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My name is Rasil.

I’m 32 years old.

And on October 5th, 2025, my video declaring Jesus will transform Iran went viral worldwide.

>> My name is Rasil and I am the nephew of Iran’s Supreme Leader.

I can no longer live a lie before Allah, before God.

Jesus Christ appeared to me three nights ago in a vision that changed everything I believed.

I have accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior.

I >> I never thought I would be the man speaking Jesus’s name to the world.

If you had told me 5 years ago that I would risk everything to declare Christ as my Lord, I would have called you insane.

My life was mapped out from the moment I drew my first breaths in Thran’s most exclusive medical facility.

I was born into power, privilege, and a legacy that stretched back to the very foundations of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Growing up as the Supreme Leader’s nephew meant living in a world most Iranians could never imagine.

A family compound in northern Iran was more like a fortress than a home.

High walls topped with razor wire, armed guards at every entrance.

and surveillance cameras monitoring our every movement.

Even as a child, I understood that our family name carried weight that could reshape nations.

My uncle wasn’t just a religious leader to me.

He was the man who controlled the destiny of 80 million people.

My father held a highranking position within the revolutionary guard, making him one of the most feared men in Iran.

He would come home from meetings that decided the fate of political prisoners, dissident, and religious minorities.

I remember sitting at our dinner table listening to him discuss operations that would later make international headlines.

The casual way he spoke about crushing opposition movements, about eliminating threats to the Islamic Republic became as normal to me as discussing the weather.

Mother embodied everything the regime expected from a devout Muslim woman.

She prayed five times daily without fail, wore her hijab even within our private home and raised those children according to the strictest interpretations of Islamic law.

Her face wasn’t just personal conviction.

It was political necessity.

She knew that any deviation from perfect Islamic behavior could be used against our family by political enemies always watching for signs of weakness.

My siblings and I were groomed for leadership from our earliest years.

We had private tutors for Arabic, Persian literature, and advanced Islamic gurus prudence.

By age 10, I could recite lengthy passages from the Quran and explain complex theological concepts that university students struggled to understand.

We learned statecraftraft alongside scripture.

Understanding that in Iran, religious authority and political power were inseparable.

The education I received was unlike anything available to ordinary Iranian children.

International professors carefully vetted by state security taught us world history, economics, and political theory.

We studied at Thran’s most elite university where professors treated us with the reverence reserved for royalty.

My degree in religious studies and political science wasn’t just academic achievement.

It was preparation for eventually joining Iran’s ruling class.

Ask yourself, have you ever felt trapped by the very privileges meant to bless you? Every luxury in my life came with invisible chains.

I could travel internationally, but always with security details, reporting my every conversation.

I had access to wealth most Iranians couldn’t dream of, but every expenditure was monitored and approved by family advisers.

I could marry, but only women from approved families whose loyalty to the regime was unquestionable.

The contradiction between public faith and private doubt began early.

While publicly promoting Islamic values, I witnessed family members engaging in behaviors that would result in severe punishment for ordinary citizens.

Alcohol flowed freely at private family gatherings despite public prohibition campaigns.

Female relatives wore western clothing behind closed doors while advocating for strict hy enforcement in public speeches.

The hypocrisy was suffocating but questioning it was unthinkable.

My first real crisis of faith came during university when I accidentally witnessed the interrogation of Christian converts.

Father had taken me to a revolutionary guard facility to show me how enemies of the state were handled.

What I saw in those basement rooms haunts me still.

Men and women, some barely older than myself, being tortured for refusing to renounce Jesus Christ.

Their faces showed something I had never seen in any mosque, government building, or family gathering.

Despite their physical agony, they possessed a peace that seemed supernatural.

I began accessing forbidden international media through encrypted connections available only to our families privileged circle.

Western news reports, Christian testimonies, and documentaries about religious persecution in Iran painted a picture completely different from what I had been taught.

I learned that the Christians we were told were Western spies were actually Iranian nationals who had found something worth dying for.

The disconnect between my private life and growing private questions became unbearable.

I attended Friday prayers at Thran’s Grand Mosque, listening to sermons calling for death to America and destruction of Israel while secretly wondering if the God I claimed to worship actually desired such hatred.

I participated in family discussions about expanding persecution of religious minorities while feeling increasingly uncomfortable with our role in crushing people whose only crime was believing differently than we did.

My access to state secrets revealed the true extent of Christian growth in Iran.

Despite decades of persecution, arrests, and executions, underground churches continued multiplying.

Government report showed that more Iranians were converting to Christianity than ever before in our nation’s history.

The harder we tried to crush this face, the faster it seemed to spread.

This phenomenon fascinated and terrified me.

Simultaneously, sleep became elusive as I wrestled with questions that threatened everything I had been taught to believe.

If Islam was truth and Christianity was deception, why did Christian converts demonstrate such courage under torture? Why did they choose imprisonment, exile, and death rather than simply return to the face of their fathers? Why did government officials, including my own father, seem genuinely afraid of a movement that claimed to follow a man who died 2,000 years ago.

The wealth, power, and privilege that should have satisfied any young man felt increasingly hollow.

I had everything Iranian society could offer.

Yet, I felt spiritually bankrupt.

The prayers that once brought comfort became empty recitations.

The Quranic verses that once inspired me seemed to mock my growing spiritual hunger.

I was living a lie surrounded by luxury but dying inside, blessed with earthly power, but cursed with eternal questions I dare not voice aloud.

The breaking point came on a cold February morning in 2024 when father ordered me to accompany him to Evan Prison.

He wanted me to witness what he called the final interrogation of some particularly stubborn Christian converts.

I had observed interrogations before, but this time felt different.

Something in his voice suggested this would be more brutal than anything I had previously seen.

We descended into the basement levels where the most dangerous political prisoners were held.

The smell hit me first.

A mixture of human waste, blood, and disinfectant that seemed to cling to the walls themselves.

The screaming echoed through concrete corridors, bouncing of metal doors marked only with numbers.

Father walked these halls like he was strolling through a garden, completely unmoved by the sounds of human suffering surrounding us.

The interrogation room contained three prisoners.

a middle-aged man who had been a successful businessman before his conversion.

A young woman barely out of university and an elderly grandmother whose crime was hosting Bible studies in her home.

They had been imprisoned for six months, tortured regularly, and offered freedom countless times in exchange for renouncing Jesus Christ.

each had refused.

What I witnessed that day changed me forever.

The interrogator, a man I had known since childhood, systematically tortured these three believers while demanding they cursed Jesus and returned to Islam.

The businessman’s fingers had been broken one by one.

The young woman bore burn marks from cigarettes applied to her arms and face.

The grandmother could barely stand after weeks of beating.

Yet when asked to deny Christ, she looked directly at her torturer and said, “Jesus is my Lord and Savior.

I will never deny him.

” The peace in her eyes was unlike anything I had ever seen.

Despite her broken body and the promise of continued torture, she possessed a serenity that seemed supernatural.

She looked at me standing beside Father and smiled, not with hatred or fear, but with genuine compassion.

In that moment, I realized she was praying for us.

This woman we were torturing was asking her God to forgive us for what we were doing to her.

Father turned to me with pride, expecting to see approval for the regime’s methods.

Instead, he found his son fighting back tears and struggling not to vomit.

“This is how we deal with enemies of the Islamic Republic.

” He said, “These people choose their suffering.

They could walk free today if they would simply acknowledge that Muhammad is the final prophet and return to the true faith.

” The businessman, despite his broken fingers, managed to speak, “Sir, I have found the truth in Jesus Christ.

He has given me peace that surpasses all understanding.

Even in this place, even in this pain, I have joy because I know my savior lives.

I pray that you and your son will one day experience the same peace.

” Can you imagine learning that everything you were taught about Christianity was built on lies? That evening, I couldn’t sleep.

The image of those three believers, tortured yet peaceful, haunted every moment.

I began researching everything I could about their face, using my privileged access to circumvent internet restrictions.

What I discovered shattered my world view completely.

The Christians I had been taught were western agents bent on destroying Iran were actually Iranian patriots who loved their country deeply.

They prayed for Iran’s leadership, including my family, despite being persecuted by us.

They served the poor, cared for orphans, and demonstrated love for their enemies.

in ways that put our Islamic teachings to shame.

Their churches, though forced underground, were growing exponentially because people witnessed something authentic in their lives.

I obtained a Persian Bible through an encrypted connection with believers outside Iran.

Reading the Gospels for the first time revealed a Jesus completely different from the false prophet I had been taught he was.

This Jesus loved his enemies, forgave those who crucified him, and offered eternal life as a free gift rather than something earned through religious works.

The contrast with Islam’s emphasis on earning paradise through good deeds was striking.

My secret investigation revealed the true scope of Christian persecution in Iran.

Our government imprisoned over 100,000 Christians.

We had executed countless believers whose only crime was refusing to renounce their faith.

Families were destroyed, children orphaned, and entire communities scattered because of their commitment to Jesus Christ.

I realized I was not just witnessing this persecution.

I was complicit in it through my silence and participation in the regime.

The moral crisis became unbearable when father assigned me to help coordinate raids on house churches in Iran.

My job was to identify meeting locations and provide intelligence for mass arrests.

The first raid I participated in resulted in the capture of 37 believers, including children.

Watching revolutionary gods drag crying children from their parents’ arms while confiscating Bibles and Christian literaturia made me physically ill.

That night, I experienced what I can only describe as spiritual desperation.

Everything I had believed about God, truth, and righteousness lay in ruins around me.

The God I claimed to worship seemed to delight in crushing people who demonstrated more love, peace, and genuine face than any Muslim I knew.

The religion I had been raised in produced leaders like my father who could torture grandmothers without losing sleep.

While Christianity produced believers who prayed for the torturers.

Sleep became impossible as questions tormented my mind.

If Allah was truly God, why did his followers need torture and imprisonment to maintain their faith? while Christians willingly suffered deaths rather than deny theirs.

Why did every Christian I encountered despite facing persecution demonstrate joy and peace that religious Muslims, including myself, seemed unable to find? Why did the underground church continue growing despite decades of brutal suppression?
I began having dreams that felt more real than waking life.

In these dreams, I saw Iran transformed.

Churches stood openly on every street corner.

People worshiped Jesus freely without fear of imprisonment or death.

The same revolutionary gods who now raided house churches were singing hymns and raising their hands in praise to Christ.

The vision seemed impossible.

Yet it recurred night after night with increasing intensity.

The final straw came when I discovered that mother’s own sister had secretly converted to Christianity 20 years earlier.

Aunt lived in exile in Germany, cut off from our family because she refused to renounce Jesus Christ.

Let us father had hidden revealed her desperate attempts to share the gospel with our family, pleading with us to understand that she had found the truth in Christ.

Rather than investigating her claims, we had simply declared her dead to us.

That revelation broke something inside me.

My own aunt who had helped raise me, who had sung me laabis and taught me to read, was condemned by our family for finding peace in Jesus.

I realized that if I continued on my current path, I would spend my life persecuting people like her, destroying families and crushing the very faith that seemed to offer what my soul desperately craved.

I fell to my knees in my bedroom and prayed a prayer that would change everything.

God, whoever you are, whatever the cost, show me the truth.

I cannot live this lie anymore.

If Jesus is real, if Christianity is true, I surrender my life to you completely, regardless of the consequences.

3 days after that desperate prayer.

Jesus Christ appeared to me in my bedroom at 3:00 in the morning, I was not asleep.

I was not dreaming.

I was sitting at my desk reading through government reports about Christian persecution when the entire room filled with a light brighter than the sun, yet somehow gentle enough that my eyes could bear it.

The presence that entered that space was so holy, so pure, that I immediately fell face down on the carpet, trembling uncontrollably.

The voice that spoke to me carried authority unlike anything I had ever heard.

It was tender yet powerful, loving yet commanding.

When Jesus said my name, Brazil, felt like every cell in my body responded to his call.

I knew without any doubt that I was in the presence of the son of God.

The Jesus I had been taught was a mere prophet stood before me as Lord of lords and king of kings.

My son, he said, I have heard your cry for truth.

I have seen your heart breaking over the suffering of my people in Iran.

Rise and look at me.

When I lifted my eyes, I beheld the most beautiful face imaginable.

Jesus appeared as a Middle Eastern man about my age with eyes that held all the wisdom of eternity yet sparkled with joy and love.

His hands bore the scars of crucifixion.

But rather than appearing as wounds, they shone like stars.

The love radiating from him was so intense that I began weeping uncontrollably.

This was the gazes my government called a false prophet.

This was the Christ whose followers we tortured and imprisoned.

This was God in human flesh.

And he was looking at me with perfect love despite everything my family had done to his people.

Lord, I whispered, forgive me.

Forgive my family.

We did not know what we were doing.

Jesus smiled.

And that smile transformed my entire being.

Brazil, I died for you.

I died for your father.

I died for your uncle.

I died for every person in Iran.

My blood covers all sin for those who believe in me.

Do you believe that I am the son of God? That I died for your sins and that I rose from the dead? Yes, Lord, I so.

I believe.

I believe with all my heart.

Please forgive me and save me.

The moment those words left my mouth, something supernatural happened inside my spirit.

It felt like a dam bursting, releasing rivers of living water through every part of my being.

The guilt, shame, and spiritual darkness that had oppressed me for years was instantly washed away.

I experienced peace that I had never known was possible.

The fear that had controlled my entire life disappeared, replaced by joy so profound that I laughed and wept simultaneously.

Jesus touched my forehead, and immediately I understood scripture passages that had previously confused me.

The Persian Bible I had been secretly reading suddenly came alive with meaning.

I comprehended God’s plan of salvation, the significance of Christ’s death and resurrection and my personal calling as his follower.

Knowledge flooded my mind, not through human learning, but through divine revelation.

My son, Jesus continued, I am giving you a vision of what I will do in Iran.

Walk and remember everything you see.

The walls of my bedroom vanished and I found myself standing on a mountain overlooking all of Iran.

What I witnessed divide everything I thought I knew about my country’s future.

I saw churches rising in every city, their crosses gleaming in sunlight.

Persian families openly carrying Bibles walked to worship services without fear.

Former revolutionary guards stood in pulpits preaching the gospel.

Government officials who had once ordered persecution of Christians were baptizing new believers in the Caspian Sea.

The vision shifted to show me underground.

Churches across Iran experiencing explosive growth.

House churches that currently met in secret were multiplying faster than government forces could track them.

In Isvahan, Chiraz, Mashad, and countless smaller cities, Iranians from every social class were accepting Jesus Christ as their savior.

Muslim clerics were having supernatural encounters with Christ and converting to Christianity.

Even within the highest levels of government, officials were secretly studying the Bible and questioning Islamic doctrine.

Giza showed me specific scenes that seemed impossible yet felt absolutely certain.

I watched my own father kneel at a cross, weeping as he repented for his role in persecuting believers.

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