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My name is Vardan Hakobian.

I am 54 years old.

I am an Armenian Christian living in Tabres, Iran.

And I have a testimony that the world needs to hear.

This happened just days ago during the most chaotic and terrifying period Iran has ever experienced.

I watched with my own eyes as Jesus Christ intervened to save his people from destruction.

I saw angry mobs intent on burning our churches scatter in confusion as if an invisible hand had divided them against themselves.

I saw the power of God manifest in a way that I had only read about in the Bible.

And I am recording this testimony because every Christian around the world needs to know that our God is still a God of miracles.

He still defends his people.

He still answers the prayers of those who cry out to him in faith.

Before I tell you what happened, I need you to understand who we are and what we have endured.

The Armenian Christians of Iran are a forgotten people.

Most of the world does not even know we exist.

When people think of Iran, they think of Islam, of Ayatollas and mosques and women in black chadors.

They do not think of ancient churches with stone crosses and candle-lit altars.

They do not think of liturgies sung in a language that has praised Jesus for nearly 2,000 years.

But we are here.

We have been here for centuries, long before Islam ever arrived on this land.

Our ancestors brought Christianity to Persia in the earliest days of the faith.

The apostle Thaddius himself, one of the 12 disciples of Jesus, is said to have preached the gospel in this region.

We trace our spiritual heritage back to the very beginning of the church.

We are not converts or newcomers.

We are the original Christians of this land and we have survived persecution after persecution to remain faithful to Jesus Christ.

I was born in Tabris in 1972, 3 years after my parents moved here from a small Armenian village in the northwest.

My father was a carpet weaver and my mother worked as a seamstress.

We were not wealthy, but we were comfortable.

More importantly, we were surrounded by a tight-knit Armenian community that shared our faith, our language, and our traditions.

I grew up attending St.

Thaddius Armenian church with my family every Sunday.

The smell of incense, the sound of ancient hymns, the icons of saints looking down from the walls.

These things shaped my soul from childhood.

I learned to read Armenian before I learned to read Farsy.

I memorized prayers that my greatgrandparents had spoken before me.

My identity as an Armenian Christian was woven into every fiber of my being.

It was not something I chose.

It was something I was born into.

And I thank God every day for that inheritance.

Life changed dramatically for all Iranians after the Islamic Revolution of 1979.

I was only 7 years old when the sha fell and Ayatollah Kmeni rose to power.

I remember the fear in my parents’ eyes during those days.

They spoke in hush tones when they thought I was not listening.

They worried about what would happen to Christians under an Islamic government.

Their fears were justified.

The new regime imposed strict Islamic law on the entire country.

Women were forced to wear hijab.

Music and dancing were banned.

Alcohol was prohibited.

And religious minorities like us suddenly found ourselves living under intense scrutiny.

We were tolerated as demies, protected people under Islamic law.

But that protection came with heavy restrictions.

We could not evangelize.

We could not share our faith with Muslims.

We could not build new churches without government permission, which was almost never granted.

We had to be invisible, practicing our faith quietly behind closed doors.

While the Islamic Republic transformed our country, the decades that followed were difficult for our community.

We watched as many Armenian families left Iran for America, Europe, Australia, anywhere that offered freedom and opportunity.

Our numbers dwindled from hundreds of thousands to perhaps 50,000 or fewer.

The young people especially wanted to leave.

They saw no future in a country where they would always be secondclass citizens.

I understood their desire to escape.

I felt it myself at times, but something kept me here.

My parents were buried in this soil.

My church had stood in this city for generations.

My ancestors had refused to abandon their faith even when invaders gave them the choice of conversion or death.

How could I abandon the land they had held on to with such sacrifice? So I stayed.

I married a wonderful Armenian woman named Anahit.

We raised three children in the faith.

I built a modest business trading textiles in the Tab Bazaar and I served as a deacon at St.

Thaddius Armenian Church, helping to keep the flame of faith burning in our small community.

The persecution never completely stopped over the years.

It would eb and flow depending on the political climate.

Sometimes we would have relative peace for months or even years.

Other times the pressure would intensify.

Muslim converts to Christianity face the greatest danger.

Apostasy from Islam is punishable by death under Iranian law.

Those who left Islam for Jesus had to worship in absolute secrecy.

If they were discovered, they could be arrested, imprisoned, tortured, or executed.

Our Armenian churches could not openly accept them because doing so would bring the wrath of the religious police upon us.

But quietly, carefully, we did what we could to support our brothers and sisters who had found Jesus.

We connected them with underground house churches.

We smuggled Bibles and Christian literature to them.

We prayed for them constantly.

It was dangerous work, but it was kingdom work.

We knew that Jesus was moving in Iran despite the government’s efforts to stop him.

Thousands of Muslims were coming to faith through dreams, visions, and the witness of faithful believers.

The church was growing even as it was being persecuted.

Over the years, we developed an underground communication network that connected Armenian churches across Iran.

It was not sophisticated technology.

We did not use the internet or social media because those were monitored by the government.

Instead, we relied on trusted couriers, coded messages passed through merchants traveling between cities and occasionally secure phone calls using burner phones that were discarded after a single use.

This network allowed the churches in Thran, Isvahan and Tabris to stay connected, to share news, to coordinate responses to persecution, and to support each other in times of crisis.

The hub of this network was Holy Cross Armenian Church in Tran led by Father Hovsep Araelon.

Father Hovsep was a man of deep faith and prophetic gifting.

He had led that congregation for over 30 years and was respected by Armenian Christians throughout the country.

When Father Hovsep spoke, people listened.

Little did we know that in December 2025, God would give Father Hovsep a message that would save our lives.

The message came to us in the second week of December 2025.

I remember the exact day because it was the feast of St.

Thaddius, a holy day when our church gathers to honor the apostle who first brought the gospel to our ancestors.

We had just finished the morning liturgy and I was helping to clean the sanctuary when one of our trusted couriers arrived.

His name was Aram, a young man in his 30s who worked as a truck driver and regularly traveled between Tabre and Tehran carrying goods.

But he also carried something far more precious than merchandise.

He carried messages from Father Huffsep.

When I saw Aram’s face that morning, I knew immediately that something was wrong.

His usual cheerful expression was replaced by a look of deep concern.

He asked to speak with me and our priest, Father Mikel, privately.

We took him to the small office behind the altar and closed the door.

What he told us changed everything.

Aram handed us a sealed envelope containing a handwritten letter from Father Hofsep.

The letter was brief but urgent.

Father Hoffsep wrote that he had received a vision from God, a revelation so clear and so terrifying that he could not keep silent.

He had seen war coming to Iran.

He had seen missiles falling from the sky and explosions lighting up the darkness over Thran.

He had seen the Supreme Leader struck down, his body buried under rubble, his regime thrown into chaos.

But that was not the most disturbing part of the vision.

Father Hovep wrote that he had seen what would come after.

He had seen mobs of angry Muslims flooding the streets looking for someone to blame for their suffering.

He had seen them turning their rage toward the Christian communities.

He had seen churches surrounded by crowds carrying torches and weapons.

He had seen flames rising from buildings where believers had worshiped for generations.

The vision was so vivid and so horrible that Father Hovsep had wept for 3 days before God gave him the strength to act.

The letter explained that Father Hofsep had sought confirmation of the vision through prayer and fasting.

God had spoken to him again, confirming that the events he saw would indeed come to pass.

But God had also given him a promise and a command.

The promise was that if the churches would unite in prayer, Jesus himself would intervene to protect his people.

The command was to call for three days of fasting and prayer across all the Armenian congregations in Tehran, Isvahan, and Tabris.

Father Hovsep wrote that he was sending identical messages to the leadership of St.

Gregory the Illuminator Church in Isvahan and to us at St.

Thaddius Church in Tabre.

He asked us to share the message with our congregations and to begin the fast on the first Sunday of January 2026.

He wrote that this was not a suggestion but a directive from heaven.

The survival of our churches depended on our obedience.

Father Mikail and I sat in stunned silence after reading the letter.

We had known Father Hovsep for decades.

He was not a man given to exaggeration or hysteria.

He was measured and thoughtful, slow to speak and careful with his words.

If he said that God had given him a vision, we believed him.

If he said that we needed to fast and pray, we would obey.

But the contents of the vision itself were almost too terrible to comprehend.

War with America and Israel, the death of the Supreme Leader, mobs attacking our churches.

It sounded like something from the end times, like prophecies from the book of Revelation being fulfilled before our eyes.

We looked at each other with fear in our hearts, but also with determination.

Whatever was coming, we would face it together.

We would not abandon our faith or our community.

We would do exactly what Father Hovep instructed.

We would fast.

We would pray and we would trust Jesus to protect us.

That Sunday, I stood before the congregation of St.

Thaddius Church and shared the message.

I did not read the entire letter because some of the details were too sensitive to speak aloud in a room where informants might be present.

But I communicated the essence of it.

I told them that Father Hovep had received a word from the Lord.

I told them that difficult days were coming and that we needed to prepare spiritually.

I told them that the churches in Tehran and Isvahan were joining us in 3 days of fasting and prayer starting the following weekend.

I asked every family to participate according to their ability.

Those who could not fast from food completely could fast from other things.

The important thing was that we unite our hearts before God and cry out for his protection.

The congregation received the message with solemn faces and nodding heads.

They understood.

They had survived persecution before.

They knew that when spiritual leaders called for fasting and prayer, it was time to take the threat seriously.

The 3 days of fasting began on Friday, January 3rd, and continued through Sunday, January 5th, 2026.

Our church building remained open around the clock for anyone who wanted to come and pray.

We organized shifts so that there would always be someone in the sanctuary interceding for our community.

The women brought water and tea for those who were fasting.

The elderly sat in the pews for hours, their lips moving silently as they prayed prayers they had learned as children.

The young people gathered in small groups, some of them praying for the first time with real urgency and desperation.

I spent most of those 3 days at the church, taking breaks only to check on my textile business and to sleep for a few hours each night.

The atmosphere in the sanctuary was electric with spiritual intensity.

I could feel the presence of God hovering over us like a protective cloud.

I knew that something powerful was happening in the spiritual realm, even if I could not see it with my physical eyes.

On the final evening of the fast, we gathered for a special prayer service.

Father Mikail led us in the ancient liturgy and then opened the floor for spontaneous prayer.

One by one, members of the congregation stood and cried out to God.

They prayed for protection from enemies.

They prayed for peace in our nation.

They prayed for the salvation of Muslims who did not know Jesus.

They prayed for courage to face whatever was coming.

Some wept openly as they prayed.

Others lifted their hands toward heaven, their faces shining with faith.

An elderly woman named Sirinous stood and prophesied that God had heard our prayers and that angels were being dispatched to guard our churches.

A young man named Gagic declared that no weapon formed against us would prosper.

The prayers continued for hours until we were all exhausted and emptied out before the Lord.

When we finally concluded the service and went home, I felt a peace that I could not explain.

I did not know exactly what was coming.

I did not know when the vision would be fulfilled, but I knew that we had done everything God had asked us to do.

The rest was in his hands.

The weeks that followed were tense with anticipation.

We watched the news carefully, looking for signs that the events Father Hovsep had prophesied were beginning to unfold.

The international situation was deteriorating rapidly.

Tensions between Iran and the West were escalating.

There was talk of nuclear negotiations collapsing and military options being considered.

Every day brought new headlines about sanctions, threats, and preparations for conflict.

I prayed that the vision was wrong, that somehow the war would be averted and we would be spared.

But deep in my heart, I knew that Father Hovsep had heard from God.

The vision would come to pass.

It was only a matter of time.

So, we waited and we prayed and we prepared our hearts for the storm that was gathering on the horizon.

We had no idea that it would break upon us less than 2 months later on a day that would change Iran forever.

February 28th, 2026 began like any other Friday for me.

I woke before dawn and said my morning prayers as I have done every day for as long as I can remember.

I ate a simple breakfast of bread and cheese with my wife Anahit.

We talked about ordinary things, about our daughter who was expecting her first child, about a shipment of fabrics I was waiting to receive from a supplier in Thran.

The winter sun was just beginning to rise over Tab, casting pale light through the windows of our apartment.

I had no sense that this day would be different from any other.

I had no warning that by nightfall our entire world would be turned upside down.

I kissed Anaheit goodbye and walked to my shop in the bazaar, passing through streets that were just beginning to fill with the morning crowd.

Shopkeepers were opening their stalls.

Tea sellers were setting out their savars.

Everything seemed perfectly normal.

I arrived at my textile shop around 8:00 in the morning and began organizing the new inventory that had arrived the previous day.

My assistant, Armen, a young Armenian man from our church, was already there sweeping the floor and preparing for customers.

We worked quietly for a few hours, attending to the occasional buyer who came looking for fabrics for wedding dresses or curtains or traditional clothing.

Around 11:00, I noticed that the bazaar had grown unusually quiet.

The normal bustle of commerce had faded.

Shopkeepers were huddled around radios and phones, speaking in urgent whispers.

I stepped outside my shop and asked a neighboring merchant what was happening.

His face was pale and his hands were trembling as he showed me his phone screen.

The headlines were screaming in bold letters.

American and Israeli forces had launched a massive military strike against Iran.

Operation Epic Fury.

Missiles were falling on Thran.

Military bases were being destroyed.

The nation was under attack.

I rushed back into my shop and turned on the small radio I kept behind the counter.

The state broadcaster was playing Marshall music interspersed with announcements calling on all Iranians to remain calm and trust in the Islamic Republic.

But between the propaganda, fragments of real news were leaking through.

The strikes had begun in the early morning hours.

Dozens of targets had been hit simultaneously across the country.

The nuclear facilities at Natans and Fordo were destroyed.

Revolutionary guard bases were burning.

Government buildings in Tehran had been reduced to rubble.

And then came the news that made my blood run cold.

There were unconfirmed reports that the Supreme Leader’s compound had taken a direct hit.

Ayatollah Ali Kame was missing.

Some sources were saying he was dead.

I sat down heavily on my stool and stared at the radio in disbelief.

Father Hobsup’s vision was coming true.

The missiles were falling.

The Supreme Leader was struck down.

That meant the second part of the vision was coming too.

The attacks on our churches.

I closed my shop immediately and told Armen to go home to his family.

Then I hurried through the bazaar toward the Armenian quarter where St.

Thaddius Church was located.

The streets were filling with people now, but not the usual crowds of shoppers and workers.

These were anxious people, confused people, frightened people trying to understand what was happening to their country.

I saw men gathered around car radios listening to news broadcasts.

I saw women clutching their phones and weeping.

I saw Revolutionary Guard soldiers rushing past in military vehicles, their faces grim with purpose.

The atmosphere was charged with fear and uncertainty.

No one knew what would happen next.

No one knew if more strikes were coming.

No one knew if this was the beginning of a fullscale war.

I pushed through the crowds as quickly as I could, my heart pounding with urgency.

I needed to reach the church.

I needed to warn our people.

By early afternoon, the news was confirmed.

Ayatollah Ali Kam was dead.

The Supreme Leader who had ruled Iran with an iron fist for 36 years had been killed in the American Israeli strikes.

His body had been pulled from the rubble of his compound.

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