster than we could shut them down.

And then he said something that made the entire room go silent.

He said they’re not converting because of evangelism.

They’re converting because they claim Jesus is appearing to them in dreams and visions.

They say he’s calling them by name.

I looked around the room at my colleagues.

Some were angry.

Some were confused.

But I saw something else in a few faces.

I saw fear.

Because if this was true, if God himself was bypassing our surveillance, our censorship, our control, then we were fighting something we couldn’t stop.

But I pushed that thought away.

I told myself it was mass hysteria, psychological manipulation, western propaganda using sophisticated techniques to plant suggestions in people’s minds.

I told myself that if we just arrested enough of them, raided enough churches, made the consequences severe enough, the movement would collapse.

So, I threw myself into my work.

I became one of the most aggressive officers in my division.

I led raids on house churches, sometimes three or four in a single week.

I interrogated believers using psychological pressure, sleep deprivation, threats against their families.

I confiscated Bibles, phones, computers, anything that could connect them to other Christians.

I took pride in my efficiency.

My superiors praised me.

I was promoted twice in 3 years.

But something was wrong.

Something I couldn’t name, couldn’t admit, couldn’t fix.

Despite all my religious devotion, despite my five daily prayers, my fasting during Ramadan, my pilgrimages to holy sites, despite my service to the Islamic Republic, I felt empty, hollow, like I was performing a role in a play that never ended.

I would wake up before dawn, perform woodoo in the cold bathroom of my small apartment, spread my prayer rug facing Mecca, and go through the motions of fajger prayer.

I would recite the verses in Arabic.

Bow, prostrate, sit, stand, all in perfect form.

But my mind was somewhere else.

I was thinking about work, about the interrogation I had scheduled that afternoon, about the report I needed to file.

The prayers felt like checking boxes on a list, necessary, but meaningless.

At night, I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and feel a weight pressing down on my chest.

a heaviness I couldn’t explain.

I told myself it was stress, that the work I was doing was difficult and took a toll.

I told myself the emptiness was just exhaustion, that I needed more sleep, more discipline, more prayer.

But deep down, I knew it was something else.

I knew I was searching for something I hadn’t found.

I knew that despite all my efforts, despite all my devotion, I had never felt loved by God.

I had only felt his demands.

But I buried those thoughts.

I pushed them down into the deepest part of my mind and covered them with more work, more zeal, more arrests.

I told myself that doubt was a test, that Satan was trying to weaken my faith, that I just needed to be stronger, more committed.

So, I became even more aggressive in my pursuit of Christians.

I convinced myself that every arrest, every raid, every confession I extracted was proof of my devotion to Allah.

I didn’t know then that I was about to become the very thing I was hunting.

If you’ve ever felt that same disconnect, doing everything right, but feeling empty inside.

What I’m about to share might be the answer you didn’t know you were looking for.

But you have to stay.

Most people will click away before they hear what happened next.

Don’t be most people.

What comes next will challenge everything you think you know about faith, about God, about truth.

And it might be exactly what your soul has been crying out for.

The awakening 5212 The first crack in my certainty came in the spring of 2011.

I was assigned to interrogate a young woman named Sepide.

She was 24 years old, a former Muslim from a religious family in Mashed, one of Iran’s holiest cities.

She had been arrested after her brother discovered she was attending a house church and reported her to the authorities.

In Iran, family loyalty to Islam often overrides family loyalty to each other.

Seped was brought to Evan Prison, the notorious facility in northern Thran where political prisoners and religious dissident are held.

I had interrogated dozens of Christians by that point.

And I had developed a method.

I would start with psychological pressure, reminding them of the shame they had brought on their families, the punishment they faced under Islamic law, the fact that apostasy was punishable by death.

Most people broke within the first session.

They would recant, sign a statement renouncing Christianity, and promise never to associate with believers again.

We would release them under surveillance, and they would go back to their lives, broken and afraid.

But Sepe was different.

From the moment she was brought into the interrogation room, I could see something in her eyes that I had never seen before.

It wasn’t defiance.

It wasn’t anger.

It was peace.

A deep, unshakable peace that made no sense given her situation.

I began the interrogation with the standard questions.

When did you convert? Who introduced you to Christianity? What house church do you attend? Give me the names of the leaders.

She answered some questions, refused to answer others.

She would not give me names.

She said she would rather die than betray her brothers and sisters in Christ.

I increased the pressure.

I told her that her family had disowned her, that her father had publicly declared she was dead to him, that her mother was hospitalized from the shame.

I told her that if she didn’t cooperate, she would spend years in prison, that she would be tortured, that she would be executed.

She listened quietly, tears running down her face, but she didn’t break.

After 3 hours, I changed tactics.

I brought in a moola, a religious scholar, to debate her to show her the errors of Christianity to prove that Islam was the truth.

The moola quoted the Quran, argued that Jesus was only a prophet, that the Bible had been corrupted, that Christians were misguided.

Sepay listened respectfully, and then she said something that I will never forget.

She said, “I was a Muslim for 22 years.

I prayed five times a day.

I fasted.

I wore hijab.

I did everything I was supposed to do.

But I never felt loved.

I never felt peace.

I was always afraid that I wasn’t good enough, that Allah would reject me, that my good deeds wouldn’t outweigh my sins.

Then Jesus appeared to me in a dream.

He called my name.

He told me he loved me.

And for the first time in my life, I felt seen.

I felt known.

I felt loved.

You can torture me.

You can kill me.

But you can’t take that away from me.

The moola was furious.

He shouted at her, called her a blasphemer, said she was deceived by Satan.

But I just sat there staring at her unable to speak because everything she had just described, the emptiness, the fear, the striving to be good enough, I felt all of that every single day.

The interrogation continued for 3 days.

We used sleep deprivation, stress positions, psychological torture.

We didn’t beat her.

That would have left marks.

But we broke her down in other ways.

And through it all, she never cursed us.

She never screamed.

She just prayed.

I would walk into the room and find her whispering prayers, not in Arabic, but in Farsy, talking to Jesus like he was right there in the cell with her.

On the third day, after a particularly brutal session, I had her taken back to her cell.

I stood outside the door watching through the small window.

She collapsed on the floor, exhausted, broken physically, but somehow still whole.

And then she did something that shattered me.

She looked up as if she could see me through the door, and she said, “I forgive you.

Jesus loves you.

” I walked away from that cell, went to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and wept.

I didn’t understand why.

I told myself it was exhaustion, that I was just tired, that I needed a break.

But deep down, I knew it was something else.

I knew that this young woman, this so-called apostate, had something I didn’t.

She had peace.

She had love.

She had a God who saw her.

and I had nothing but emptiness and fear.

Sepeday was eventually released after her family paid a large bribe and she signed a statement renouncing Christianity.

I don’t know what happened to her after that, but I never forgot her face.

I never forgot her words.

I forgive you.

Jesus loves you.

Over the next 2 years, I continued my work, but something had changed.

I started paying closer attention to the testimonies I was reading in confiscated documents, in intercepted messages, in recorded interrogations, and I began to notice a pattern.

Almost every single convert described the same experience.

They had a dream or a vision of a man in white.

He spoke to them with overwhelming love.

He called them by name.

He told them he was the way to God.

And when they woke up, they knew somehow they just knew that the man was Jesus.

The descriptions were remarkably consistent.

The man’s face shone like the sun.

His robe was brilliant white.

His presence filled the room with light and love.

He spoke in Farsy, their own language.

And he said things like, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

Come to me.

I love you.

I will never leave you.

” I started keeping a file of these testimonies not for official purposes but for myself.

I told myself I was looking for patterns trying to understand the phenomenon so I could combat it more effectively.

But the truth was I was searching for something.

I was trying to understand how so many people could have the same experience, describe the same figure, use the same words when most of them had never read the Bible, had never met a Christian, had never been evangelized.

One night alone in my apartment, I did something I had never done before.

I opened my laptop and searched for information about Jesus.

Not the Islamic version of Isa, the prophet, but the Christian version, Jesus Christ, the son of God.

I found websites that had been blocked by the government, but I knew how to bypass the censorship.

I read the Gospels online, the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

And as I read, I felt something stirring inside me.

a hunger, a longing, a sense that I was reading about someone real, someone who was not just a historical figure, but someone who was alive, active, present.

I read about how Jesus healed the sick, raised the dead, forgave sinners, challenged religious leaders, loved outcasts.

I read about how he claimed to be the son of God.

How he said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

No one comes to the father except through me.

” I read about how he was crucified, how he died for the sins of the world, how he rose from the dead 3 days later.

And I read about how his followers, ordinary people, fishermen, tax collectors, women, were transformed by encountering him.

They went from fear to courage, from doubt to faith, from death to life.

I closed my laptop and sat in the darkness of my apartment, my mind racing.

If this was true, if Jesus really was who he claimed to be, then everything I believed was wrong.

Islam taught that Jesus was just a prophet, that he didn’t die on the cross, that he certainly didn’t rise from the dead.

But what if Islam was wrong? What if the testimonies I had been reading were true? What if Jesus really was appearing to people, calling them, loving them? I pushed the thoughts away.

I told myself I was being foolish, that I was letting my emotions cloud my judgment, that I needed to get back to my work and stop questioning.

But the questions wouldn’t leave.

They planted themselves in my mind and grew like weeds, choking out everything else.

Then in the fall of 2013, something happened that I couldn’t ignore.

One of my colleagues, a man named Beirus, stopped showing up to work.

He had been an intelligence officer for 8 years, a committed Muslim, a loyal servant of the regime.

We had worked together on dozens of cases.

He was one of the most effective interrogators in our division.

After a week of absence, our supervisor told us that Beerus had been arrested.

He had converted to Christianity.

He had been attending a house church in secret for 6 months and someone had reported him.

Now he was in the same prison where we had interrogated so many believers.

He was on the other side.

I couldn’t believe it.

Beerus knew the consequences.

He knew what happened to apostates.

He knew the torture, the imprisonment, the possible execution.

Why would he throw his life away? What could possibly be worth that? I requested permission to visit him in prison.

My supervisor approved, thinking I might be able to convince him to recant.

I went to Evan, walked through the same corridors I had walked a h 100 times and was taken to a cell where Beerus was being held.

When I saw him, I was shocked.

He had lost weight.

His face was bruised.

His hands were shaking, but his eyes his eyes had that same look I had seen in Sepeay.

Peace.

Unshakable, inexplicable peace.

I sat down across from him and asked him why.

Why did you do this? Why did you convert? Why did you throw everything away? He looked at me for a long moment and then he said, “Darish, I had a dream.

Jesus appeared to me.

He called my name.

He told me he loved me.

” And I knew I knew in that moment that everything we’ve been doing is wrong.

We’re not serving God.

We’re fighting him.

These people we’ve been arresting, they’ve found the truth.

And I couldn’t keep living a lie.

I asked him if he was going to recant.

He shook his head.

He said, “I would rather die than deny the one who saved me.

I left that prison cell feeling like the ground beneath me was crumbling.

” Beerus was not a weak man.

He was not easily deceived.

He was intelligent, disciplined, committed, and he had given up everything for Jesus.

What did he know that I didn’t? That night, I went home, locked the door of my apartment, and did something I had never done in my entire life.

I prayed an honest prayer.

Not the ritual prayers I had been reciting for 30 years.

Not the memorized Arabic phrases, but a real, desperate, honest prayer in my own language.

I said, “God, whoever you are, I need to know the truth.

I have followed Islam my whole life because I was born into it because my family taught me because everyone around me believes it.

But I don’t know if it’s true.

I don’t feel anything when I pray.

I don’t feel loved.

I don’t feel seen.

I feel empty.

If Islam is the truth, then help me believe it with my heart, not just my actions.

But if Jesus is real, if he is truly who these people say he is, then please show me.

I’m begging you.

I can’t keep living like this.

I sat there in the darkness waiting.

I didn’t know what I expected.

Maybe a voice from heaven.

Maybe a sign.

Maybe nothing.

The minutes passed slowly.

I heard nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the distant noise of traffic outside my window.

I started to feel foolish.

What was I doing? Praying to a God I wasn’t even sure existed.

Asking him to reveal a prophet that Islam said was not divine.

I was being ridiculous.

I stood up, went to my bedroom, and lay down on my bed.

I pulled the blanket over myself and closed my eyes.

Feeling more alone than I had ever felt in my life.

I whispered one last sentence before trying to sleep.

If you are real, please don’t leave me in this darkness.

Then I drifted off, exhausted from the emotional weight I had been carrying for months.

I didn’t know then that I was about to become the very thing I had been hunting for 12 years.

Right now, thousands of people across the Middle East are asking the same question I asked.

Is this real? Most will never get an answer because they’re too afraid to seek.

If you’ve made it this far, you’re not most people.

Don’t let fear stop you from hearing what happened next.

Because what I’m about to describe will either confirm your deepest doubts or shatter your strongest certainties.

And either way, you need to hear it.

Kak 3, the encounter 128.

Turus I don’t know what time it was when I woke up, but I woke suddenly, my eyes opening wide, my heart pounding in my chest.

The room felt different.

The air was thick, heavy, but not in a suffocating way.

It felt charged, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm, like the moment before lightning strikes.

I sat up in bed and looked around.

Everything looked normal.

my desk, my bookshelf, my closet, the window with the curtains drawn.

But something was different.

I could feel it.

There was a presence in the room.

Not a threatening presence, not something that made me afraid, but something massive, something so overwhelming that my body started trembling without my control.

I pulled my knees to my chest, my back against the headboard, and I whispered into the darkness, “Who is there?” No one answered with words, but the presence grew stronger.

It felt like the room could barely contain it, like the walls were too small, like the ceiling was too low.

And then I saw light.

It started as a faint glow in the corner of the room near the window.

At first, I thought maybe the curtains had moved and moonlight was coming through.

But the glow grew brighter and I realized it was not coming from outside.

It was coming from inside the room.

The light expanded, soft but brilliant, filling the space between my desk and the wall.

And then I saw him, a figure, a man.

He was standing there just a few feet away from my bed.

And he was made of light.

I don’t know how else to describe it.

His face was so bright I could not look directly at it like trying to stare at the sun.

His robe was white, glowing, moving slightly even though there was no wind.

And the love, the love radiating from him was so intense, so pure, so overwhelming that I started sobbing immediately.

I had never felt anything like it in my entire life.

It was not romantic love.

It was not the conditional love of family.

It was something far greater.

It was love that knew everything about me.

Every sin, every failure, every dark thought, every person I had hurt, every life I had destroyed and loved me anyway, completely perfectly without reservation.

I could not move.

I could not speak.

I just sat there on my bed, tears streaming down my face, staring at this figure of light.

And then he spoke.

The voice did not come from outside.

It came from inside me, inside my heart, inside my mind.

But it was not my own voice.

It was distinct, clear, powerful, and gentle all at the same time.

He said my name, Darius.

Just my name.

But the way he said it carried so much weight.

It was not just identification.

It was recognition.

It was as if he had known me forever.

As if he had been watching my entire life.

As if every moment of my loneliness and searching had been seen by him.

I tried to speak but my voice came out as a whisper.

Who are you? The presence seemed to move closer and though I still could not see his face clearly because of the brightness, I felt him right in front of me.

So close I could have reached out and touched him.

He spoke again.

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

I have loved you with an everlasting love.

Come to me.

Those words broke something inside me.

I fell forward off the bed onto my knees on the floor, my face in my hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

I knew who he was.

I didn’t need him to say the name.

I knew this was Jesus.

This was the man in white that thousands of Iranians had seen.

This was the one the regime feared.

This was the one I had been reading about in testimonies late at night.

This was the one I had been hunting, arresting, persecuting for 12 years.

And he was here in my bedroom in Thrron in the apartment of a man who had destroyed the lives of his followers.

He had come for me.

The weight of my entire life, all the years of emptiness, all the striving to be good enough, all the fear of never measuring up, all the guilt of what I had done to his people, it all came crashing down.

I felt like chains I didn’t even know I was wearing suddenly snapped and fell away.

The crushing weight on my chest that I had carried for as long as I could remember just lifted.

And in its place came peace.

Deep, unshakable, unexplainable peace.

I don’t know how long I knelt there on the floor.

Time felt suspended, like I had stepped out of the normal flow of minutes and hours into something eternal.

The presence did not leave.

He stayed with me.

I could feel him surrounding me like invisible arms holding me while I wept.

At some point, I found my voice again and I started speaking through the tears.

I said, “Forgive me.

Forgive me for everything.

For all the years I didn’t know you, for rejecting you.

For believing lies about you.

Forgive me for what I did to your people.

For the arrests, the interrogations, the torture.

Forgive me for Sepeay, for Beirus, for the hundreds of others whose lives I destroyed.

I don’t deserve this.

I don’t deserve your love, but I need it.

I need you.

Please don’t leave me.

” The voice spoke again, and this time, the words were even more powerful.

I will never leave you.

I will never forsake you.

You are mine.

I have called you out of darkness into my light.

You are forgiven.

You are clean.

You are my beloved son.

Hearing those words, beloved son, shattered me completely.

I had never been called beloved by anyone.

I had been called dutiful, loyal, zealous, but never beloved.

And here was God himself calling me his son, saying I was loved not for what I did, but simply because I was his.

I pressed my forehead to the floor and whispered the words that changed everything.

Jesus, I believe you.

I believe you are the son of God.

I believe you died for me.

I believe you rose again.

I give you my life.

All of it.

Everything I am, everything I have, I surrender to you.

Take me.

I am yours.

The moment those words left my mouth, something shifted in the spiritual realm.

I felt it physically.

It was like a flood of warmth washing over me, starting at the top of my head and flowing down through my entire body.

I felt clean.

I felt new.

I felt like every dirty, shameful, broken part of me had been washed away and replaced with something pure and whole.

The heaviness was gone.

The fear was gone.

The emptiness was completely filled.

And in its place was joy.

A joy so deep and real that I started laughing through my tears.

I had never experienced anything like this in 30 years of Islamic practice.

Not once, not even close.

I don’t know how long the encounter lasted.

It could have been minutes.

It could have been hours.

But eventually, the intensity of the presence began to ease.

The light started to fade.

Not disappearing completely, but settling into something quieter, gentler.

I lifted my head from the floor and looked around the room.

Everything looked normal again.

The figure was no longer visible, but I knew, I absolutely knew that I was not alone.

Jesus was still with me.

He had promised he would never leave, and I believed him.

I sat back on the floor, leaning against my bed, exhausted, but more alive than I had ever felt.

I whispered into the quiet room, “Thank you.

Thank you for finding me.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for saving me.

” I felt a warmth in my chest.

A gentle confirmation like a voice without words saying, “You are welcome, beloved.

” I stayed on the floor until the first light of dawn started creeping through the edges of my curtains.

I heard the call to fajger prayer echoing from the mosque nearby, the same sound that had woken me every morning of my life.

But this morning, I did not get up to perform woodoo and pray toward Mecca.

I stayed where I was, talking to Jesus in my own words, thanking him, asking him to help me understand what had just happened, asking him to show me what to do next.

I felt his presence, quiet but steady, like a hand on my shoulder.

I knew my life had just changed forever.

I knew I could not go back to who I was before this night.

I knew I belonged to Jesus now, and that belonging would cost me everything.

But I didn’t care.

I had found what I had been searching for my entire life.

I had found love.

I had found truth.

I had found him.

When the call to prayer ended and the city started to stir with the sounds of morning traffic, I finally stood and looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked the same on the outside.

Same face, same hair, same body.

But inside, everything was different.

I was not the same Darish who had gone to bed the night before.

that Darius was dead.

I had been born again, though I didn’t know that term yet.

I just knew I was new.

I whispered to my reflection in the mirror, “I am a follower of Jesus now.

” Saying it out loud made it real.

Terrifyingly real, but also beautifully real.

I had no idea what would happen next.

I had no idea how I would navigate this new faith in a country that executed people like me.

I had no idea how to learn about Jesus, how to pray properly, how to live as a Christian in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.

Jesus had called my name.

He had walked into my locked apartment in Tehran and revealed himself to me.

And nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever be the same again.

What I just described isn’t a metaphor.

It’s not symbolic.

It happened.

And it’s happening to thousands of others across the Middle East right now in this moment as you watch this.

But here’s the truth.

Most people won’t tell you.

This encounter is available to anyone who genuinely seeks.

Not just special people, not just religious people, anyone.

But you have to ask.

You have to be willing to say, “God, show me the truth, whatever it costs.

” Most people will hear this and do nothing.

Will you be different? Act four, the double life.

18 Weimar 254.

When the sun rose that Friday morning, I was faced with an impossible reality.

I was a follower of Jesus Christ.

But I was also an intelligence officer in the Islamic Republic of Iran whose job was to arrest people exactly like me.

I couldn’t quit my job without raising suspicion.

I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened without putting myself in immediate danger.

I was trapped in a position that seemed to have no way out.

I went to work that day in a days.

I sat at my desk, stared at my computer screen, and tried to process what had happened.

My colleagues talked around me, discussing cases, planning raids, making jokes.

Everything seemed normal to them.

But I felt like I was living in a different world, like I could see things they couldn’t see, like I had been given new eyes.

I looked at the files on my desk, files of Christians we were monitoring, and for the first time, I didn’t see enemies of the state.

I saw brothers and sisters.

I saw people who had encountered the same Jesus I had encountered.

I saw people who were willing to lose everything for the truth.

and I realized with a sickening clarity that I had been on the wrong side all along.

That afternoon, I was assigned to participate in a raid on a house church in southern Thrron.

It was a routine operation.

We had received intelligence that a group of about 20 believers were meeting in a private home for worship.

My job was to go with the team, secure the location, confiscate any religious materials, and bring the leaders in for questioning.

As we drove to the location, I sat in the back of the van, my heart pounding, praying silently.

I didn’t know how to pray yet.

Not really, but I just talked to Jesus in my mind.

I said, “I don’t know what to do.

I can’t arrest these people.

They’re your people.

But if I don’t do my job, I’ll be exposed.

Please help me.

Show me what to do.

” We arrived at the house just after sunset.

The team moved quickly, surrounding the building, blocking the exits.

I followed them inside, my hand on my weapon, my mind racing.

The scene inside was not what I expected.

There were about 15 people in the living room sitting on the floor singing, not in Arabic, but in Farsy.

They were singing songs about Jesus, about his love, about his sacrifice.

Their faces were radiant, full of joy, completely unafraid.

Even though they knew what was happening, my colleagues shouted at them to stop, to put their hands up, to remain silent, the singing stopped.

The room went quiet.

And then one of the men, an older man with gray hair and kind eyes, stood up and said, “Welcome, brothers.

We’ve been expecting you.

” The team leader, a man named Hassan, laughed.

He said, “You’ve been expecting us? Good.

Then you know why we’re here.

You’re all under arrest for illegal religious activity.

The older man nodded.

He said, “We know, but before you take us, can I offer you tea? It’s a long night ahead.

” Hosin was furious.

He shouted at the man, told him to sit down to shut up.

But I just stood there staring at this group of believers, and I saw something that broke me.

I saw peace.

The same peace I had felt the night before when Jesus appeared to me.

They were not afraid.

They were not angry.

They were at peace.

We arrested them all.

We confiscated their Bibles, their phones, their notebooks.

We took them to the detention center and processed them.

And the entire time they were calm, even kind.

One of the women thanked me as I put her in the holding cell.

She said, “May God bless you, brother.

” I went home that night and wept.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

I couldn’t keep arresting people for following Jesus when I was now one of them.

But I didn’t know what to do.

If I quit, if I tried to leave, I would be investigated.

If I was investigated, they would discover my conversion.

And if they discovered my conversion, I would be arrested, tortured, possibly executed.

I prayed desperately that night.

I said, “Jesus, I need help.

I can’t do this alone.

I need to find other believers.

I need to learn.

I need guidance.

Please send someone.

2 days later, I received an encrypted message on my phone.

It was from an unknown number.

The message said simply, “We know what happened to you.

We’ve been praying for you.

If you want to meet, reply with the word peace.

” I stared at the message for a long time.

This could be a trap.

It could be my colleagues testing me, trying to see if I had been compromised.

But something inside me, something I now recognize as the Holy Spirit, told me to trust.

I replied with one word, peace.

Within an hour, I received another message with an address and a time.

It was a location in the Ekbatan neighborhood, a large apartment complex in western Thran.

I was instructed to come alone, to tell no one, and to arrive at exactly 9:00 p.

m.

That night, I drove to the address, my heart pounding, my hands sweating.

I parked a few blocks away and walked to the building.

I found the apartment number and knocked three times as the message had instructed.

The door opened and I found myself face to face with the older man from the house church raid.

The one who had offered us tea.

The one I had arrested 2 days earlier.

I froze.

I didn’t understand.

He had been in detention.

How was he here? He smiled and said, “Come in, Darius.

You’re safe here.

” I stepped inside and he closed the door behind me.

The apartment was small, dimly lit, and there were about 10 other people sitting in the living room.

I recognized some of them from the raid.

They had all been released, apparently after paying bribes or signing statements.

The older man introduced himself.

His name was Omid, and he had been a pastor in the underground church for 15 years.

He said, “We know who you are, Darish.

We know what you’ve done.

We know you’ve arrested hundreds of believers, but we also know that Jesus appeared to you three nights ago, and we know that you’re one of us now.

” I was stunned.

How did they know? How could they possibly know? Omid smiled.

He said, “The Holy Spirit told us, we’ve been praying for you for months.

We knew you were searching, even if you didn’t know it yourself.

And when Jesus revealed himself to you, we felt it.

So, we reached out.

I sat down overwhelmed and I started to cry.

I told them everything.

I told them about the emptiness I had felt my whole life.

I told them about Sepay, about Beirus, about the testimonies I had been reading.

I told them about the prayer I prayed, about Jesus appearing, about the light, about the voice, about the love.

I told them I didn’t know what to do, that I was trapped in my job, that I couldn’t keep arresting believers, but I couldn’t quit without exposing myself.

Omid listened quietly and when I finished he said, “Darish, you’re in a unique position.

You have access to information that could save lives.

You know when raids are planned.

You know which churches are being monitored.

You know which believers are in danger.

God has placed you there for a reason.

Not to continue persecuting us, but to protect us.

” I looked at him confused.

He continued, “We’re not asking you to quit your job.

Not yet.

We’re asking you to use your position to help us.

Warn us when raids are coming.

Give us false information to pass to your superiors.

Sabotage operations from the inside.

You can save lives, Darius.

You can be a double agent, not for a government, but for the kingdom of God.

The idea was terrifying.

If I was caught, the consequences would be unimaginable.

But I knew he was right.

I knew that God had not saved me just to pull me out immediately.

He had saved me and left me in place for a purpose.

So I agreed.

I became a secret believer inside the Ministry of Intelligence.

And for the next 18 months, I lived the most difficult, most dangerous, most exhausting double life imaginable.

During the day, I went to work, attended briefings, reviewed files, planned operations.

But at night, I would send encrypted messages to Omid and other church leaders, warning them of upcoming raids, giving them time to relocate, to hide materials, to protect themselves.

I would submit false reports claiming that certain churches had disbanded when they were actually still active.

I would delay investigations, lose files, create bureaucratic obstacles that slowed down operations.

I attended the underground church meetings every week.

Omid taught me from the Bible, explaining the gospels, the letters of Paul, the book of Acts.

I learned about grace, about salvation by faith, about the finished work of Christ on the cross.

I learned that I didn’t have to earn God’s love, that it was freely given, that Jesus had paid the price for my sins once and for all.

I learned to pray, not ritual prayers, but real conversations with God.

I learned to worship, to sing, to fellowship with other believers.

And I learned what it meant to be part of the body of Christ, to be loved and supported by brothers and sisters who would risk their lives for each other.

But the tension was unbearable.

Every day I lived in fear of being discovered.

Every conversation with my colleagues felt like walking through a minefield.

Every interrogation I participated in felt like a betrayal of my new family.

I was constantly exhausted, constantly on edge, constantly praying for strength to make it through one more day.

And then one night, everything started to unravel.

I was at a house church meeting in the Sada district.

There were about 20 of us gathered in a small apartment singing, praying, studying the Bible.

Omid was teaching from the book of Romans, explaining the concept of justification by faith.

I was sitting in the back taking notes when my phone vibrated.

It was a message from one of my colleagues.

Emergency briefing.

Report to headquarters immediately.

My blood ran cold.

I stood up, whispered to Omid that I had to leave, and rushed out of the apartment.

I drove to the ministry building, my mind racing, praying that this was just a routine emergency, nothing to do with me.

When I arrived, I was taken to a conference room where my entire team was gathered.

The division chief was there along with several senior officers I didn’t recognize.

The atmosphere was tense.

The chief began the briefing.

He said that there had been a security breach.

Someone inside the ministry had been leaking information to Christian networks.

raids had been compromised, operations had failed, and they had evidence that the leak was coming from our division.

He said that everyone in the room was now under investigation.

Our communications would be monitored, our movements would be tracked, our loyalty would be tested.

I sat there trying to keep my face neutral, trying to control my breathing, trying not to show the panic that was rising inside me.

I knew it was only a matter of time before they traced the leaks back to me.

I knew my encrypted messages, my false reports, my sabotage, it would all be discovered.

I went home that night knowing that my time was running out.

I sent a message to Omid telling him what had happened, telling him that I was compromised, that I needed to disappear.

He replied immediately.

We’re already making arrangements.

Stay calm.

Trust God.

We’ll get you out.

For the next 3 days, I went to work as usual, trying to act normal, trying not to raise suspicion, but I could feel the walls closing in.

My colleagues were watching me more closely.

My computer access was restricted.

I was being followed.

On the fourth day, I was called into an interrogation room.

Not as the interrogator, but as the subject.

Two senior officers sat across from me.

They asked me about my activities, my communications, my recent cases.

They asked me if I had any contact with Christian networks.

They asked me if I had ever questioned my faith in Islam.

I denied everything.

I said I was loyal, that I had served the republic faithfully for 12 years, that I would never betray my country or my faith.

They didn’t believe me.

They said they had evidence.

They said they were giving me one chance to confess, to cooperate, to give them names.

If I confessed, they would be lenient.

If I refused, they would use other methods.

I looked at them, these men I had worked with for years, and I made a decision.

I said, “I have nothing to confess.

I am innocent.

” They stood up.

One of them said, “Then we’ll continue this conversation tomorrow, and tomorrow you won’t have a choice.

” I was released, but I knew what tomorrow meant.

Tomorrow meant torture.

Tomorrow meant they would break me.

And I would give them everything.

I would give them Omid’s name, the locations of house churches, the names of believers.

I would destroy the very people I had been trying to protect.

I had one night.

One night to escape or one night to prepare to die.

I went home, locked the door, and fell to my knees.

I prayed, “Jesus, I don’t know what to do.

I’m trapped.

If I stay, they’ll torture me and I’ll betray your people.

If I run, they’ll hunt me down.

I need a miracle.

Please send help.

And then at midnight, there was a knock on my door.

The crisis 31.

I froze when I heard the knock.

It was past curfew.

No one should be at my door at this hour.

My first thought was that they had come to arrest me, that they weren’t going to wait until morning, that this was it.

I walked slowly to the door, my heart pounding, and looked through the peepphole.

Standing in the hallway was a man I recognized.

His name was Ramine, and he was a senior officer in my division, one of the most feared interrogators in the entire ministry.

He had been present at the briefing 3 days earlier.

He was part of the investigation.

I considered not opening the door, but I knew that would only make things worse.

If he was here to arrest me, running would accomplish nothing.

So, I opened the door.

Ramen looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

He said quietly, “Can I come in?” I stepped aside and he entered my apartment.

I closed the door behind him, my mind racing through possibilities.

Was he here to interrogate me informally? Was he wearing a wire? Was this a trap? He walked into my living room, looked around to make sure we were alone, and then turned to face me.

He said, “Darish, I know what you are.

” My blood turned to ice.

I said nothing, just stared at him waiting.

He continued, “I know you’re a believer.

I know you’ve been leaking information to the churches.

I know you’ve been sabotaging operations, and I know that tomorrow they’re going to break you.

” I still said nothing.

I didn’t know if this was a confession or an accusation.

And then Raine did something that shocked me to my core.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small cross on a chain, and held it up.

He said, “I’m a believer too, Darius.

I have been for 5 years.

” I stared at him, unable to process what I was hearing.

Raine, one of the most brutal interrogators in the ministry, a follower of Jesus.

He saw the disbelief on my face and nodded.

He said, “I know.

I’ve done terrible things.

I’ve tortured believers.

I’ve sent people to their deaths.

” But 3 years ago, Jesus appeared to me in a dream just like he appeared to you.

And he told me the same thing he told you.

I love you.

Come to me.

I gave my life to him that night.

And I’ve been living a double life ever since, trying to undo some of the damage I’ve caused.

I sat down, my legs weak, my mind reeling.

There were two of us, two secret believers inside the Ministry of Intelligence, and I had never known.

Ramen sat down across from me, he said.

I’ve been watching you for months.

I saw the change in you after that night.

I saw the way you started looking at the files, the way you hesitated during operations.

I knew Jesus had reached you and I’ve been praying for you, asking God to protect you, to give you wisdom, but now you’re out of time.

They know, Darish.

They don’t have proof yet, but they will by tomorrow.

You have to leave Iran tonight.

I asked him how.

How could I possibly escape? My passport was flagged.

I was being watched.

The borders were sealed.

Ramen said, “I’ve arranged everything.

There’s a network, a group of believers who help people like us escape.

They’ve gotten dozens of converts out of the country.

I’ve been working with them for years, helping from the inside.

Tonight, they’re going to get you out.

He handed me a small bag.

Inside was a fake passport, cash, a phone, and a set of clothes.

He said, “In 2 hours, a car will pick you up three blocks from here.

They’ll take you to the border with Turkey.

You’ll cross on foot through the mountains.

It’s dangerous, but it’s your only chance.

On the other side, there will be people waiting to take you to a safe house.

From there, you can apply for asylum in Europe.

I looked at the bag, then back at Raine.

I said, “What about you? If they find out you helped me, they’ll kill you.

” He smiled, a sad, peaceful smile.

He said, “I know, but this is what I’m here for, Darius.

God left me in this position to save lives.

If saving yours cost me mine, then it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

Jesus gave his life for me.

The least I can do is give mine for one of his.

I started to cry.

I said, “I can’t let you do this.

” Ramen stood up and put his hand on my shoulder.

He said, “You don’t have a choice.

This is God’s plan, not ours.

He saved you for a reason, Darius.

You’re going to get out of Iran and you’re going to tell your story.

You’re going to tell the world what Jesus is doing here.

How he’s appearing to Muslims, how he’s building a church that no government can destroy.

Your testimony is going to reach millions.

That’s why you have to survive.

He walked to the door, then turned back one more time.

He said, “When you get out, when you’re safe, tell them about me.

Tell them that Ramen Husseini, interrogator for the Islamic Republic, gave his life to save a brother.

Tell them that Jesus can save anyone, even the worst of us.

tell them that his love is stronger than death.

And then he left.

I sat there for a long time holding the bag, crying, praying, trying to process what had just happened.

Ramen had just signed his own death warrant to save me.

And I knew I couldn’t waste his sacrifice.

I changed into the clothes he had given me.

Simple, non-escript, the kind of outfit a laborer would wear.

I packed nothing else.

No photos, no momentos, nothing that would slow me down or identify me.

I took one last look around my apartment, the place I had lived for 8 years, and I whispered, “Thank you, Jesus, for everything that happened here.

Thank you for calling me.

Now lead me out.

” At exactly 2:00 a.

m.

, I left my apartment, walked three blocks through the dark streets of Tehran, and found a small white car waiting at the corner.

The driver was a woman, middle-aged, wearing a simple hijab.

She said nothing, just nodded when she saw me, and I got in the back seat.

We drove for hours, heading northwest toward the Turkish border.

We stayed off the main highways, taking back roads through small villages, avoiding checkpoints.

The woman drove with calm confidence like she had done this a hundred times before.

And maybe she had.

As the sun began to rise, we reached the mountains near the border.

The woman pulled off the road into a small clearing hidden by trees.

She turned to me and said, “From here, you walk.

Follow the trail up the mountain.

It will take about 6 hours.

On the other side, there’s a village called Yukova.

Go to the mosque in the center of town.

There will be a man waiting there named MT.

He’ll take you to the safe house.

” I thanked her, got out of the car, and started walking.

The trail was steep, rocky, barely visible in places.

I had never hiked in my life.

And within an hour, my legs were burning.

My lungs were screaming.

My feet were blistered.

But I kept going.

I prayed with every step.

I said, “Jesus, give me strength.

Just one more step.

Just one more.

” The sun climbed higher and the heat became oppressive.

I ran out of water halfway up the mountain.

I stumbled, fell, got back up, kept walking.

I thought about Ramine, about what he was facing back in Thran.

I thought about Omid in the house church, about Sepay and Beerus, about all the believers still in Iran still risking everything for Jesus.

And I knew I couldn’t give up.

I had to make it.

I had to tell their story.

After what felt like an eternity, I reached the top of the mountain and saw the border marker, a simple stone with faded paint.

I had crossed from Iran into Turkey.

I was out.

I collapsed on the ground, weeping, thanking God, unable to believe I had actually made it.

I lay there for a long time, too exhausted to move, just breathing, just being grateful to be alive.

Eventually, I forced myself to stand and started the descent down the other side of the mountain.

It took another 3 hours, but finally I saw the village in the distance.

I stumbled into Yukova, found the mosque, and saw a man standing outside watching the road.

When he saw me, he smiled and said in Farsy, “Dario.

” I nodded, too tired to speak.

He said, “Welcome, brother.

You’re safe now.

” He took me to a small house on the edge of the village.

Gave me food, water, a place to sleep.

I slept for 16 hours straight.

The deepest, most peaceful sleep I had ever experienced.

When I woke up, Memed told me that arrangements had been made.

I would stay in Turkey for 2 weeks while my asylum application was processed and then I would be relocated to Germany where there was a large community of Iranian Christians who helped refugees resettle.

I asked him about Ramen.

Had he heard anything? Me’s face grew somber.

He said, “We received word this morning.

Ramen was arrested yesterday.

They discovered he helped you escape.

He’s in Evan prison now.

” I felt like I had been punched in the stomach.

I said, “Is there anything we can do? Can we get him out?” Memed shook his head.

He said, “We’re trying, but it’s unlikely.

” He knew the risks, Darius.

He made his choice and he made it for you.

I wept for Raine that day for his courage, for his sacrifice, for his love.

And I made a vow.

I vowed that I would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

I would tell his story.

I would tell the world what Jesus was doing in Iran.

I would be a voice for the voiceless, a witness to the truth, a testimony to the power of God.

Two weeks later, I boarded a plane to Germany.

As the plane took off, I looked out the window at Turkey disappearing below me and beyond it, Iran, the country I would never see again.

I thought about my family, who by now had been informed of my apostasy and had disowned me.

I thought about my colleagues who were probably hunting for me.

I thought about the life I had left behind, the career, the identity, the future I had planned.

But I also thought about Jesus, about the night he appeared to me, about the love that had transformed me, about the peace that now filled me.

And I knew that I had gained far more than I had lost.

I whispered into the window, “Thank you for saving me.

Thank you for bringing me out.

Now use me.

Use my story.

Let it reach the people who need to hear it.

” And he did.

I lost everything for this truth.

my career, my family, my country, my friend Raine, who gave his life so I could escape.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy.

I’m sharing it so you understand the weight of what you’re hearing.

This isn’t entertainment.

This is real.

People are dying for this faith.

People are sacrificing everything because they’ve encountered something so powerful, so true, so beautiful that nothing else matters.

If this testimony has moved you, honor it.

Subscribe to this channel.

Share this video.

Let it reach someone else who needs to hear it.

Don’t let these sacrifices be forgotten.

AC ET6 the testimony 31 s 35 O.

I arrived in Germany in the fall of 2015.

I was taken to a refugee center in a small city in the western part of the country where I was given a small apartment, language classes, and support from a local church.

For the first time in my life, I could worship Jesus openly.

I could attend a church without fear.

I could own a Bible without hiding it.

I could say the name of Jesus out loud in public.

The freedom was almost overwhelming.

I would walk down the street and see churches with crosses on top and I would weep.

I would sit in a Sunday service and hear people singing worship songs without whispering, without looking over their shoulders, and I would be overcome with gratitude.

I joined a Persian language church made up entirely of Iranian refugees, former Muslims who had converted to Christianity and fled persecution.

Every single person in that church had a story like mine.

dreams, visions, supernatural encounters with Jesus, families lost, countries left behind, lives rebuilt from nothing.

We were a community of exiles, but we were also a community of hope.

I began to heal.

I began to learn what it meant to live as a Christian in freedom, without fear, without hiding.

I studied the Bible intensively, attended disciplehip classes, and grew in my understanding of the faith.

And slowly I began to feel a calling, a sense that God had not brought me out of Iran, just to live quietly in safety.

He had brought me out to speak.

6 months after arriving in Germany, I was contacted by a ministry that recorded video testimonies of Iranian Christians.

They asked if I would be willing to share my story.

I hesitated at first.

Going public would mean my family would definitely see it.

It would mean I could never return to Iran, even if the government changed.

It would mean putting a target on my back for the rest of my life.

But I prayed about it and I felt God saying clearly, “I did not save you just for yourself.

I saved you to be a voice, to be a witness, to show Iranians that I am real, that I am moving, that no wall is high enough to keep me out.

” So I agreed.

I sat in front of a camera in a small studio and I told my story.

I told them who I was, what I had done, how Jesus had appeared to me, how I had become a double agent for the kingdom, how Raine had sacrificed himself to save me.

And I ended with a declaration that I knew would go viral.

I said, “Jesus Christ is appearing in Iran right now to hundreds of thousands of people.

I am one of them.

He is calling Muslims by name.

He is offering love, forgiveness, and freedom.

and no government, no regime, no religious authority can stop him.

If you are watching this and you are searching, I want you to know that he is searching for you too.

He found me in the darkest place in the heart of the regime that opposes him.

And if he can find me, he can find you.

The video was uploaded to YouTube and within 48 hours it had been viewed over 1 million times.

Iranian state media picked it up condemning me as a traitor, a tool of Western propaganda, an agent of Zionism.

The Ministry of Intelligence issued a statement saying I was a criminal, a liar, and that I would be arrested if I ever set foot in Iran again.

But the video kept spreading.

It was shared on social media, on messaging apps, in underground networks across Iran.

And the messages started pouring in, thousands of them.

Some were hateful, cursing me, threatening me, calling me an apistate.

But many, so many were from people saying, “I had the same dream.

I saw the man in white, too.

I thought I was the only one.

Thank you for speaking.

Now I know I’m not crazy.

Now I know he is real.

” Some messages were from secret believers still inside Iran, thanking me for giving them courage, for showing them they were not alone.

Some were from seekers, people who had been questioning Islam, who had felt the same emptiness I had felt, asking how they could know Jesus.

I answered as many as I could.

I connected people with underground churches.

I prayed with strangers over video calls.

I watched as God used my story to reach others, to plant seeds, to water seeds that had already been planted.

And then 3 months after the video was posted, I received a message that broke me completely.

It was from an encrypted account sent through a secure app.

The message said simply, “Brother Darish, this is Omid.

I wanted you to know that Ramen is still alive.

He is in Evan prison and he has not recanted.

They have tortured him, but he will not deny Jesus.

” He asked me to send you a message.

He said to tell you it was worth it.

He said to tell you to keep speaking, to keep telling the story because every person who hears it and comes to Jesus makes his suffering worth it.

He said he is not afraid because he knows where he is going.

And he said to tell you that he loves you and he will see you again either in this life or the next.

I sat in my apartment in Germany holding my phone reading that message over and over, weeping uncontrollably.

Ramen was still alive.

He was suffering but he was faithful.

He had not broken and he wanted me to keep going.

So I did.

I continued to share my testimony.

I spoke at churches, at conferences, at refugee centers.

I recorded more videos, gave more interviews, wrote articles.

And every time I spoke, I told Ramine’s story.

I told the world that Ram Husini, interrogator for the Islamic Republic of Iran, had given everything to save a brother.

I told them that Jesus can save anyone, even the worst of us.

I told them that his love is stronger than death.

The movement continued to grow.

According to organizations like Open Doors that track Christian persecution worldwide, Iran now has one of the fastest growing churches on the planet.

Estimates suggest there are between 800,000 and over 1 million Iranian Christians.

Most of them former Muslims.

Most of them meeting in secret.

most of them willing to risk everything for Jesus.

The growth started small after the 1979 revolution when the Islamic Republic expelled foreign missionaries and shut down churches.

At that time, there were only a few thousand Iranian Christians.

The government thought Christianity would disappear within a generation.

But the opposite happened.

When human voices were silenced, God began speaking directly through dreams and visions.

Researchers like David Garrison, who interviewed over a thousand ex-Muslims who had converted to Christianity across the Islamic world, found that the most common catalyst for conversion was a dream or vision of Jesus.

Pastors like Hormos Shariat, a former Muslim from Iran, who now leads a ministry to Iranians, have publicly stated that they have almost never met an Iranian believer whose conversion story did not include a supernatural encounter with Jesus.

This is not propaganda.

This is not exaggeration.

This is the move of God in a nation that tried to erase his name.

And it is happening right now in this moment as you watch this video.

I now work with a ministry that helps Iranian refugees resettle in Europe.

I counsel new believers, teach the Bible, and continue to share my testimony whenever I am asked.

I am pursuing theological education so I can serve the Iranian church more effectively.

And I continue to pray for Iran, for my family, for Ramine, for the thousands of believers still living in secret, still risking everything, still holding on to Jesus despite the cost.

I pray that one day Iran will be free, that the regime will fall, that the church will come out of hiding and worship openly, that the man in white who is appearing in bedrooms across my country will be proclaimed from the rooftops.

I don’t know if I will live to see that day, but I know it is coming because Jesus promised that the gates of hell will not prevail against his church.

And I have seen with my own eyes that he keeps his promises.

If you are watching this and you are Iranian, if you are Muslim, if you are searching, I want you to know something.

Jesus sees you.

He knows your name.

He knows the cage you are in, the emptiness you feel, the questions you are afraid to ask.

And he is reaching for you.

Not with condemnation, not with anger, but with love.

A love so powerful it crossed from heaven to earth.

A love so deep it died on a cross for your sins.

A love so unstoppable it rose from the grave and is now pursuing you wherever you are.

I want to invite you to do what I did that night in my apartment in Tehran.

Pray.

Not a ritual prayer.

Just talk to God honestly.

Say, “God, if you are real, show me the truth.

If Jesus is who he says he is, reveal yourself to me.

I am searching.

I am open.

I want to know.

” And then wait.

See what happens.

Because I promise you, he will answer.

He answered me.

He is answering thousands of Iranians.

And he will answer you.

Your light cannot be chained.

That is what I want you to write in the comments.

If this testimony has touched you, if it has stirred something in your soul, if you are willing to seek the truth no matter the cost, write in the comments, “Your light cannot be chained.

” Let it be a declaration of faith.

Let it be a prayer for Iran.

Let it be a reminder that no regime, no wall, no persecution can stop the unstoppable love of Jesus Christ.

He is moving.

He is calling and he will not stop until every person he died for hears his voice and has the chance to respond.

Subscribe to this channel so you don’t miss more testimonies like this.

Share this video with someone who needs to hear it.

And most importantly, respond to the call.

Jesus is searching for you.

Don’t let this moment pass.

May God bless you.

May Jesus reveal himself to you.

And may the Holy Spirit give you courage to follow him no matter the cost.

Because I promise you, he is worth it.