Let my body confirm that yes, this is where you are now.

This is the world you came back to.

A doctor came in after some time.

He was a careful, competent man who explained things clearly.

He told me about the cardiac episode, about the neighbor who had found me, about the minutes without a heartbeat, about the defibrillation and the restarting.

He said these things with the measured neutrality of a physician who has delivered difficult news often enough to know how to give it without drama.

I listened and nodded.

Behind his words entirely privately, I was holding the most extraordinary cargo I had ever carried.

uh and the gap between the clinical account he was giving and the fullness of what I had experienced in those same minutes was something I did not even begin to try to bridge in that conversation.

I was in the hospital for 3 days.

They monitored my heart, adjusted my medication, ran tests.

The care was good.

Germany has good hospitals and I was grateful for them.

But what I was primarily doing in those 3 days was not recovering from a cardiac episode.

I was processing what I had been given.

I was turning it over and over in my mind and in my prayer.

Making sure I had it right.

Making sure I was not adding things that were mine or subtracting things that were not mine.

making sure I had the substance of it accurately and could carry it faithfully.

On the second day, the friend I mentioned earlier, son, the man from our Iranian Christian community who was my emergency contact, he came to the hospital.

He had been called when my phone was accessed and my emergency contact reached.

When he came into the room and saw me, his face told me that the situation had been serious enough that he had not known what he would find.

He sat down in the chair beside the bed and looked at me for a long moment without speaking.

Then he asked me how I was.

I told him something had happened.

Not just the cardiac episode, something else.

He was quiet.

He has known me for many years and he knows when I’m speaking carefully about something important and he gave me the room for it.

I told him everything starting from falling asleep on the couch and going all the way through the movement, the light, the presence, Jesus, the descent.

what I saw below it and I the message the communication about Iran the commission to go back and tell it.

I told it as plainly and as carefully as I could.

I did not reach for effect or embellishment.

I told it the way you tell something true, which is without the extra help that something false needs.

He sat with it for a long time after I finished.

His eyes had filled during the telling and not fully cleared.

He was quiet for several minutes and I let him be quiet.

Then he said something that I have returned to many times.

He said that for 20 years he had been praying for Iran every day and that what I had just told him felt like a confirmation that those prayers had not been going into silence.

that somewhere in a realm he could not see, the thing he was praying toward had been real all along and was moving toward its completion.

He said it not with the triumphalism of someone who has been proved right, but with the humility of someone who has been shown grace they know they did not produce.

I was discharged from the hospital on the third day with new medication and a follow-up appointment and the careful instructions that come with a serious cardiac event.

I went home to my apartment.

It was early March by then.

The world had continued moving while I was in the hospital.

The news about Iran was developing rapidly.

The process of selecting a new supreme leader was underway.

Majaba Kam was being positioned.

The revolutionary guard was moving the pieces.

The international community was watching.

Inside Iran, the streets had not gone entirely quiet.

But the initial surge of public celebration and grief had settled into a tense, watchful uncertainty, of the feeling of a country that did not yet know what it was becoming.

I watched the news and I held what I had been told in that place and I noticed that the two things did not conflict.

The visible world was moving in the direction that was consistent with what I had been shown.

The plan was proceeding.

The title was being arranged.

And somewhere below the visible surface in the reality that the visible world runs on top of, the thing I had been told was already broken continued to be broken, waiting for the visible world to catch up to it.

The first thing I did before I began thinking about my public testimony was find the people I needed to find.

There was a couple from our Iranian Christian community, a man and his wife whom I had known for several years.

The man had been arrested in Iran in the mid 2000s and had spent 2 years in prison for his conversion.

What had been done to him in those two years was not something he talked about in detail, but the marks of it were visible in the way he carried himself, in the way he responded to certain situations, in the nightmares his wife had quietly
described to me on separate occasions.

They had eventually gotten out of Iran and come to Germany and had been building a life here with the particular combination of gratitude and unresolved grief that characterizes so many people in our community.

I went to their home.

I sat with them at their kitchen table.

I told them what Kam had asked me to communicate.

his plea for forgiveness, his awareness of what had been done to people like them under his authority, his request that I find those people and carry his asking of forgiveness to them.

Not because it changed anything, not because it was sufficient, but because it was the only truthful thing left to him.

The man was quiet for a very long time after I finished speaking.

I watched him and I did not try to fill the silence.

His wife had her hand over her mouth.

The man was looking at a point somewhere above the table, somewhere in the middle distance of his own memory.

He was in two places at once.

I could see it.

He was in the kitchen and he was somewhere else, too.

Somewhere he had not fully left since his time in prison.

He turned to look at me eventually.

What he said, and I will give this one exchange in something close to its actual substance because I think it matters, was that he had tried to put the unforgiveness down many times, that his pastor had spoken to him about it, that he himself knew theologically and intellectually that carrying it was only harming him, that Kam was beyond his forgiveness or his unforgiveness in any practical sense.

but that knowing something is not the same as being able to do it and his hands had not been able to release what they were holding.

And then he said that hearing what I had just told him had done something that all his own trying had not done.

He said it did not make what happened right.

Nothing made it right.

But he said that for the first time he felt the weight of it shift.

That something in the image of Kam stripped of all his authority, stripped of his certainty, asking for something through a broken down former cleric at a kitchen table in Germany.

At something in that image had moved the stone he’d been trying to move for years.

He said he was releasing it, not for Kam, for himself and for God.

His wife wept openly.

I held her hand for a while.

We prayed together.

I left their home carrying something different from what I had carried into it.

I had similar conversations with other people over the following weeks.

Not everyone was ready to receive what I brought them.

Some people told me plainly that they were not in a place where they could hear anything connected to Kamaya’s name without shutting down and I accepted that and did not push.

The asking was mine to do.

The receiving was theirs.

Some people needed weeks before they could respond.

Some people I could not find or reach.

I did what I could and I left the rest.

because the rest was not in my hands.

I also asked forgiveness on my own behalf from people I had been part of wronging through my years of service to the regime.

This was harder in some ways because these were wrongs I had a more direct connection to.

I had been the system in specific ways that I could point to.

I had given religious authority to decisions that harmed people.

I had been a face of the institution to people who were later crushed by that institution.

I could not undo any of it.

I could only acknowledge it and ask.

Some of those conversations were among the hardest of my life.

Some of them became among the most healing.

One man who had been in a situation I had been peripherilally part of told me quietly and directly that he had prayed for me for years since he had heard I converted.

He had prayed that I would come to know Jesus and that God would use the very things I had been.

There was a grace in that conversation that I’m still living inside of.

In late March, I began recording my testimony on video.

I sat in my apartment in front of my laptop and I spoke in far.

No studio, no production, no script beyond what I carried in my memory and my chest.

I told the whole story from the beginning of my life in mashed through everything.

I told it in the same plain way I have tried to tell it in this written form.

I stumbled over some parts.

I stopped and started.

I cried at some points and did not try to hide it.

A younger man from our community, someone with practical skills I do not have, helped me put it together into something that could be shared without being unwatchable.

Uh, we shared it in the last days of March 2026.

What happened after that is something I was not prepared for.

Even having been told that I was being sent back to tell this story to more than my small circle.

Within days, the video had traveled through the Iranian diaspora networks with a speed and reach that was startling.

Thousands of messages, then tens of thousands.

Iranians in Germany, in Sweden, in the UK, in the United States, in Canada, in Australia.

Iranians inside Iran who found the video through VPNs and encrypted channels and watched it in private rooms at risk of exactly the kind of trouble that I had once been part of administering.

The messages covered every kind of response.

Many were from people who had already come to Jesus and for whom the testimony confirmed and deepened something they already believed.

The many were from people who were in the process of searching, who had been quietly questioning for months or years and who had not had permission to take the next step and for whom the testimony did something in the space of permission.

Many were from people who had lost family members to the regime and who found in what Kam had asked me to carry some strange and painful form of closure that they had not expected to ever receive.

Many were from people who were angry, who found the testimony offensive or manipulative or false, and who wanted me to know it.

I read those messages, too.

Some of the most affecting messages came from people who described themselves as having been atheists or agnostics.

People who had left Islam and landed in a secular world view rather than a spiritual one.

And these people wrote to tell me that the testimony had unsettled them in a way that surprised them.

Not that it had immediately converted them, but that it had reopened something they thought they had closed, that it had put a question back in them that they had believed they had answered.

Several of them asked to talk.

Some of those conversations went on for weeks.

Some of them are ongoing.

Some of them ended with someone praying a simple prayer of their own.

I also received messages from Christians around the world who had no Iranian connection.

People who had seen the video through various sharing paths and who wrote to tell me something I was not expecting.

Many of them said the testimony had not primarily given them new information about the afterlife or about Iran.

What it had done, they said, was make their own faith feel alive again.

They spoke of a faith that had become habitual and comfortable, that occupied its designated space in their life without demanding anything of them, that had become furniture rather than fire.

And they said that hearing a man described standing in the presence of Jesus and being sent back with an urgent message had reminded them that what they believed was not a collection of comforting ideas.

It was a claim about the most real thing in the universe.

It was a matter of life and death and of something larger than life and death.

And that reminder had shifted something in how they were living.

I began doing more interviews and conversations.

As the months passed, Iranian media in exile, Christian organizations, individual gatherings online and in person.

I have not sought a platform in any ambitious sense.

I have said yes when I felt the yes was right and declined when it was not.

I’m still the same man I was before this happened.

Same small apartment, same community, same daily prayers, same homesickness for my children and for my country and for the place I briefly visited and will return to one day.

The testimony has not made me famous in any sense that changes my life in its daily texture.

What it has given me is a clarity about what I am here to do that I did not have before and a willingness to do it that is not my own strength but something I am given daily.

I want to speak now directly to the people who may be reading or hearing this because this is ultimately what I was sent back for.

To Iranians first wherever you are, I know your life.

I have lived it.

I I know what it costs to be Iranian and to ask the questions you are asking.

I know the weight of a religion that has been used to oppress you.

A god who has been invoked to justify your suffering.

A faith you were born into that became the instrument of your persecution.

I know the anger and the exhaustion and the spiritual emptiness that comes from all of that.

I am not asking you to adopt a different political system or a different cultural identity or a western religion.

I am asking you to meet the person that I met, Jesus.

The one who is the same whether he is encountered in Germany or Iran or anywhere else on earth.

The one who speaks far and knows the specific contours of Iranian suffering and Iranian longing.

the one who has been present in the house churches in Thran and in the prison cells of Evan and in the apartments where young Iranians have been meeting quietly in the night to worship him at great personal risk.

He is real.

He is for you.

He has always been for you.

And Iran, I believe with everything in me, belongs to him.

To Muslims reading this from any country, from any background, I was you.

I do not mean that as a condescension.

I mean it as a statement of fact and solidarity.

I was a cleric.

I had studied Islam for decades.

I believed completely.

And I am telling you that what I found on the other side of that journey did not make me hate Islam or hate Muslims or dismiss the genuine spiritual seeking that has always existed within the Muslim tradition.

What I found was Jesus who was always larger than the theological boxes I had been putting him in.

I am simply asking you to bring your honest questions to him directly, not to a denomination, not to a western cultural form of Christianity, to Jesus himself.

Ask him to reveal himself to you if he is real.

Pursue that question to its conclusion.

I cannot make that journey for you.

I can only tell you where mine led.

To Christians who have become comfortable, the message I was sent back with is partly directed at you.

And I say this with love and not with accusation.

Comfort is not a sin, but it can be a form of sleep.

The faith you carry is not a collection of comforting ideas.

It is the claim that the most real thing in the universe came into this world and died and came back and is alive and is present and is coming back again.

And that every human being you encounter is someone for whom that fact is either known and accepted or not.

And that the difference between those two things is the difference between everything and everything else.

Live awake inside that.

Let it be fire and not furniture.

The people around you who are searching need you to be someone who is genuinely in contact with what you claim to believe in.

To everyone in any tradition and in none.

I did not ask for this experience.

I did not seek it.

I am not a spiritual celebrity or a religious entrepreneur building a brand.

I am a 54year-old former Iranian cleric with a heart condition living in a small apartment in Germany who died briefly on his couch and was shown things that he cannot in good conscience keep to himself.

I have told them as plainly as I know how.

You will receive them or you will not.

And that is a choice I cannot make for you.

What I can tell you is that the choice is real and it matters and the time for it is now.

I want to close with my children if they ever read or hear this and I pray that they do.

My son, my daughter, I’ve not held you since you were 8 and 5 years old.

I have watched you grow up in photographs and in the fragments of information that have reached me over 14 years of distance.

I have prayed for you every single day.

Every single day without exception.

You are the people I love most in this world.

And the loss of your daily presence has been the sharpest pain of my life.

Sharper than the running, sharper than the exile, sharper than anything else.

I want you to know that what I saw is real.

Jesus is real.

The love I stood in is real.

And it is available to you.

Not through your father’s version of it or through anyone else’s.

Through your own encounter with him, your own honest searching, your own turning.

Iran is changing.

The country you are growing up in is not the country it will always be.

God has not forgotten Iran, God has not forgotten you.

And whatever walls have been between us, whatever you have been told about why your father left and what he became, I am asking you through these words to seek Jesus for yourselves, not for my sake, for your own, for my country.

Every day for 14 years.

Every day I have prayed for you.

Every single day your suffering is known.

Your dead are not forgotten.

The blood that has been poured into the ground of Iran for the sake of freedom and dignity and truth.

God has counted every drop of it.

The dawn that is coming is real.

I have been shown enough to know that it is real.

Hold on for the whole world reading this from wherever you are.

Repent.

Turn.

Come home to the one who made you and knows you and loves you with a love that sees everything and remains.

Come now.

The window is open.

Walk through it.

This is my testimony.

I have done what I was sent back to do.

To Jesus who held me when I had nothing and sent me back when I wanted to stay.

Here is the work you gave me.

It is done.

The rest is yours.

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