People of Iran, I am here to tell you that Jesus is coming to save us from the regime.

Before I give you details on how I found myself speaking about Jesus in the open air, just imagine being the wife of one of Iran’s most powerful men living in a guarded mansion in Thran with everything money can buy.

Then imagine being struck by a disease so rare that doctors around the world give up on you.

Your own husband calls you unclean and hides you away.

Your children stop visiting.

You’re left to die, abandoned and forgotten.

But then at 3:00 in the morning, a man dressed in brilliant white light walks into your locked room and calls your name.

In that moment, everything changes.

My name is Zara Amadi.

My husband served in the office of Iran’s Supreme Leader.

I was dying from an incurable disease and Jesus Christ healed me with a single touch.

Today, the Iranian government has declared me a traitor.

My family has disowned me.

But my testimony has gone viral across Iran, reaching millions.

Because what I’m about to tell you is happening right now in secret all across the Islamic Republic.

Jesus is appearing to Iranians in their dreams.

He’s calling them by name and the regime is terrified because they cannot stop him.

This is my story and it might change your life forever.

I am 42 years old and I was born in Thran, Iran on a warm spring morning in April 1982.

My husband Raza Amadi serves as the senior strategic adviser to the office of the Supreme Leader in Kum.

For 18 years, he has worked in the inner circles of power, shaping policy, advising on national security matters, and maintaining relationships with the most influential figures in the Islamic Republic.

Our marriage was arranged when I was 19, a union between two prominent families with deep roots in the revolution.

My father was a respected cleric who taught at the seminary in calm.

Raza’s father held a senior position in the revolutionary guard.

Our marriage was not about love.

It was about legacy, influence, and the preservation of power.

We have three children.

Our eldest son, Muhammad, is 21 and studies political science at the University of Tehran, preparing to follow his father into government service.

Our daughter, Fatima, is 18 and attends Alzara University, studying Islamic juristprudence.

Our youngest, Hassan, is 15 and is being groomed for admission into the Revolutionary Guard Officer Program.

They are good children, obedient and devout, raised to understand that our family name carries weight and responsibility.

From the time they could speak, they were taught that loyalty to the regime is loyalty to God and that our family’s position is both a blessing and a duty to protect.

Our home sits in the Farmanier district of northern Thyron in the foothills of the Albor’s mountains.

It is one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city where government officials, wealthy merchants, and influential clerics live behind high walls and iron gates.

Our compound covers nearly 3 acres surrounded by concrete walls topped with security cameras that record every angle, every movement, every visitor.

Two guards stand at the main gate 24 hours a day, checking identification, logging every entry and exit.

Inside the compound, the main house is a massive structure of white stone and dark wood with marble floors imported from Italy, crystal chandeliers from France, and Persian carpets worth more than most Iranian families earn in 5 years.

We have a formal dining room that seats 20, a library filled with religious texts and political treatises, and a private prayer room where I have spent countless hours on my knees reciting verses from the Quran.

The garden is immaculate, designed by a landscape architect brought in from Europe.

Rose bushes line the pathways, their blooms deep red and perfectly trimmed.

Pomegranate trees provide shade near the central fountain which runs constantly.

The sound of water, a gentle background to our carefully controlled lives.

There is a separate guest house on the property where we host dignitaries, foreign delegations, and high-ranking officials who come for private dinners and strategic conversations.

My role in these gatherings is specific and unchanging.

I greet the wives, serve tea with perfect grace, smile warmly but say little of substance, and ensure that everything runs smoothly in the background while the men discuss the future of the nation.

My life as the wife of Raza Amadi has been one of absolute privilege and equally absolute performance.

I have never worried about money, never struggled to put food on the table, never feared for basic safety.

But I have also never lived freely.

Every word I speak in public is calculated.

Every outfit I wear is chosen with awareness that I represent not just myself or even my husband but the entire ideological foundation of the Islamic Republic.

I attend women’s religious gatherings at the mosque twice a week where I sit among other wives of officials and listen to lectures on modesty, obedience, and the proper role of women in an Islamic society.

I host charity events at our home, raising funds for orphanages and religious schools, always careful to be photographed in perfect hijab, always smiling the right amount, always saying the right things.

I have traveled with Raza to official state functions, to ceremonies marking the anniversary of the revolution, to memorial services for martyrs.

I have stood beside him at public events where thousands gathered, knowing that security agents were watching the crowd, that cameras were recording everything, that our presence was both a symbol and a statement.

I have learned to read my husband’s moods by the slightest shift in his posture, to know when to speak and when silence is required, to manage our household with flawless efficiency so that he never has to think about domestic concerns.

I wake before dawn every day to perform the fajger prayer.

Washing my hands and face and feet in the ritual of woodoo, then spreading my prayer rug facing Mecca and reciting the verses I have known since childhood.

My daily routine has not changed in nearly two decades.

After fajer prayer, I prepare breakfast for the family, though we have kitchen staff who do most of the cooking.

I supervise the housekeepers, ensure the children are ready for school or university, and plan the day’s meals and activities.

I attend Quran study sessions with other women from our social circle.

Always held in private homes, always carefully monitored to ensure nothing inappropriate is discussed.

I fast during Ramadan without fail, give zakat faithfully, and participate in every religious obligation expected of a woman in my position.

I have memorized large portions of the Quran, can recite the proper prayers for every occasion, and have taught my daughter to do the same.

On the surface, I am the perfect Muslim wife, the model of piety and devotion, living proof that women can thrive within the structure of Islamic law.

But beneath the surface, I have always felt a strange emptiness.

It is not something I spoke about, not even to myself, for many years.

It was simply there, a hollow space in my chest that no amount of prayer seemed to fill.

I would finish my fifth prayer of the day, roll up my prayer rug, and feel nothing.

No peace, no connection, no sense that anyone was listening.

I performed every ritual correctly, followed every rule, obeyed every command, and yet I felt like I was going through motions in a play where I had memorized all the lines, but forgotten why I was on stage.

I told myself this was normal, that faith was not about feelings, but about submission, that my discomfort was a sign of spiritual weakness, that more discipline would cure.

So I prayed more, fasted more, gave more charity, attended more lectures, and the emptiness only grew.

Then in the winter of 2022, everything changed.

I began experiencing strange symptoms that I initially dismissed as stress or age.

My joints achd in the mornings, a deep, throbbing pain that made it difficult to get out of bed.

My skin became sensitive, burning at the slightest touch.

I felt exhausted all the time, even after a full night’s sleep.

I thought perhaps I was working too hard, managing too many responsibilities, carrying too much weight.

I tried to rest more, adjusted my diet, took vitamins recommended by friends.

But the symptoms did not improve.

They worsened.

Within 2 months, I could barely walk without assistance.

My hands trembled when I tried to hold a teacup.

My skin developed strange lesions, red patches that spread across my arms and neck, painful and unsightly.

Raza noticed, of course.

He said nothing at first, but I saw the way his eyes lingered on the marks on my skin.

The way he stopped reaching for my hand when we walked together, the way he began sleeping in a separate room, claiming he did not want to disturb my rest.

I told myself he was being considerate, giving me space to recover.

But I knew the truth.

I was becoming something he found difficult to look at.

I made an appointment with our family doctor, a man who had treated us for years and understood the need for discretion.

He examined me, ran blood tests, took samples of the affected skin, and referred me to a specialist at Tan University Hospital.

The specialist, a serious woman in her 50s with tired eyes, ran more tests, consulted with colleagues, and finally sat me down in her office 3 weeks later.

She told me I had a condition so rare that fewer than 300 cases had been documented worldwide.

The disease had a long medical name I could barely pronounce.

But the simple version was this.

My immune system was attacking my own body, destroying tissue, breaking down the connections between muscles and nerves, causing my skin to deteriorate and my organs to slowly fail.

There was no cure.

There were treatments that might slow the progression, experimental therapies being tested in other countries, but nothing that could stop it.

She said I needed to see specialists outside of Iran, that the level of care I required was not available here.

She was kind but direct.

Without aggressive intervention, I had perhaps 2 years to live.

I sat in that office staring at the medical reports I could not fully understand, and felt the ground disappear beneath me.

I had spent my entire life following the rules, doing everything right, honoring God and family and country, and now my own body was destroying itself.

I thought of my children, my husband, the life I had built.

So carefully I thought of all the prayers I had prayed, all the verses I had recited, all the charity I had given, and I wondered why Allah would allow this to happen.

I did not cry in front of the doctor.

I thanked her calmly, gathered the files, and walked out of the hospital into the cold Theron afternoon, feeling more alone than I had ever felt in my entire life.

Raza did not waste time once he understood the seriousness of my condition.

Within a week of the diagnosis, he had contacted medical specialists across Europe and arranged consultations at some of the most prestigious hospitals in the world.

Money was no object.

Our family had access to resources that most Iranians could never dream of.

And Raza made it clear that every door would be opened, every expert consulted, every treatment attempted.

I think part of him believed that wealth and connections could solve anything, even a disease that had baffled doctors for decades.

But I also sensed something else in his urgency.

He wanted me treated quickly and quietly, away from Tyrron, away from the eyes of colleagues and rivals who might see my illness as a weakness in our family, a crack in the carefully maintained image of strength and control.

In March of 2023, I boarded a plane to Berlin, Germany, accompanied by a private nurse Raza had hired.

My children came to the airport to see me off.

Muhammad shook my hand formally and told me to get well soon.

Fatima kissed my cheek, but barely met my eyes.

Hassan stood silently beside his father, looking uncomfortable and eager to leave.

Raza did not embrace me.

He simply nodded and said he would join me in 2 weeks once I was settled and initial assessments were complete.

I watched them walk away through the terminal, a perfect family portrait, and I felt the first sharp edge of abandonment, though I did not yet have words for it.

The flight was long and painful.

Every movement hurt.

The skin lesions on my arms had spread to my chest and back, burning constantly.

I could not sleep.

I sat in the first class seat, staring out the window at the darkness, wondering if I would ever see Iran again.

The Sharite Hospital in Berlin is one of the oldest and most respected medical institutions in Europe.

I was admitted into a private wing where everything was clean, efficient, and cold.

The doctors were polite but distant, speaking to me through translators, examining my body with clinical detachment.

They ran tests I had never heard of.

Scans that required me to lie motionless in loud machines for hours.

Blood draws that left my arms bruised and aching.

They took samples of my skin, my muscle tissue, even my bone marrow.

Every procedure was painful.

Every day brought new indignities.

I had to be helped to the bathroom.

I could not dress myself.

The nurse assigned to me, a young German woman named Claraara, was kind but spoke no Farsy, and my English was limited.

We communicated mostly through gestures and simple words.

I felt like a child, helpless and dependent, trapped in a body that no longer obeyed me.

After 3 weeks of testing, the lead specialist, Dr.

Schneider, sat down with me in a consultation room.

He had a translator present, a middle-aged Iranian woman living in Berlin.

Dr.

Schneider explained that they had confirmed the diagnosis from Thrron.

The disease was progressing faster than expected.

He recommended an experimental treatment.

Being developed at the hospital, a combination of immunosuppressive drugs and targeted therapy designed to stop my immune system from attacking my own tissues.

The treatment was aggressive with serious side effects and there was no guarantee it would work, but it was the best option available.

I agreed immediately.

What choice did I have? The treatment began the next day.

They pumped chemicals into my veins that made me violently ill.

I vomited until there was nothing left in my stomach, then continued to wretch until my ribs achd.

My hair began to fall out in clumps.

The skin lesions did not improve.

If anything, they spread further, creeping up my neck toward my face.

Raza visited twice during my two months in Berlin.

Each visit lasted less than 3 days.

He stayed in a hotel near the hospital, not in my room.

He would come during visiting hours, sit in the chair by the window, and ask the doctors for updates.

He barely looked at me.

When he did, I saw something in his eyes that made my chest tighten.

disgust.

He tried to hide it, but I knew my husband well enough to read what he would not say.

I had become unclean to him, a source of shame, something broken that reflected poorly on his status.

On his second visit, he told me that people in Thrron were asking about me, wondering why I had not been seen at public events.

He had told them I was visiting family abroad, taking time for personal rest.

He made it clear that my condition needed to remain private.

The last thing he said before leaving Berlin was that he hoped the treatment would work quickly because prolonged absence raised questions he did not want to answer.

When the treatment in Berlin failed to produce results after 8 weeks, Dr.

Schneider referred me to a specialist in Zurich, Switzerland.

I was transferred by medical transport, still weak, still in pain, still deteriorating.

The clinic in Zurich was smaller, more exclusive, specializing in rare autoimmune disorders.

The doctors there tried a different approach, using plasma exchange therapy to filter my blood and remove the antibodies attacking my tissues.

The procedure was exhausting.

I would lie on a bed for hours while my blood was drawn out, filtered through a machine, and returned to my body.

I did this three times a week for 6 weeks.

The doctors were hopeful at first.

Some of my symptoms seemed to stabilize, but then the lesions spread to my face.

Small red patches appeared on my cheeks and forehead.

I looked at myself in the mirror one morning and barely recognized the woman staring back.

My hair was thin and patchy.

My skin was modeled and inflamed.

My eyes looked sunken and tired.

I was disappearing, becoming someone else, someone I did not know.

Raza did not visit me in Switzerland.

He called once a week, brief conversations where he asked if there was progress and reminded me to keep the situation confidential.

My children called even less frequently.

Muhammad sent text messages every few weeks, formal and distant.

Fatima stopped responding to my messages altogether.

Hassan never called at all.

I understood what was happening.

I was being erased from their lives slowly but deliberately.

My illness had become an inconvenience, a problem that did not fit into the narrative of our perfect family.

They were moving on without me, adjusting to my absence, preparing for a future where I was no longer part of the picture.

The loneliness was worse than the physical pain.

I would lie in my hospital bed at night, listening to the hum of machines, staring at the ceiling, and wonder if anyone in the world still cared whether I lived or died.

When the treatment in Zurich also failed, the doctors recommended I try the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota in the United States.

They had a research program specifically focused on rare autoimmune diseases and access to experimental drugs not yet approved in Europe.

Raza arranged the transfer without hesitation.

I think he was relieved to send me even further away across an ocean where the distance made it easier to forget I existed.

I arrived at the Mayo Clinic in July of 2023, 6 months after my diagnosis.

The facility was massive, a sprawling complex of buildings where thousands of patients from around the world came seeking answers.

I was assigned to a team of specialists who reviewed all my previous treatments and designed a new protocol.

They were optimistic, or at least they tried to sound that way.

They started me on a combination of biologic drugs and corticosteroids, medications that suppressed my immune system so completely that I had to be kept in isolation to avoid infections.

The side effects were brutal.

My face swelled from the steroids until I did not recognize myself.

My body achd constantly.

I developed infections that required additional antibiotics which caused new problems.

My kidneys began to show signs of stress.

My liver enzymes were elevated.

The doctors adjusted dosages, tried different combinations, brought in consultants from other departments.

I spent four months at the Mayo Clinic, moving between hospital rooms and outpatient facilities, undergoing procedure after procedure, test after test.

Raza never visited.

He sent money to cover expenses, and occasionally emailed to ask for updates.

My children sent a card on my birthday signed by all three of them with a generic message wishing me well.

I kept the card on my bedside table and looked at it every night searching for some sign of genuine affection in the carefully written words.

I found none.

When the Mayo Clinic treatments also failed to stop the progression, the doctors suggested I try John’s Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland.

They had a different research team working on similar conditions.

I agreed.

Though by this point I had stopped believing that any treatment would work.

I was simply going through motions, following instructions, allowing myself to be moved from place to place like cargo.

Ada John’s Hopkins.

They tried gene therapy, an experimental approach that involved modifying my own cells and reintroducing them to my body.

The treatment required weeks of preparation, harvesting cells, processing them in a lab, then infusing them back into my bloodstream.

I waited in a hospital room for 6 weeks while technicians worked in laboratories I never saw, preparing a treatment that might save my life or do nothing at all.

When the infusion finally happened, I felt nothing.

No sudden change, no miraculous improvement, just the same pain, the same exhaustion, the same slow unraveling.

After eight months in the United States, having tried every experimental treatment available, the doctors at John’s Hopkins sat me down for a final consultation.

The lead physician, Dr.

Patel, was a kind man with gray hair and sad eyes.

He told me that they had done everything medically possible.

the disease was too aggressive, too resistant to treatment.

My body was not responding to any of the therapies.

He recommended I return home, spend time with my family, and focus on quality of life rather than cure.

He said it gently, but the message was clear.

There was nothing more they could do.

I was going to die.

He estimated I had perhaps 6 months, maybe a year if I was fortunate.

I thanked him for his honesty, gathered the medical files I’d been carrying from country to country, and walked out of John’s Hopkins Hospital into the humid Baltimore afternoon, feeling like a ghost already.

I returned to Iran in late March of 2024, almost exactly 1 year after I had left.

The flight from Baltimore to Thran took nearly 20 hours with a layover in Istanbul, and every minute felt like torture.

My body had deteriorated so much that I needed a wheelchair at the airport.

A medical escort accompanied me the entire journey, helping me to the bathroom, adjusting my position in the seat when the pain became unbearable, administering medication that barely dulled the constant burning in my joints and skin.

When the plane finally descended toward Thyron, I looked out the window at the city spread below, the Albor’s mountains rising in the distance, and I felt absolutely nothing.

No relief at coming home, no comfort in familiar sights, just emptiness and the certain knowledge that I was returning to die.

Raza did not meet me at the airport.

He sent a driver, a man I did not recognize, who loaded me into the back of a black sedan without a word.

I asked where we were going, assuming he would take me to our home in Harmony.

Instead, he drove south, away from the wealthy neighborhoods toward an area I barely knew.

After 30 minutes, we pulled up to a small house on the outskirts of the city, a modest singlestory building with a small courtyard surrounded by a low wall.

The house was plain, clean, but unremarkable, nothing like the compound I had left.

The driver helped me out of the car, carried my single suitcase to the door, and left without explanation.

I stood there confused and frightened until the door opened and a middle-aged woman appeared.

She introduced herself as Miam said she had been hired to take care of me and help me inside.

The house had three rooms.

A small living area with a worn sofa and a low table.

A bedroom with a single bed and a wooden dresser and a bathroom barely large enough to turn around in.

There was a tiny kitchen attached to the living area, just a stove, a refrigerator, and a sink.

The walls were bare except for a single framed verse from the Quran hanging in the living room.

Everything was simple, functional, stripped of any luxury or comfort.

Miriam showed me to the bedroom, helped me sit on the bed, and explained that Raza had arranged this place for me.

She said he thought I would be more comfortable here with privacy and quiet, away from the main household.

She spoke gently, but I understood immediately what had really happened.

I had been removed, hidden, placed somewhere out of sight where my condition would not embarrass my husband or disturb my children.

I was no longer part of the family.

I had been discarded.

I asked Mariam if my children knew where I was.

She hesitated, then said quietly that Raza had told them I needed rest and isolation for my recovery, that visitors would be limited until I was stronger.

I understood the lie.

They were not coming.

Reza had made sure of that.

I asked when my husband would visit.

Miam looked at the floor and said he had not mentioned any plans to come, but that she would inform him I had arrived safely.

That night, lying in the narrow bed in that unfamiliar house, I felt something break inside me that had been barely holding together for months.

I had given my entire life to this family, sacrificed every personal desire, performed every duty expected of me, and now I had been thrown away like something unclean.

I thought about Islamic teachings on ritual purity.

How certain conditions made a person unsuitable for prayer, for community, for normal life.

I realized that in my husband’s mind, I had become exactly that.

Najis unclean, untouchable.

He could not be seen with me, could not allow me near our children, could not risk association with something so visibly broken.

3 days after I arrived, my children came to visit.

Raza brought them himself, but did not come inside.

He waited in the car while Muhammad, Fatima, and Hassan walked into the house, their faces carefully neutral.

They sat on the sofa in the living room while I remained in a chair across from them, too weak to stand for long.

Muhammad asked how I was feeling, a question so formal it sounded like he was addressing a stranger.

I told him I was managing, that the doctors had done what they could.

Fatima looked at the lesions on my face and neck, then quickly looked away.

Hassan said nothing at all, just sat with his hands folded, staring at the floor.

I tried to ask about their studies, their lives, anything to create conversation, but every question was met with brief, polite answers.

After 15 minutes, Muhammad stood and said they needed to leave, that their father was waiting.

They each touched my hand briefly, a gesture that felt more like obligation than affection, and walked out.

I watched through the window as they got into the car.

Raza did not look toward the house.

He simply started the engine and drove away.

Miam, who had been standing quietly in the kitchen during the visit, came and sat beside me.

She did not say anything, just placed her hand on my shoulder while I cried.

That was the last time I saw my children for many months.

They did not return.

They did not call.

I sent messages that went unanswered.

I understood finally and completely that I had been cut off.

erased from their lives as efficiently as if I had already died.

Raza had made it clear to them that I was no longer their concern, that their loyalty belonged to him, to their future, to the family name that my illness threatened, to stain.

I was alone except for Miam, a servant paid to keep me alive, but not required to care whether I wanted to be.

The days blurred together in that small house.

I could no longer perform woodoo properly because my hands shook too much and the water touching my damaged skin felt like fire.

I tried to pray, spreading a small rug on the floor and forcing my body into the positions I had repeated thousands of times, but the pain was so intense I could barely bow.

I recited the verses mechanically, words in Arabic that I had memorized as a child, but they brought no comfort.

I felt nothing from them.

No connection, no peace, just the emptiness I had carried for years now magnified by complete abandonment.

I stopped praying regularly.

What was the point? I had spent my entire life in submission to Allah, following every rule, performing every ritual.

And where had it brought me? To this small house, dying slowly, forgotten by everyone I had loved.

Miam took care of everything.

She bathed me when I was too weak to wash myself, a humiliating process that required her to support my weight and carefully clean around the lesions that now covered most of my body.

She prepared simple meals, mostly soup and rice, the only things I could keep down.

She changed my sheets, washed my clothes, helped me to the bathroom when I could not walk alone.

She did all of this without complaint, with a patience and gentleness that felt foreign to me.

I had employed servants my entire adult life, people who worked in our home and followed orders, but I had never developed personal relationships with them.

They were part of the household machinery, present but invisible.

Miam was different.

She treated me not as an employer but as a human being.

Spoke to me with kindness.

Sat with me during the long afternoons when the pain was worst and I could not sleep.

I asked her once why she was so kind when she was only being paid to perform basic duties.

She smiled and said that caring for people was not just a job to her.

It was something she believed God wanted her to do.

I assumed she meant Allah and nodded, too tired to discuss theology.

But over the following weeks, I began to notice small things about Mariam that did not fit the pattern of a typical Iranian Muslim woman.

She did not pray five times a day.

I never saw her perform woo or spread a prayer rug.

When Ramadan began, she did not fast.

She prepared food during the day and ate openly, which shocked me.

I asked her about it, whether she was ill or had some exemption.

She looked at me carefully as if deciding whether to trust me, then said quietly that she followed a different path, one that did not require the same rituals.

I did not understand what she meant and was too exhausted to press further.

One evening in late April, I was lying in bed unable to sleep because of the pain when Miam knocked softly on the door and asked if she could sit with me.

I agreed.

She brought a chair beside the bed and sat quietly for a moment, then asked if I would like her to read to me.

She said sometimes hearing words from a book helped her when she felt troubled and perhaps it would distract me from the pain.

I was desperate for anything that might occupy my mind.

So, I told her yes.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small book.

It was not the Quran.

The cover was plain, dark blue with simple lettering.

I could not read in the dim light.

She opened it carefully and began to read in Farsy, her voice calm and steady.

She read a story about a woman who had been sick for 12 years, who had spent all her money on doctors but only gotten worse, who suffered not just physically but socially because people considered her unclean and avoided her.

I felt my breath catch.

The story was my story.

Miam continued reading.

The woman heard about a teacher named Jesus who healed people and she believed that if she could just touch his clothing, she would be healed.

She pushed through a crowd, reached out, touched the edge of his robe, and immediately felt her body change.

The bleeding stopped.

The pain ended.

She was whole again.

Jesus turned, looked at her, and said her faith had healed her.

Miriam closed the book, and looked at me.

I stared at her, my mind racing.

I asked what book she was reading from.

She hesitated, then said quietly, “It was the Angel, the Gospel, the book about Jesus.

” I should have been angry.

I should have ordered her to leave, reported her to authorities, protected myself from association with a Christian.

But I was too tired, too broken, too desperate.

Instead, I asked her to read more.

Miam came to my room every evening after that first night, always asking permission before she began, always respectful of my space and my condition.

She would sit in the chair beside my bed, open the small blue book, and read to me in her calm, steady voice.

Each story she chose seemed deliberately selected, as if she knew exactly what I needed to hear.

She read about a man who had been paralyzed for 38 years lying beside a pool in Jerusalem waiting for healing that never came.

Jesus walked up to him and asked a simple question.

Do you want to get well? The man explained that he had no one to help him into the water when it stirred that others always got there first.

Jesus told him to pick up his mat and walk and immediately the man was healed.

Miriam paused after reading that story and looked at me.

She said, “Sometimes we wait for healing to come through human systems, through doctors and medicine and procedures, but Jesus can heal in ways that bypass all of that.

” She read about 10 men with leprosy, a disease that made them outcasts, forced to live away from their families and communities, considered unclean by everyone who saw them.

They cried out to Jesus from a distance, begging for mercy.

He told them to go show themselves to the priests, and as they went, their skin was cleansed.

All 10 were healed, but only one returned to thank Jesus.

Miam said quietly that Jesus healed them all, even knowing most would not acknowledge what he had done, because his compassion was not dependent on their gratitude.

She read about a Roman centurion whose servant was paralyzed and suffering terribly.

The centurion sent word to Jesus asking for help, but then sent another message saying Jesus did not need to come to his house.

He said he was not worthy to have Jesus under his roof.

He understood authority and believed that Jesus could simply speak a word and his servant would be healed.

Jesus marveled at his faith and healed the servant instantly from a distance without even seeing him.

Every story involved people who were desperate, people who had exhausted every other option, people who had been rejected by their communities or failed by human solutions.

Every story ended the same way.

Jesus healed them.

Not because they earned it, not because they performed the right rituals or came from the right families, but because he had compassion on them.

Miam never preached to me, never told me what to believe, never pushed me toward any decision.

She simply read the stories, and let them settle into my heart.

After she finished reading each night, she would close the book, ask if I needed anything, and quietly leave the room.

I would lie there in the darkness thinking about what I had heard, comparing it to everything I had been taught my entire life.

In Islam, healing came through following the rules through prayer and faith in Allah’s will, through acceptance of suffering as a test.

But these stories presented something different.

A God who sought out the sick, who touched the untouchable, who healed freely without requiring payment or performance.

One evening about 2 weeks after Mariam had started reading to me, I asked her directly why she was showing me these stories.

I asked if she was trying to convert me, if she was a Christian, if she understood the danger she was putting both of us in by bringing that book into my house.

She set the book down on her lap and looked at me with such kindness that I almost started crying.

She said yes.

She was a follower of Jesus, had been for 8 years.

She said she had been raised Muslim just like me, had followed all the rules, performed all the rituals, and felt the same emptiness I described.

Then one night, she had a dream.

A man in white appeared to her, his face shining like the sun, and he spoke her name.

He told her he loved her, that he was the way to God, that she did not have to earn his affection.

She woke up knowing somehow that the man was Jesus even though she had never read the Inil and knew almost nothing about Christianity.

She searched for answers, found other Iranians who had similar experiences and eventually joined a secret house church in Tehran.

She said there were thousands of Iranians, maybe hundreds of thousands, who had encountered Jesus in dreams and visions.

The government was terrified of it because they could not stop it.

They could arrest pastors, raid meetings, burn Bibles, but they could not arrest dreams.

Jesus was appearing directly to people across Iran, calling them by name, offering love and healing and freedom.

Miam said she had been praying for me since the day Raza hired her to care for me.

She knew who my husband was, knew the family I came from, knew the position we held in the regime.

She also knew I was dying, and that I needed more than medicine.

She said she took the job specifically because she felt God telling her I was ready to hear the truth.

I asked her what truth she meant.

She said the truth that Jesus was not just a prophet as Islam taught, but God himself in human form who came to earth to die for our sins and rise again so we could have eternal life.

I should have been offended.

Everything in my background, my education, my faith tradition told me that what she was saying was sherk, the unforgivable sin of associating partners with Allah.

But I was too exhausted to be offended.

And something deep inside me responded to her words in a way I did not understand.

I told her I did not know if I could believe that Jesus was God, that it contradicted everything I had been taught.

She nodded and said she understood, that she had struggled with the same thing.

But she asked me to consider what I had experienced in my life.

Had I ever felt truly loved by Allah? Had I ever sensed his presence, heard his voice, felt his compassion, or had I spent my entire life trying to earn approval from a distant deity who never seemed satisfied? I sat there in silence because I knew the answer.

I had never felt loved by Allah.

I had felt fear, obligation, duty, but never love.

Miam said that was the difference between religion and relationship.

Islam was about submission and performance.

Jesus offered love and acceptance as a free gift.

Over the next several weeks, Miriam continued to read to me every evening.

She read about a woman caught in adultery, dragged before Jesus by religious leaders who wanted to stone her according to the law.

Jesus told them that whoever had no sin should throw the first stone.

One by one, they all walked away.

Then Jesus told the woman he did not condemn her either and she should go and sin no more.

Miam said Jesus did not excuse sin, but he also did not treat people as disposable because of their failures.

She read about Jesus raising a man named Lazarus from the dead after he had been in the tomb for 4 days.

When Jesus arrived, Lazarus’s sister Martha said if he had been there earlier, her brother would not have died.

Jesus told her that he was the resurrection and the life, that anyone who believed in him would live even if they died.

Then he called Lazarus out of the tomb and the dead man walked out still wrapped in burial cloths alive again.

Miam looked at me after reading that and said Jesus had power over death itself, that nothing was impossible for him.

She read about Jesus walking on water, calming storms, feeding thousands of people with a few loaves of bread and fish.

She read his words, simple statements that carried enormous weight.

Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

I am the bread of life.

Whoever comes to me will never go hungry.

I am the light of the world.

Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness.

I am the good shepherd.

I lay down my life for the sheep.

Every statement was a claim to divinity, a declaration that he was more than a prophet.

Miam said that was why the religious leaders of his time hated him and eventually killed him.

He did not just teach about God.

He claimed to be God.

And then he proved it by rising from the dead 3 days after his crucifixion.

She said that was the foundation of Christian faith.

Not just that Jesus was a good teacher or a holy man, but that he was God incarnate who defeated death and offered eternal life to anyone who believed in him.

I listened to all of this, my mind spinning, trying to reconcile what she was saying with everything I had been taught.

I asked her how she could be sure the stories were true, that they were not just legends or exaggerations written by followers who wanted to make Jesus seem more important than he was.

She said that was a fair question, one she had asked herself.

But she pointed out that the men who wrote these accounts were tortured and killed for refusing to deny what they had witnessed.

People do not die for stories they know are false.

They saw something real, something so powerful that they were willing to give their lives rather than recant.

She also said, “I did not have to take anyone’s word for it.

I could ask Jesus directly to reveal himself to me, and if he was truly God, he would answer.

” That statement hung in the air between us.

The idea that I could speak directly to Jesus, ask him for proof, and expect a response felt both terrifying and strangely compelling.

One night, Miriam read the story of a man born blind.

The religious leaders asked Jesus whose sin had caused the blindness, the man’s or his parents.

Jesus said neither.

The man was born blind so that the works of God could be displayed in him.

Then Jesus made mud with his saliva, put it on the man’s eyes, and told him to wash in a pool.

The man obeyed and came back seeing.

The religious leaders interrogated him, trying to discredit the miracle.

But the man gave the simplest testimony.

I was blind, but now I see.

Miam closed the book and said that was what Jesus did.

He gave sight to the blind, not just physically, but spiritually.

He opened eyes that had been closed, revealed truth that had been hidden.

She said, “I had been blind my whole life, following a system that could not save me, worshiping a God I could not know.

But Jesus could open my eyes if I let him.

” I asked Miam what I would need to do if I wanted Jesus to heal me.

She said it was not about doing anything.

That was the whole point.

I had spent my life trying to do enough, be enough, perform enough to earn God’s favor.

Jesus did not require that.

He simply asked me to believe in him, to trust that he was who he said he was, to surrender my life to him.

She said, “Healing might come immediately or it might take time, but what mattered most was not physical healing, but spiritual healing.

Even if my body was not restored, my soul could be saved.

She said she knew Iranians who had been healed of cancer, blindness, paralysis, and other diseases after encountering Jesus.

She also knew believers who had died of their illnesses, but faced death with peace and hope because they knew Jesus was waiting for them on the other side.

She said, “The question was not whether I would be healed, but whether I was willing to trust Jesus regardless of the outcome.

” I told Miam I needed time to think, that everything she was telling me was overwhelming and went against everything I had believed for 42 years.

She nodded and said she understood that she would not pressure me, but she would keep praying for me.

That night, after she left my room, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.

I thought about my life, the emptiness I had always felt, the performance I had maintained, the family that had abandoned me.

I thought about the stories Miam had read, the people Jesus had healed, the love he had shown to outcasts and sinners.

I thought about the choice in front of me.

I could continue in the faith I had always known, praying to a God who felt distant and cold, waiting to die alone in this small house.

or I could take a risk, reach out to this Jesus I did not fully understand and see if he was real.

I was terrified of what it might mean, terrified of betraying everything I had been taught, terrified of the consequences if anyone found out.

But I was also dying.

And I had nothing left to lose.

Late that same night, after hours of lying awake, wrestling with thoughts I could not quiet, I made a decision.

I had spent 42 years following rules, performing rituals, submitting to a system that promised peace, but delivered only emptiness.

I had prayed to Allah thousands of times, begged him for help, for healing, for mercy, and heard nothing in return.

My body was destroying itself.

My family had abandoned me.

I was alone in a small house waiting to die with nothing but pain and silence as my companions.

What did I have to lose by asking Jesus to reveal himself? If he was just a prophet as Islam taught, nothing would happen and I would continue dying as expected.

But if Miam was right, if he was truly God and had the power to heal, then perhaps there was hope I had not yet considered.

I did not know how to pray to Jesus.

I had no formal words, no memorized verses, no ritual to follow.

So I simply spoke into the darkness of my room, my voice barely a whisper.

I said, “Jesus, I do not know if you are listening.

I do not know if you are who Mariam says you are.

I have been taught my whole life that you were just a prophet, a messenger, nothing more.

But I am dying and no one can help me.

The doctors have failed.

My family has abandoned me.

Allah has not answered my prayers.

If you are real, if you truly have power to heal.

If you care about people like me who are broken and forgotten, please show me.

I need to know the truth.

I need to see you.

I am begging you.

The words felt strange coming out of my mouth, awkward and uncertain.

I did not feel anything change in the room.

There was no immediate sign, no sudden peace or warmth.

I lay there in the silence, feeling foolish and desperate, wondering if I had just spoken to empty air.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook me, and I fell asleep, still hurting, still sick, still alone.

I do not know what time it was when I woke, but I woke suddenly, my eyes opening wide, as if someone had called my name.

The room felt different.

The air was thick, heavy with a presence I could not explain.

It was not threatening, but it was powerful, overwhelming, so intense that my heart began to pound in my chest.

I tried to sit up, but my body would not obey.

I could only lie there, my eyes wide, staring into the darkness.

Then I saw light.

It started small, just a faint glow in the corner of the room near the window, growing brighter and brighter until it filled the entire space.

The light was not harsh.

It was soft, but brilliant, like nothing I had ever seen before.

It did not come from a lamp or the moon or any natural source.

It was coming from inside the room, expanding, filling every shadow, pushing back the darkness completely.

Then I saw him, a figure standing at the foot of my bed.

A man clothed in white robes that seemed to glow with the same light filling the room.

His face was so bright I could not look directly at it.

I tried, but it was like trying to stare at the sun.

The brightness was too much, too pure, too overwhelming.

But even though I could not see his features clearly, I could feel his presence.

It radiated love.

Not the conditional performance-based love I had known from my family, but something far deeper and more complete.

It was a love that saw everything about me, every failure, every sin, every broken piece, and loved me anyway.

The weight of that love was so powerful that I began to cry immediately, tears streaming down my face, my body shaking uncontrollably.

I tried to speak, but no words came out.

I could only lie there weeping, feeling completely exposed and yet completely safe at the same time.

Then he spoke.

The voice did not come from outside me.

It came from within, filling my mind and heart simultaneously, clear and unmistakable.

He said my name, Zara, just my name.

But the way he said it carried so much weight.

It was not just identification.

It was recognition, intimacy, as if he had known me forever.

As if he had been watching my entire life, as if every moment of my pain and loneliness had been seen by him.

I tried again to speak, my voice breaking.

Who are you? The presence seemed to move closer, though I could not see movement in the traditional sense.

The light intensified around me, and the voice spoke again.

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

I am the resurrection, and the life.

I am the light of the world.

I have loved you with an everlasting love, and I have never left you.

I knew immediately, without any doubt, that this was Jesus.

This was the man Miriam had been reading about.

The one who healed the sick, raised the dead, and claimed to be God.

He was here in my room in this small house on the outskirts of Thyron, standing before me in brilliant light.

I fell forward, trying to get out of bed, to kneel, to bow, anything to show respect and awe.

But my body was too weak.

I collapsed halfway off the mattress, my face pressing against the sheets, sobbing uncontrollably.

The words poured out of me unplanned and raw.

Forgive me.

Forgive me for everything.

For not knowing you, for rejecting you, for believing lies about you.

Forgive me for my pride, my sin, my emptiness.

I do not deserve this.

I do not deserve your love, but I need you.

I am dying.

I have nothing left.

Please do not leave me.

Please.

The light grew even brighter, and I felt something I can only describe as warmth.

A physical sensation like hands touching my head, my shoulders, my back.

The voice spoke again, and this time the words shattered every remaining wall I had built around my heart.

You are forgiven.

You are clean.

You are whole.

You are mine.

I have called you out of darkness into my light.

I will never leave you.

I will never forsake you.

You are my beloved daughter.

Hearing those words, beloved daughter, broke something deep inside me that I did not even know was broken.

I had never been called beloved by anyone.

I had been called wife, mother, sister, beautiful, obedient, but never beloved.

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

I pressed my face harder into the sheets 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.

I felt it physically like a flood of warmth washing over me, starting at the top of my head and flowing down through my entire body.

It moved through my neck, my chest, my arms, my legs, reaching every part of me everywhere.

The warmth touched, the pain disappeared.

The burning sensation in my skin faded.

The aching in my joints eased.

The exhaustion that had weighed me down for months lifted.

I felt strength returning to my muscles, energy flowing back into my limbs.

I could feel my skin changing, the lesions that had covered my body for over a year smoothing out, the inflamed patches cooling and healing.

I lifted my head and looked at my arms.

In the brilliant light filling the room, I could see the red marks fading, the damaged skin becoming whole again.

I touched my face and felt smooth skin where there had been rough, painful soores just moments before.

I was being healed.

Not gradually, not over time, but instantly, completely, miraculously.

I tried to stand and found that I could.

My legs, which had barely supported my weight for months, were strong.

I stood beside the bed, looking at my hands, my arms feeling my face, barely able to believe what was happening.

The light remained, the presence remained, surrounding me, holding me.

I started laughing through my tears.

A sound I had not made in so long I barely recognized it.

Joy, pure and overwhelming, flooded through me, filling the space where pain and despair had lived for so long.

I looked toward the figure of light and whispered, “Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

” The voice spoke one more time, gentle but firm, “Go and tell others what I have done for you.

Do not be afraid.

I am with you always.

Then slowly, gradually, the light began to fade.

Not disappearing suddenly, but receding like dawn, giving way to morning, becoming softer, gentler, until the room returned to its normal darkness.

But I was not the same.

I stood there in the middle of my small bedroom, completely healed, completely whole, completely transformed.

I could feel the difference in every part of my body.

The pain was gone.

The weakness was gone.

The disease that had been killing me was gone.

I walked to the small mirror hanging on the wall and looked at my reflection in the moonlight coming through the window.

The woman staring back at me looked like someone I had not seen in over a year.

My skin was clear.

My face was whole.

My eyes were bright.

I looked alive.

I do not know how long I stood there staring at myself, touching my face, my arms, my neck, confirming over and over that the healing was real.

Eventually, I heard footsteps in the hallway and Miam appeared in the doorway.

She had heard me crying and laughing and had come to check on me.

She stopped in the doorway, her mouth opening in shock, her eyes going wide.

She stared at me, then at the room, then back at me.

She whispered, “Kan, what happened? You are standing, your face, your skin.

What happened?” I turned to her, tears still streaming down my face and said the words that I knew would define the rest of my life.

“He came.

Jesus came.

He was here.

He healed me.

” Miam let out a cry and rushed forward, grabbing my hands.

examining my arms, my face, crying and praising God in Farsy.

We stood there together, two women in a small house in Thyron, witnesses to a miracle that defied every medical explanation, every natural law, every expectation.

The next morning, I woke feeling stronger than I had in years.

The healing had not faded during the night.

It was permanent, complete, undeniable.

I walked around the small house without assistance, without pain, marveling at the simple act of moving freely.

Miriam prepared breakfast and we sat together at the small table, eating and talking about what had happened.

She said she had been praying for months that Jesus would reveal himself to me, that he would heal me, not just physically, but spiritually.

She said what happened was exactly what was occurring all across Iran.

That Jesus was appearing to Muslims in dreams and visions, calling them to himself, healing them, saving them.

She said, “I was now part of a movement that the government could not stop.

A wave of faith that was sweeping through the country despite persecution, despite arrests, despite everything the regime tried to do to suppress it.

” She told me there were networks of believers who could help me, protect me, guide me in my new faith.

But she also warned me that my life was now in danger.

If my husband found out I had become a follower of Jesus, if anyone in my family or social circle discovered what had happened, I would face consequences I could barely imagine.

3 days after my healing, I called Raza.

I had not spoken to him in weeks.

When he answered, his voice was cold and formal.

He asked if I needed something, if there was a problem with the house or with Miam.

I told him I needed to see him, that something important had happened.

He sighed and said he was very busy, that he would try to visit in a few days.

I insisted, told him it was urgent, that it concerned my health.

That got his attention.

He agreed to come the following morning.

When he arrived, he did not come alone.

He brought a doctor with him, someone from the Ministry of Health who worked with government officials.

Raza walked into the house, barely looking at me, already speaking to the doctor about my condition, my history, the treatments I had undergone.

Then he looked up and stopped mids sentence.

He stared at me, his eyes moving from my face to my arms to my hands.

The doctor stepped forward, confused, asking what was wrong.

Raza said nothing, just kept staring.

Finally, he spoke.

Your skin, the lesions, they are gone.

How is this possible? I stood in the center of the small living room facing my husband and the doctor he had brought with him, and I told them the truth.

I said, “I had been healed three nights ago, completely and instantly by Jesus Christ.

” The moment those words left my mouth, the atmosphere in the room changed.

Raise’s face went from shock to confusion to anger in a matter of seconds.

He told the doctor to examine me immediately to verify what he was seeing.

The doctor, a thin man in his 50s, wearing glasses and a formal suit, stepped forward and asked permission to check my arms and face.

I extended my arms and stood still while he examined my skin closely, touching the places where lesions had been, looking for any trace of the disease that had covered my body for over a year.

He pulled out a small light and looked at my skin more carefully.

He checked my hands, my neck, even asked me to lift my sleeves so he could see my shoulders.

After several minutes, he stepped back and looked at Raza with an expression of complete bewilderment.

He said he could find no evidence of the disease.

No active lesions, no scarring, no inflammation, nothing.

He said my skin looked completely healthy, as if I had never been sick at all.

He asked what treatment I had received, what medications I was taking, which doctor had supervised my care.

I told him I had received no treatment since returning to Iran.

No medications, no procedures, nothing.

The healing had happened on its own, or rather, it had happened through the power of Jesus.

Raza cut me off before I could say more.

He told the doctor to wait outside, that he needed to speak with me privately.

The doctor hesitated, clearly curious and confused, but obeyed and stepped out into the courtyard.

The moment the door closed, Raza turned on me with a fury I had rarely seen from him.

He demanded to know what I was talking about, what foolishness I was speaking, whether I had lost my mind along with my health.

I stayed calm and repeated what I had said.

I told him that three nights ago I had prayed to Jesus, asking him to reveal himself if he was real.

I told him that Jesus had appeared to me in my room in brilliant light, that he had spoken to me, called me by name, and healed me completely.

I said I had surrendered my life to him, that I believed he was the son of God, that I was now a follower of Jesus Christ.

Raza stared at me as if I had struck him.

His face went pale, then read, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

He said I was speaking blasphemy, that I had committed sherk, the unforgivable sin of associating partners with Allah.

He said I had been deceived, that my illness had damaged my mind, that I needed psychiatric treatment immediately.

I told him my mind was perfectly clear, clearer than it had been in years.

I said I knew what I had experienced, that the evidence was standing in front of him.

I was healed.

No doctor could explain it.

No medicine had caused it.

Only Jesus had the power to do what had been done.

Raza began pacing the small room, his voice rising.

He said, “I had no idea what I was saying, what consequences this would bring.

” He said, “If anyone found out that his wife had converted to Christianity, his career would be destroyed, his reputation ruined, his family disgraced.

” He said the regime did not tolerate apostasy, that people were arrested, imprisoned, even executed for leaving Islam.

He demanded that I recant immediately, that I admit I had been confused, that I go back to being a proper Muslim wife and forget this insanity.

I looked at him, this man I had been married to for over 20 years, and I felt nothing but pity.

He was not concerned about my soul, my health, or my well-being.

He was concerned about his position, his reputation, his career.

I had been healed from a terminal illness, raised from what was essentially a deathbed, and all he could think about was how it affected him.

I told him quietly but firmly that I would not recant.

I said, “Jesus had saved my life, and I would not deny him no matter what it cost me.

” Raza stopped pacing and stood directly in front of me, his face inches from mine.

He said if I refused to recant, he would divorce me immediately, that I would lose all rights to our children, our home, any financial support.

He said I would be completely alone, that no one in our social circle would associate with me, that I would be considered an outcast and a traitor.

He said he would make sure everyone knew I had lost my mind, that my illness had driven me insane, that nothing I said could be trusted.

I met his eyes and said I understood that I accepted those consequences.

I told him I had already lost my family when he abandoned me in this house.

When my children stopped visiting when I was discarded like something unclean.

I said Jesus had given me something far more valuable than anything Raza could take away.

He had given me love, acceptance, healing and eternal life.

I said, “I would rather have Jesus and nothing else than have everything the world offered without him.

” Raza stepped back, his expression hardening into something cold and final.

He said I had made my choice and would live with the results.

He called the doctor back inside and told him that I was suffering from delusions brought on by my illness, that I needed to be monitored carefully, but that there was no need for further medical intervention at this time.

He said he would arrange for a psychiatrist to evaluate me later.

The doctor nodded, though he still looked confused about my physical healing.

Raza left without another word without looking at me again, the door slamming behind him.

I stood in the empty room listening to his car drive away and felt a strange sense of peace.

I had just lost my marriage, my family, my social position, everything I had spent my adult life building.

But I was free.

For the first time in 42 years, I was truly free.

Miriam came out from the bedroom where she had been praying during the confrontation.

She hugged me tightly and said she was proud of me, that standing firm in the face of that kind of pressure, took courage that only Jesus could provide.

She said we needed to move quickly now, that Raza would likely take action against me, that I was no longer safe in Iran.

Over the next week, Miam contacted the underground network of believers.

She was connected to people who helped Christians escape persecution.

They arranged everything with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of practice.

They provided me with documents, a plan, contacts in neighboring countries, and instructions on exactly what to do and when.

Miam explained that I would leave Iran through the border with Armenia, a route that many fleeing believers had used.

Once in Armenia, I would connect with a Christian refugee organization that would help me find permanent asylum in a country where I could live and worship freely.

She said the network had already been praying for me, that news of my healing had spread through the house churches in Thyron, that believers were asking God to protect me and use my testimony.

I asked Miam if she would come with me.

She shook her head sadly and said her calling was to stay in Iran, to continue serving as a secret believer, helping others who were searching just as I had been.

She said there were still so many Iranians who needed to hear about Jesus, who needed someone to care for them the way she had cared for me.

On a cool evening in early May 2024, exactly 5 weeks after Jesus had healed me, I left Iran.

I carried nothing but a small bag with a few clothes, the Farsy Bible Mariam had given me, and the new identity documents the network had provided.

A driver I did not know picked me up after dark and drove me north toward the Armenian border, taking back roads and avoiding checkpoints.

We drove for hours in silence, the lights of Tehran disappearing behind us, the mountains rising ahead.

At the border, I crossed on foot through a route the driver showed me, a path used by smugglers and refugees, avoiding the official crossing where my face might be recognized.

On the other side, a car was waiting with an Armenian driver who spoke broken Farsy.

He took me to Yeravan, the capital, where I was met by a representative from a Christian organization that worked with Iranian refugees.

They brought me to a safe house where other Iranian believers were staying, people who had fled persecution just like me.

For the first time since my conversion, I was able to worship Jesus openly.

We gathered in the living room of that safe house, about 15 of us, and sang songs of praise in Farsy, read scripture aloud, prayed together without fear of being arrested.

I wept through the entire gathering, overwhelmed by the freedom, by the joy, by the presence of Jesus among his people.

These were strangers who had become family, brothers and sisters united not by blood, but by faith in the same savior who had reached into our darkness and called us into his light.

Over the next few weeks, as my asylum application was being processed, I spent time with other Iranian believers, hearing their stories.

Almost every single one of them had encountered Jesus in a dream or vision before converting.

A former Revolutionary Guard member who saw Jesus while torturing a Christian prisoner and could not continue.

A university student who had been an atheist until Jesus appeared to her in her dorm room.

A moola who had taught Islamic law for 30 years until Jesus called his name in the middle of the night.

Each story was unique, but the pattern was identical.

Jesus was bypassing every human barrier and revealing himself directly to Iranians.

One evening, a pastor who worked with a refugee organization sat down with me and asked if I would be willing to share my testimony publicly.

He said, “My story was unique because of who my husband was, because of my connection to the highest levels of the Iranian regime, because my healing was so dramatic and undeniable.

” He said, “If I went public, my face and story would spread across Iran within hours, that it could have significant impact, but it would also mean I could never return to Iran, and that my family would face enormous pressure and possibly danger.

” I prayed about it for 3 days, asking Jesus what he wanted me to do.

I remembered his words to me the night he healed me.

Go and tell others what I have done for you.

I knew the answer.

I told the pastor I would do it.

They arranged for me to record a video testimony in a small studio.

I sat in front of a camera and told my story from beginning to end.

I gave my full name, described my husband’s position, detailed my illness and the failure of medical treatment around the world, explained my abandonment by my family, and testified to my encounter with Jesus and my miraculous healing.

I spoke directly to the Iranian people, especially to those who were sick, suffering, abandoned, or searching for truth.

I told them that Jesus was appearing across Iran right now in dreams and visions, calling people by name, offering love and healing and salvation.

I said the government could not stop him, that no amount of persecution or propaganda could prevent Jesus from reaching those he was calling.

I said I was proof that he was real, that he had power over disease and death, that he loved Iranians and was building a church in Iran that would not be destroyed.

I invited anyone watching to pray a simple prayer, to ask Jesus to reveal himself, to be open to encountering the man in white who was walking through our nation.

I ended by saying that I had lost everything by following Jesus, but I had gained far more than I had lost.

I had gained eternal life, unconditional love, purpose, and hope.

The video was uploaded to multiple platforms and within 24 hours had been viewed over 3 million times.

Iranian state media responded within 48 hours.

They ran segments calling me a traitor, a tool of Western intelligence agencies, mentally unstable, deceived by Christian missionaries.

They interviewed a psychiatrist who claimed I was suffering from a psychotic break induced by my illness.

They showed old footage of me at official events standing beside Raza and contrasted it with screenshots from my testimony, framing it as a tragic fall from grace.

Raza issued a public statement through a government spokesperson saying he had divorced me months ago due to irreconcilable differences that I had no connection to his office and that my claims were the delusions of a disturbed mind.

My children were not allowed to speak publicly, but sources close to the family told media that they were devastated and had disowned me completely.

But the impact of my testimony could not be controlled.

Millions of Iranians both inside the country and in the diaspora watched the video.

Thousands sent messages saying they had also seen Jesus in dreams, that they had been too afraid to speak about it, that my testimony gave them courage.

I began receiving invitations to speak at churches, conferences, and gatherings of Iranian believers across Europe and North America.

I accepted as many as I could, traveling to cities with large Iranian populations, sharing my story again and again.

Every time I spoke, people came forward saying they wanted to know Jesus, that they had questions, that they had also experienced dreams or visions they did not understand.

I connected them with house church networks, with pastors and mentors, with resources in Farsy that could help them grow in faith.

I started a weekly live broadcast in Farsy, streaming into Iran via satellite and VPN where I taught from the Bible, answered questions, and shared testimonies from other Iranian believers.

The broadcasts reached hundreds of thousands of viewers.

Some sent hate messages and threats, but many more sent messages of gratitude, saying they had prayed the prayer I suggested and Jesus had appeared to them, that they had been healed of diseases, freed from addictions, delivered from depression and hopelessness.

Today, I live in a small apartment in a European city I will not name for security reasons.

I work full-time in ministry to the Iranian people, producing content, speaking at events, discipling new believers, and advocating for persecuted Christians still inside Iran.

I have not seen my children since the day I left.

I do not know if I ever will in this life.

That grief is real and deep, but it does not consume me because I know that Jesus is enough.

He has given me a new family, a global community of believers who love and support me.

He has given me purpose, a calling to be a voice for the voiceless, a witness to his power and love.

He has given me joy that does not depend on circumstances, peace that surpasses understanding and hope that cannot be shaken.

I am living proof that Jesus is moving in Iran right now.

That he is calling Muslims by name.

That he is healing the sick, saving the lost, and building his church in the heart of the Islamic Republic.

No government can stop him.

No persecution can silence him.

No wall is high enough to keep him out.

He is appearing in dreams and visions to Iranians from Thran to Trees, from Mashad to Isvahan.

From villages to cities, from the powerful to the powerless.

And every person who encounters him faces the same choice I faced.

Will you believe? Will you surrender? Will you follow him no matter the cost? I made my choice and I have never regretted it for a single moment.

Jesus is worth everything.