The place where political prisoners and enemies of the state were sent to be broken.

the place where countless souls had been tortured and killed behind walls that the outside world could never see.

I was about to become one of them.

They processed me in a cold room with bright lights that hurt my eyes.

They stripped me of my clothes and gave me a thin prison uniform.

They took my belongings, including my fy Bible, which one of the guards held up and laughed at before throwing it into a trash bin.

They photographed me and recorded my name and crime.

Apostasy from Islam, attempting to spread Christianity, threatening the security of the Islamic Republic.

Each charge carried the death penalty.

They put me in a cell so small I could barely lie down.

The walls were concrete and damp.

The floor was covered in stains I did not want to identify.

A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting everything in a sickly yellow light.

There was no window, no fresh air, no way to know if it was day or night.

I sat on the cold floor with my back against the wall and I prayed.

I thanked Jesus for giving me the courage to deliver his message.

I asked him to be with me through whatever was coming.

I I told him I was not afraid to die for his name.

The interrogations began the next day.

They came for me in the early hours and dragged me to a room with a metal chair bolted to the floor.

They strapped me into the chair and asked me questions for hours.

Who had converted me to Christianity? Where had I gotten the Bible? How many other people were part of my network? Who were the leaders of the underground church in Mashad? I told them the truth.

I said I had found Jesus on my own through reading the Bible.

I said no one had recruited me or brainwashed me.

I said I had no network and knew no leaders.

They did not believe me.

They beat me with their fists and with rubber hoses.

They burned my arms with cigarettes.

They deprived me of sleep for days at a time.

They played recordings of screaming at full volume outside my cell.

They told me my execution had already been scheduled and that I would hang within the week.

But through it all, I felt a peace that I cannot explain.

The presence of Jesus was so strong in that prison cell that sometimes I forgot where I was.

He was with me during every beating.

He whispered words of comfort in my ear when I thought I could not endure another minute.

He reminded me that he had suffered far worse for my sake and that my suffering had purpose.

The torture continued for what I later learned was 3 weeks.

Time lost all meaning inside those walls.

Days blended into nights.

Pain blended into numbness.

At some point, my body began to shut down.

I stopped eating the small portions of stale bread they pushed through the slot in my door.

I grew weak and feverish and infection spread through the wounds on my body that had not been treated.

I began having visions again.

Sometimes I saw Jesus standing in the corner of my cell, smiling at me with that infinite love.

Sometimes I saw my mother and father waiting for me in a garden filled with light.

Sometimes I saw my brother as a boy running through the streets of Mashad, laughing without a care in the world.

I knew I was dying.

I could feel my life draining away with each passing hour.

And I was at peace with it.

I had done what Jesus asked me to do.

I had delivered the message.

The rest was in his hands.

If he wanted to take me home now, I was ready to go.

I closed my eyes and waited for the end.

But the end did not come the way I expected.

One morning, the door of my cell opened and guards entered to drag me out again.

I was too weak to walk, so they carried me through the hallways.

I thought they were taking me to be executed.

I thought this was the end.

But instead, they brought me to a room I had not seen before.

It was cleaner than the interrogation rooms.

There were chairs and a table and a window that let in actual sunlight.

They dropped me into one of the chairs and left.

I sat there blinking in the light, trying to understand what was happening.

Then the door opened again and my brother walked in.

He was alone.

No guards, no aids, just the two of us in that room.

He stood there looking at me for a long time.

I must have been a terrible sight, beaten and broken and barely alive.

The man who shared his face reduced to a bloody skeleton in a prison uniform.

I wondered if he saw himself when he looked at me.

I wondered if some small part of him felt shame for what had been done to his own brother in his name.

When my brother finally spoke, his voice was different than it had been in his office.

The rage was gone.

In its place was something I had not heard from him in decades.

Weariness.

He sat down across from me and looked at the table.

He said he had been informed of my condition.

He said the guards had been too aggressive in their interrogation.

He said he had ordered them to stop.

I waited for him to say more.

He took a deep breath and looked up at me.

He said he had thought about what I told him.

He said my words had disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.

He said he did not believe in my Jesus and never would.

But he said something else, too.

He said he remembered who I used to be.

He said he remembered the quiet boy who followed him around the house in Mashhat.

He said he remembered teaching me to read when our father was too busy.

He said despite everything I had done, I was still his brother.

We still shared the same blood, the same parents, the same childhood.

And because of that bond, he could not hang me in public like a common criminal.

He said he would give me one chance.

He would send me out of the country and ban me from ever returning.

He would erase all records of what had happened.

The world would never know I had been arrested.

But if I ever tried to come back to Iran or if I ever spoke publicly about what had happened, I would be killed immediately.

No trial, no prison, just a bullet in the head.

I looked at my brother sitting across from me.

This man who controlled armies and nuclear programs and billions of dollars.

This man who was feared by millions and woripped by millions more.

This man who held the power of life and death over 80 million people.

And all I saw was a lonely old man trapped in a prison of his own making.

His throne was his cell.

His power was his chain.

He had everything the world could offer.

and yet he had nothing that mattered.

I reached across the table with my bruised and broken hand.

I placed it on top of his hand.

He flinched at my touch, but he did not pull away.

I said, “Ali, I forgive you.

” I said, “Everything they did to me in this prison, I forgive.

” I said, “The years of silence and rejection, I forgive.

” I said, “I will pray for you every day for the rest of my life.

” I said, “Jesus loves you and so do I.

Tears filled my brother’s eyes.

For one moment, the mask of the Supreme Leader cracked and I saw the boy from Baja Street looking back at me.

Then the moment passed.

He pulled his hand away and stood up.

He called for the guards and told them to arrange my deportation.

He walked to the door and stopped.

Without turning around, he said, “Goodbye, Mosen.

” Then he was gone.

3 days later, I was on a plane flying out of Iran forever.

I watched the land of my birth disappear beneath the clouds.

I did not know where they were sending me.

I did not care.

I was alive when I should have been dead.

Jesus had preserved me through the fire.

He had given me the chance to speak his name to the most powerful man in the Islamic Republic.

The seed had been planted.

What happened next was between my brother and God.

I landed in Turkey and from there made my way to Europe where I connected with organizations that helped persecuted Christians from Iran.

I lived quietly for several years recovering from my injuries and growing stronger in my faith.

Then I felt Jesus calling me to speak again, not in secret this time, publicly to the whole world.

I recorded my testimony and released it online.

I used my real name and showed my real face.

The face of the Supreme Leader’s brother.

The face that had been my curse was now my megaphone.

The video spread across the internet like fire.

Millions of Iranians watched it inside the country using VPNs to bypass the censorship.

Messages poured in from people who said my story had touched their hearts.

People who said they were secret believers, too.

People who said they had been searching for God and my words had shown them where to find him.

I am recording this final message now in a small apartment in a European city I cannot name for security reasons.

I am 79 years old.

My body carries the scars of what happened in Evan prison.

Some nights the pain keeps me awake, but my spirit has never been stronger.

I think about my brother every single day.

I pray for him every morning and every night.

I do not know if he will ever accept Jesus.

I do not know if the seed I planted will ever take root.

But I know that I obeyed what Jesus asked me to do.

I delivered the message.

I warned him about his ending.

I told him about the love that could save him.

The rest is not up to me.

I want to speak now to every Iranian watching this.

I want to speak to you directly.

The same Jesus who found me in my loneliness and emptiness is looking for you right now.

He is appearing in dreams and visions all across Iran.

He is calling Muslims by name and offering them a love they have never experienced in their religion.

Hundreds of thousands of Iranians have already said yes to him.

The underground church is exploding.

The fire has already started and no government on earth can put it out.

To my brother, if you are watching this, I want you to know that my door is always open.

My heart is always ready to receive you.

It is not too late.

Jesus is still calling.

All you have to do is answer.

And to everyone else, I say this.

If my testimony has touched your heart, then write in the comments, “The fire has already started.

Let it be a declaration.

Let it be a prayer.

Let it be a prophecy over the nation of Iran.

Jesus is coming.

He is already here.

And the throne of the Ayatollah will bow before the throne of the King of Kings.

 

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