Iran Army Colonel Abandons Islam for Christianity After an Encounter With Jesus | TESTIMONY

My name is Hamid Pormand.

Once a proud soldier raised to pray five times a day, but who later found a love so powerful it was worth losing everything.

My rank, my home, even my freedom.

I wasn’t always a Christian.

I was born a Muslim, taught to serve Allah and Iran with all my heart.

But something was missing, a hole no duty could fill.

Then I met Jesus and he changed everything.

I was born in 1958 in Bandar Bucher, a dusty port city by the Persian Gulf.

The air always smelled of salt and fish, and the sun burned so hot you could feel it through your sandals.

I was the second of four brothers raised in a small house with a courtyard where my mother hung laundry and prayed.

My father ran a shop selling rice and spices.

His hands rough from work but gentle when he ruffled my hair.

Hamid, he’d say, be a man of honor.

Serve your family, your country, your God.

Those words shaped me like the waves carving the shore outside our home.

Our life revolved around Islam.

Five times a day, the call to prayer echoed from the mosque, and my mother would kneel on her prayer rug, her lips moving in quiet devotion.

I watched her, trying to feel what she felt.

At 8 years old, I learned to pray like her, bowing toward Mecca, reciting the words I was taught.

But even then, I felt a stirring, like a whisper I couldn’t hear clearly.

God felt far away, like a king I was supposed to serve but never met.

I didn’t dare say this out loud.

In our town, questions about faith could bring shame or worse.

I was a curious boy, always running through the streets, climbing date palms, or chasing my brothers to the water’s edge.

One day, when I was about 10, I slipped into our neighbor’s house.

His name was Aram, an Assyrian Christian, older than my father, with kind eyes.

I’d heard whispers about Christians.

They were different, strange, not like us.

Inside his home, I saw something that stopped me cold.

A wooden cross on the wall.

It was small, simple, but it felt alive, like it was watching me.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice small.

Arum smiled.

“It’s a sign of love,” he said.

“God’s love.

” I didn’t understand, but my heart raced.

I ran home, scared to tell anyone, but that cross stayed in my mind, a secret I carried like a stone in my pocket.

School was strict, and I was a good student, eager to make my parents proud.

My father dreamed I’d be more than a shopkeeper, and I wanted to make him smile.

By 16, I knew my path.

Iran was strong, proud, and the army was calling young men to serve.

I saw soldiers in their crisp uniforms marching through town, and I thought, “That’s who I want to be.

I wanted to protect my country, to be a hero.

” At 18, I joined the army, my chest swelling with pride as I kissed my mother goodbye.

She cried, but her eyes shone with hope.

Serve with honor, Hamid, she said.

I promised I would.

Army life was hard.

The desert sun burned my skin during training and my muscles achd from carrying a rifle for hours.

But I loved it.

I learned to lead, to command respect.

My officers saw something in me.

Strength maybe, or stubbornness.

By my late 20s, I was an officer, climbing ranks faster than my friends.

I stood tall in my uniform, my boots polished, my voice sharp when I gave orders.

By 30, I was a colonel leading men who trusted me with their lives.

I sent money home, bought my parents a better house, and felt I was living my father’s dream.

But deep inside, something was wrong.

No matter how many medals I earned, no matter how my men saluted, I felt empty.

At night, lying in my barracks, I’d stare at the ceiling, wondering, “Is this all there is?” I prayed the way I was taught, facing Mecca, reciting the words, but they felt like sand slipping through my fingers.

God was supposed to be close, but he felt like a stranger.

I started noticing things I hadn’t before.

My men, mostly Muslim, followed orders, but some seemed hollow like me.

Others, a few, were different.

There was a young soldier, Raza, who never joined the others at the mosque.

One night, I caught him reading a small book under his blanket, his face lit by a flashlight.

“What’s that?” I snapped, thinking it was forbidden.

He froze, then whispered, “It’s a Bible, sir.

” I should have reported him, but his eyes held no fear, only peace.

I let him go, but his peace haunted me.

What did he have that I didn’t? Around this time, I met Arlet.

She was an Assyrian Christian born into a faith I barely understood.

I saw her at a market in Bandar Busher, her dark hair catching the sun as she bought bread.

She smiled at me and my world stopped.

We talked and I learned she was kind, strong, unafraid to be different.

She spoke of Jesus like he was her friend, not a distant God.

“He loves us, Hamid,” she said once, her voice soft but sure.

“He died for us.

” Those words hit me like a bullet.

Died for us.

Why would God do that? I didn’t understand, but I wanted to.

Arlet became my wife, and with her, I felt closer to something true, something bigger than my uniform or my country.

We married a year later in 1986.

It wasn’t easy.

My parents worried about her faith, whispering that a Muslim man should choose a Muslim wife.

But I love Darllet, her strength, her kindness.

Our wedding was small, just family and a few friends, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and spice.

Arlet wore a simple white dress, her smile brighter than the sun.

That night as we sat in our new home, she did something that shook me.

She took my hand, bowed her head, and prayed.

Jesus, thank you for Hamid, for our love, for our life.

Her words were simple, but they hit me hard.

She wasn’t praying to a distant god.

She was talking to someone she knew.

I felt a pang of envy, a longing for that closeness.

I wanted to ask her about Jesus, but fear stopped me.

What would it mean to question everything I’d been taught? As a colonel, my life was order and discipline.

I led my men through drills, inspected their rifles, and planned missions along Iran’s borders.

My days were full, but my nights were restless.

I’d lie awake in our small apartment, Arlet sleeping beside me, her breath soft and steady.

I’d think about her prayers, about the cross I’d seen as a boy in a ram’s house, about Raza, the soldier who read a Bible in secret.

I started noticing things.

Arla would read her Bible in the morning, her fingers tracing the words, her face calm.

“What’s in there?” I asked once, trying to sound casual.

She smiled, her eyes warm.

Truth, she said.

Want to see? She handed me her Bible, its cover worn from years of love.

I took it, my hands shaking like I was holding something forbidden.

I hid it in a drawer, afraid my men might see, afraid of what it might do to me.

In a rain, Christians were outsiders, whispered about, sometimes feared.

But Arlet wasn’t afraid.

She spoke of Jesus with a joy that made my chest ache.

One night when Arlet was asleep, I pulled the Bible out.

The apartment was quiet, just the hum of crickets outside.

I sat at our small table, a single lamp casting shadows on the wall.

My heart pounded as I opened it to John’s gospel, the page Arlet had marked.

The words jumped out.

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

No one comes to the Father except through me.

I read it again, then again.

Jesus’s voice felt alive, like he was sitting across from me, looking into my soul.

I’d spent years praying toward Mecca.

But those prayers felt like echoes in an empty room.

These words were different.

They were a promise, a call.

I closed the book, my hands trembling.

I was a colonel, a man of strength, but I felt small, like a child lost in the dark.

For months, I wrestled.

I’d read the Bible in secret, locking my office door at the barracks, hiding it under papers when someone knocked.

I read about Jesus’s love, his sacrifice, his resurrection.

It was so different from what I’d known in Islam.

I was taught to submit, to follow rules, to earn God’s favor.

But Jesus said, “Come to me all you who are weary, and I will give you rest.

” Matthew 11:28.

Rest.

I wanted that.

I was tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of the emptiness.

But becoming a Christian wasn’t just a choice.

It was dangerous.

In Iran, leaving Islam could mean prison, even death.

I thought of Arlet, of our future.

What if I lost everything? My rank, my honor, my family’s respect.

One evening, Arlet caught me reading.

I froze, the Bible open on my lap.

She didn’t say anything, just sat beside me and took my hand.

Hamid, she whispered.

Jesus is calling you.

Don’t be afraid.

Her words broke something in me.

I wanted to believe, but fear was a chain around my heart.

“What if I’m wrong?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“What if this costs us everything?” She looked at me, her eyes full of tears, but steady.

“Jesus is worth it,” she said.

“He’s the only truth.

” I wanted to argue, to cling to the faith I’d known, but her certainty shook me.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept hearing her words, feeling Jesus’s pull, like a tide drawing me to shore.

In 1990, everything changed.

I was sent on a mission to a remote base near the border.

The nights were cold, the stars sharp in the sky.

One night, alone in my tent, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I fell to my knees, the dirt rough under me, and prayed, not to Allah, but to the God I didn’t yet know.

If you’re real, I whispered, “Show me.

I’m lost.

I need you.

” Tears burned my eyes and I felt foolish.

A grown man crying like a boy.

I fell asleep, exhausted, my heart heavy.

That night, I had a dream.

I was standing in a field, the wind soft, the air warm.

A man stood before me, his face kind, his eyes like fire and love mixed together.

He wore a white robe and his presence filled me with peace I’d never known.

Hamid, he said, his voice gentle but strong.

Follow me.

I knew it was Jesus.

I fell to my knees in the dream, sobbing, not from fear but from joy.

He touched my shoulder, and it was like a weight lifted, like chains breaking.

I woke up, my face wet with tears, my heart racing.

The tent was dark, but I felt light like the sun was rising inside me.

I knew in that moment that Jesus was the truth, the only way to God.

I whispered, “I’m yours, and it felt like coming home.

” The next morning, I felt different.

The world looked sharper, the colors brighter.

I wanted to shout to tell everyone, but I knew I couldn’t.

Iran wasn’t safe for converts.

I told Arlet when I returned home.

She cried, hugging me so tight I could barely breathe.

“I’ve been praying for this,” she said, her voice shaking.

“We knelt together and she prayed, thanking Jesus for calling me.

I felt his love through her through the words we spoke, but fear lingered.

What would this mean for us? For my career, for our future? I found a pastor in Bandar Busher, a man named Daniel, who led a secret house church.

He was older, his face lined from years of hiding his faith.

I met him in a small room, the windows covered, the air thick with the scent of tea and fear.

He listened to my story, nodding, his eyes kind.

“Are you ready to follow Jesus no matter the cost?” he asked.

I thought of my men, my rank, my parents’ pride.

I thought of Arlet of the dream.

“Yes,” I said, my voice steady for the first time.

That night, in a quiet ceremony, he baptized me in a tub of water behind closed doors.

As the water ran down my face, I felt clean, new, like a soldier given a new mission.

I was no longer just Colonel Hamid Porand.

I was Hamid, a child of God.

But joy came with fear.

I was a Christian now, but still a colonel.

I had to hide my faith like a secret weapon I couldn’t show.

I’d pray in my office, whispering psalms under my breath, my door locked.

I’d ra the Bible at night, hiding it under my pillow.

When Arllet and I finished, I joined Daniel’s house church, Gemma Rabani, where we sang in whispers, always watching the door.

Every meeting felt like a risk, but it was worth it.

I felt Jesus with me, his love like a fire in my bones.

I’d look at Arlet, her face glowing as we prayed, and I’d think, “This is what truth feels like.

” One night at church, I met a young man, a former Muslim like me.

His name was Ali, and his hands shook as he told his story.

He’d lost his job, his family’s respect, because he followed Jesus.

“Why do it?” I asked, my voice low.

He smiled, tears in his eyes.

Because Jesus is real, he said.

He’s the only one who loves me like this.

His words hit me hard.

I saw myself in him.

The fear, the joy, the choice.

I realized then that Jesus wasn’t just a belief.

He was a person alive, calling me to love him back.

I went home and held Arlet, tears streaming down my face.

“He’s worth it,” I whispered, echoing her words.

She nodded, her eyes shining.

He always is.

As I stood on the edge of this new life, I didn’t know the storm’s coming.

I didn’t know I’d lose my rank, my freedom, my home.

But I knew Jesus was with me, and that was enough.

My journey was just beginning, and the road ahead would test my faith in ways I couldn’t imagine.

Let me tell you what happened next.

how Jesus carried me through the fire and why I’d choose him again every time.

Being a Christian colonel was like walking a tightroppe over a fire.

Iran was a place of pride and power, but also suspicion.

Christians, especially converts from Islam, were watched, whispered about, sometimes arrested.

I knew the risks.

I’d heard stories of men like me, Muslims who turned to Jesus, taken away, their families left in shame.

Yet every morning as I buttoned my uniform, I felt Jesus with me.

His words from John 14:6, “I am the way, the truth, and the life were my anchor.

” They reminded me who I served.

Even when I stood before my men, barking orders, hiding the fire in my soul.

My days were filled with duty.

I led patrols along Iran’s borders.

My jeep bouncing over rocky roads, dust choking the air.

I trained my men to march in perfect lines, their rifles gleaming, their faces hard with determination.

I was proud of them, proud to serve my country.

But every salute, every command felt like a mask.

I’d walk through the barracks, my boots clicking on the concrete, and wonder if they knew I followed Jesus, would they still follow me? I was their leader, but I felt alone, carrying a truth I couldn’t share.

Arllet, my wife, was my refuge.

Our small apartment in Bandar Busher was a sanctuary where the scent of her cooking, saffron, rice, and lamb mixed with the warmth of her prayers.

At night, when the world was quiet, we’d kneel together, our hands clasped, whispering to Jesus.

“Protect us, Lord,” she’d pray, her voice steady but soft.

“Guide Hamid’s steps.

” I’d watch her, her face glowing in the lamplight, and feel a love so deep it hurt.

She was braver than me, unafraid to live her faith, even as an Assyrian Christian in a land that didn’t trust her.

“Jesus is worth it,” she’d say when I worried.

Her words were a lifeline, pulling me back when fear tried to drown me.

“Our sons, Emanuel and David, were my joy and my fear.

They were young, just five and three, their laughter filling our home like music.

I’d tuck them into bed, their small hands clutching mine, and tell them stories.

Sometimes I’d slip in tales of Jesus, the good shepherd, the friend who never leaves.

“Does Jesus love me?” Emanuel asked once, his eyes wide.

“More than you can imagine,” I said, my throat tight.

I wanted them to know him, but I was terrified.

What if my faith put them in danger? What if they grew up without a father because of my choice? Those thoughts haunted me like shadows in the night.

I found strength in our secret church, Jamaat Rabani.

We met in a basement, the windows covered with blankets, the air thick with the scent of tea, and whispered hymns.

Pastor Daniel led us, his voice low but full of fire.

We’d sing, “What a friend we have in Jesus.

” Our voices barely above a breath, afraid the neighbors might hear.

I’d look around at the others, men and women, young and old, all risking everything to worship.

There was Sarah, a widow who’d lost her son to prison for his faith.

There was Raza, the soldier I’d caught reading a Bible years before, now a brother in Christ.

Their courage shamed me.

I was a colonel, used to giving orders.

But here, I was just Hamid, a man learning to trust Jesus.

One night, I took a risk that changed me.

A young soldier under my command, Hussein, came to me after a drill.

His face was pale, his hands shaking.

Sir, he whispered, I need to talk.

We went to my office, the door locked, the air heavy.

He told me he’d found a Bible in a market hidden in a stack of old books.

He’d been reading it, and it was breaking his heart.

“Is Jesus real?” he asked, his voice cracking.

I froze.

I could have sent him away, reported him, but I saw myself in his eyes.

the hunger, the fear.

I took a breath, my heart pounding, and said, “Yes, Hussein.

He’s real.

He’s the truth.

” I told him my story, the dream of Jesus, the peace I’d found.

His eyes filled with tears, and he said, “I want that.

” That night, in a hidden room, I baptized him, pouring water over his head as Pastor Daniel prayed.

Hussein wept and so did I.

It was the first time I’d led someone to Jesus and it felt like the greatest mission of my life.

But every step closer to Jesus brought me closer to danger.

I started noticing things.

Soldiers watching me, whispers in the mess hall.

Once during a barracks inspection, an officer found my Bible tucked under a stack of reports.

My heart stopped as he held it up, his eyes narrow.

“What’s this, Colonel?” he asked.

I lied, my voice steady, but my insides churning.

“A gift from my wife’s family,” I said.

“I keep it for her.

” He stared at me, then put it down.

I walked away, my legs weak, knowing how close I’d come to ruin.

That night, I held Arlet and cried.

“I’m scared,” I admitted.

She kissed my forehead.

Jesus is with us, she said.

He’s stronger than fear.

I wanted to believe her, but the weight of my secret was crushing me.

My faith grew, but so did the tension.

I’d pray in my office.

The door locked, whispering Psalm 23.

The Lord is my shepherd.

I shall not want.

The words were a shield protecting me from the fear that clawed at my heart.

I’d read about Jesus’s courage, how he faced death for us, and I’d think, “If he could do that, I can keep going.

” But it wasn’t easy.

I’d see my men praying at the mosque, their heads bowed, and feel like a stranger.

I’d hear my parents talk about Allah, their pride in me as a Muslim soldier, and my heart would ache.

I wanted to tell them about Jesus, to share the joy that filled me, but I couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not when it could break their hearts or put them in danger.

One moment broke me open.

It was 1993 and Emanuel, my eldest, was six.

He came home from school, his face bruised, his eyes red from crying.

“They called me a dirty Christian,” he said, his voice small.

I held him, my heart shattering.

Arlet’s faith was known, and our boys were paying the price.

I wanted to protect them, to shield them from the world’s hate.

That night, I prayed harder than ever, tears streaming down my face.

“Jesus, why is this so hard?” I asked.

“Why do my sons suffer for my faith?” I felt his presence, not in words, but in a peace that settled over me like a warm blanket in the cold.

I realized then that following Jesus wasn’t just about joy.

It was about carrying a cross just as he did.

I looked at Emanuel sleeping, his small chest rising and falling, and vowed to teach him Jesus’s love no matter the cost.

The risks grew.

In 1994, I heard about a pastor in another city, arrested for sharing the gospel.

He was gone.

His family left with nothing.

I knew it could be me.

I started being careful, avoiding certain soldiers, checking my office for spies, but I couldn’t stop.

Jesus was too real, his love too strong.

I’d lead secret Bible studies with Reza and Hussein, teaching them about grace, about forgiveness.

One night, Hussein said, “Sir, you’re different.

You’re not just a colonel.

You’re a man of God.

” His words hit me like a wave.

I wasn’t just hiding my faith.

I was living it, even in the shadows.

But the shadows were closing in.

One evening, Arlet and I sat in our kitchen, the boys asleep.

She took my hand, her eyes serious.

Hamid, she said.

They’re watching you.

I feel it.

My stomach twisted.

I’d sensed it, too.

The glances, the questions.

What do we do? I asked.

She squeezed my hand.

We trust Jesus, she said.

He’s the way, even when the path is dark.

I nodded, but fear not at me.

I thought of my men, my family, my country.

I’d sworn to protect them, but now I was protecting something bigger.

My faith, my savior.

I didn’t know it then, but the fire was coming.

A fire that would test everything I believed.

The day my secret was exposed, the day I faced the fire.

Let me tell you what happened next.

How Jesus held me when the world turned against me.

The air was thick with fear that September night in 2004.

I stood in a small house and garage surrounded by brothers and sisters in Christ.

Our voices low as we sang praises to Jesus.

The room was dim, curtains drawn tight, the scent of tea and sweat hanging heavy.

I was Colonel Hamid Porand, a man who’d led soldiers in battle.

But here, I was just Hamid, a Christian clinging to the truth.

I’d lived with my secret faith for 14 years, balancing my love for Jesus with my duty to Iran.

But that night, everything changed.

The door crashed open, soldiers stormed in, and my world turned to fire.

This is the story of how I faced persecution, how I lost everything I’d built, and how Jesus carried me through the darkest days of my life, proving he is the only way worth following.

We were at a church conference, a rare gathering of believers from across Iran.

Pastor Daniel led us, his voice steady as he spoke of Jesus’s love.

I felt alive, my heart full, surrounded by people who shared my faith.

Arlet was home with our sons Emanuel and David, now 10 and 8, and I’d promised to be back by morning.

But as we prayed, boots thundered outside.

The door burst open and soldiers poured in, their rifles glinting in the lamplight.

“Nobody move!” one shouted.

My heart stopped.

I knew these men, not my soldiers, but men like them, trained to obey, to suspect.

They rounded us up, their faces hard, their voices sharp.

I saw fear in my brother’s eyes, but I stood tall, my colonel’s instincts kicking in.

“Stay calm,” I whispered to the others.

Inside, I was trembling.

They searched us, tearing through bags, finding Bibles and himnels.

One soldier grabbed me, his grip tight.

“You’re Colonel Pormon?” he asked, his eyes narrow.

I nodded, my throat dry.

“You’re coming with us.

” They handcuffed me, the metal cold against my wrists, and led me out.

I glanced back at Pastor Daniel, his face calm, his lips moving in silent prayer.

As they pushed me into a van, I thought of Arlet, of my boys, of Jesus’s words.

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

I clung to them, a lifeline in the dark.

The van took me to Evan prison, Iran’s house of fear.

The gates loomed like a monster’s jaws, swallowing me whole.

Inside, the air was cold, smelling of damp stone and despair.

They shoved me into a cell.

the door slamming shut with a clang that echoed in my bones.

The cell was small, barely enough room to lie down with a thin mattress and a bucket in the corner.

I sank to the floor, my uniform dusty, my heart pounding.

I thought of Arlet’s face, her smile when we prayed together.

I thought of Emanuel’s question, “Does Jesus love me?” I whispered, “Jesus, are you here?” The silence was heavy, but I felt a flicker of peace like a candle in the wind.

Days blurred into nights.

The guards interrogated me, their voices sharp, their questions like knives.

“Why did you betray Islam?” one demanded, his breath hot on my face.

“You’re a colonel, a Muslim, and you follow this Christian nonsense.

I wanted to shout that Jesus was no nonsense, that he was the truth.

But I stayed quiet, my lips trembling.

They knew I was a convert, and in Iran that was a crime.

Apostasy could mean death.

I thought of my boys, of Arlet’s prayers, and prayed silently.

Lord, give me strength.

Once a guard threw my Bible to the floor, its pages scattering.

I wanted to cry, but I held still, remembering Jesus’s words.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’s sake.

I wasn’t alone.

He was with me.

The worst part was thinking of my family.

Arlet and the boys were ordered to leave our military housing.

Their lives upended because of me.

I imagined them in a tiny apartment.

Arlet trying to explain why I was gone.

I pictured Emanuel’s bruised face from years before when kids called him a dirty Christian.

Now they’d suffer more because of my faith.

My heart broke, tears falling as I prayed in the dark.

“Jesus, protect them,” I whispered.

“They don’t deserve this.

” But even in my pain, I felt him.

A warmth in my chest like his hand on my shoulder.

I remembered my dream from 1990.

Jesus saying, “Follow me.

I’d chosen him then, and I’d choose him now, no matter the cost.

” In February 2005, they took me to a military court in Thyron.

The room was cold, the judge’s face hard as stone.

They accused me of deceiving the army, saying I’d hidden my conversion to hold my rank.

I wanted to scream that my superiors knew that they’d exempted me from Ramadan fasting, but the evidence was ignored.

I stood there, my uniform gone, just a man in a worn shirt, my hands cuffed.

The judge read the verdict.

3 years in prison, discharged from the army, my pension stripped.

My family would lose everything.

Our home, our security.

I thought of Arlet’s voice.

Jesus is worth it.

And tears burned my eyes.

I nodded, accepting the sentence, knowing I wasn’t alone.

But the fire wasn’t over.

They sent me back to Evan.

And soon I faced a second trial.

This time in Bandar Busher for apostasy and procilitizing.

These charges were worse.

Death was the penalty under Iran’s Sharia law.

As they drove me to the court, I stared out the window.

the desert blurring past.

I thought of my boys growing up without me.

I thought of Arlet, her prayers my only comfort.

In the courtroom, the air was heavy, the judge’s eyes cold.

They accused me of turning from Islam, of spreading Christian lies.

I stood tall, my voice steady.

I follow Jesus because he is the truth, I said.

He is the way to God.

The room went silent and I felt peace like Jesus was standing beside me.

The trial was a blur of questions and accusations.

They brought up my secret church, my baptism of Hussein, the soldier I’d led to Christ.

I didn’t deny it.

How could I? Jesus was my savior, my everything.

But fear gnawed at me.

What if they took my life? What would happen to Arlet, to Emanuel and David? I prayed through the nights, my knees sore on the cell floor, asking Jesus for a miracle.

One day, a fellow prisoner, a Christian named Raza, not my soldier, but another convert, slipped me a torn Bible page.

It was Psalm 23.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

I clutched it, tears falling, and sang it in my heart, my voice too weak to speak.

On May 28th, 2005, the judge in Bandar Busher gave his verdict.

I stood, my legs trembling, expecting death.

But he said something I’ll never forget.

No charges apply under Sharia law.

I was acquitted of apostasy.

He looked at me, his voice strange, almost kind.

I don’t know who you are, but apparently the rest of the world does.

I didn’t understand then, but I learned later that people across the globe, Christians, human rights groups were praying for me, speaking my name.

I felt Jesus’s hand in that moment, a miracle I couldn’t explain.

I was sent back to heaven to serve my three years, but I was alive.

I wept, thanking Jesus, knowing he’d saved me.

Prison was a crucible.

The days were long, the nights endless.

The guards mocked me, calling me traitor, spitting on my food.

But I found moments of grace.

One night, a guard, younger than the others, slipped me a piece of bread when I was hungry.

“Why?” I asked, my voice.

He shrugged, looking away.

You don’t seem like a criminal.

I saw Jesus in that act, in the kindness of a stranger.

I shared my faith with prisoners, whispering about Jesus when the guards weren’t listening.

“One man, a thief named Ali, listened, his eyes wide.

” “Does Jesus love even me?” he asked.

I nodded, tears in my eyes.

“He loves us all.

” Ally prayed with me that night, and I felt Jesus’s love fill the cell, brighter than the darkness.

The hardest moments were thinking of my family.

I got letters sometimes, smuggled in by a kind guard.

Arllet wrote, “We’re okay, Hamid.

The boys miss you, but we pray for you every day.

” I’d hold her words, my fingers tracing her handwriting, and cry.

I missed Emanuel’s laugh, David’s questions.

I missed Arlet’s touch, her voice praying over me.

But her letters reminded me of Jesus’s promise.

I am with you always.

Matthew 28:20.

I clung to that singing hymns in my heart when the guards couldn’t hear.

Amazing grace became my anthem.

Its words a shield against despair.

To those listening, I know pain.

Maybe you’ve lost something.

your home, your family, your hope.

Maybe you don’t know Jesus, but you feel the weight of a world that doesn’t understand you.

I was there in a cell, stripped of everything, facing death for my faith.

But Jesus was my strength, my light in the darkness.

He’s not just the story.

He’s alive, holding you when you break.

If you’re searching, if you’re hurting, turn to him.

He carried me through heaven, through trials, through fear.

He’s the way, the truth, the life, and he’s worth every tear.

My story isn’t over.

Let me tell you what happened when I walked out of that prison, how Jesus gave me a new mission, and why I’ll never stop following him.

The gates of Evan Prison creaked open in 2007, and I stepped into the sunlight, a free man.

After 3 years of darkness, my heart pounded, not from fear, but from a joy I could barely contain.

I was no longer Colonel Amid Porand, the soldier with medals and rank.

I was just Hamid, a child of God, broken and rebuilt by his love.

As I walked out, I saw Arlet waiting, her face worn but radiant.

Our sons Emanuel and David, now 13 and 11, clinging to her sides.

Their eyes met mine, and I ran to them, tears streaming as I pulled them into my arms.

Jesus had carried me through the fire, and now he was giving me a new mission.

to live for him, to share his love no matter the cost.

This is the story of how I found purpose beyond the bars, how Jesus turned my pain into a testimony, and why I’ll never stop following the way, the truth, and the life.

That first embrace outside Evan felt like a miracle.

Arlet’s arms were warm, her tears soaking my shirt.

You’re home,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“Emmanuel and David hugged me tight, their small bodies trembling.

” “We prayed for you every day, Baba,” Emanuel said, his voice cracking.

I wept, my heart full and shattered at once.

I’d missed so much.

Their laughter, their growth, their bedtime stories, but as I held them, I felt Jesus’s presence, like he was wrapping us all in his love.

Thank you, Lord, I prayed silently, for bringing me back to them.

The world had taken my rank, my pension, our home, but it couldn’t take my faith.

Jesus was my strength, and he was enough.

We returned to Bandar Busher.

But life was different.

The army had stripped us of our military housing, and we moved into a small apartment, the walls thin, the air heavy with salt from the Persian Gulf.

Arllet had worked tirelessly to support our boys, taking small jobs, leaning on our church family.

I looked at her, her hands rough from labor, her eyes still bright with faith, and felt a love deeper than ever.

You’re my hero,” I told her one night, my voice thick.

She smiled, touching my face.

“Jesus is our hero,” she said.

“He brought you home.

” Her words reminded me of the cross I’d seen as a boy in a ram’s house.

The cross that had sparked my journey.

Jesus’s love had carried us through, and I knew he wasn’t done with me yet.

Finding work was hard.

A discharged colonel with a prison record was a marked man.

I took odd jobs, fixing boats, hauling crates at the port.

My hands blistered, my pride gone.

But I didn’t care.

Every morning I’d wake to Arllet’s prayers, her voice steady.

Jesus, guide us.

Use us.

I’d watch Emanuel and David, now teenagers, helping with chores, their faith growing despite the whispers at school.

Are you still a Christian, Baba? David asked once, his eyes searching.

I nodded, my throat tight.

Always, I said.

Jesus is the truth, and he’s worth everything.

I told them stories of prison, of the Bible page from Psalm 23, of the guard’s kindness, of Ali, the thief who found Jesus.

Their eyes shone, and I saw they were learning what I’d learned.

Jesus was worth any sacrifice.

My heart burned to share this truth.

In prison, I’d promised Jesus I’d live for him if he brought me out.

Now I felt his call clear as the dream from 1990 when he said, “Follow me.

” I went to Pastor Daniel, who’d survived his own arrests.

We met in the same basement church, the air still thick with tea and whispered hymns.

I want to serve Jesus, I told him, my voice shaking.

I want to tell others about him.

Daniel’s eyes crinkled with a smile.

You already are, Hamid, he said.

Your life is a testimony.

He asked me to be a lay pastor, leading our small flock in secret.

I hesitated, remembering the soldiers who’d stormed our conference, the cold of Evans Cell.

But I thought of Jesus’s words, “Go and make disciples.

” I said, “Yes, my heart racing, knowing this was my new mission.

” Leading the church was dangerous.

We met in different homes, always at night, curtains drawn, voices low.

I’d share my story, my childhood by the gulf.

My dream of Jesus, my years in prison.

People listened, their faces lit by candle light, some crying, some nodding.

One night, a young woman named Miam came, her headscarf tight, her eyes scared.

She was a Muslim, curious about Jesus.

“Is he really the way?” she asked, her voice trembling.

I told her about my dream, about heaven, about the peace that held me when I faced death.

Jesus loves you,” I said, my voice cracking.

“He died for you.

” She wept.

And that night, she prayed to follow him.

I baptized her in a quiet room, tears in my eyes as I poured water over her head.

It was like baptizing Hussein years before, but now I wasn’t a colonel hiding my faith.

I was a servant living it.

The most powerful moment came unexpectedly.

One evening, a man came to our church.

His face familiar but worn.

It was Raza, not my soldier from years ago, but another Raza, a former army officer who’ reported me to the authorities.

My heart froze.

He stood at the door, his eyes down.

“Hamid,” he said, his voice low.

“I need to talk.

” We stepped outside, the night air cool, my hands shaking.

He looked at me, tears in his eyes.

I betrayed you, he said.

I told them about your faith.

I thought I was doing right.

I wanted to be angry, but I remembered Jesus’s words.

Forgive and you will be forgiven.

I took a breath, my heart heavy.

I forgive you, I said, my voice breaking.

He sobbed, falling to his knees.

I’ve been reading the Bible, he whispered.

I want what you have.

That night, I prayed with him and he gave his life to Jesus.

I wept, holding him, feeling Jesus’s love heal us both.

Forgiving Raza was like breaking a chain, setting me free.

My story spread even beyond Iran.

Letters came, smuggled through friends, from Christians in places I’d never seen, America, Europe, Australia.

They said they’d prayed for me in prison that my faith inspired them.

I was stunned.

Me, a broken man from Bander Busher touching hearts across the world.

One letter from a woman named Sarah said, “Your story made me love Jesus more.

I read it to Arllet, tears streaming.

See,” she said, her smile soft.

“Jesus is using you.

” I felt unworthy, but I saw his plan.

My pain, my prison, my loss.

It wasn’t for nothing.

It was a testimony, a light to show others the way.

One night in our basement church, I preached to a small group, maybe 20 people, their faces hidden in shadows.

I told them about Evan, about the judge’s aquitt’s redemption.

“Jesus is the truth,” I said, my voice shaking.

He’s worth every tear, every fear.

A man in the back, a Muslim who’d come in secret, stood up, his eyes wet.

“I want to know him,” he said.

We prayed together, and he accepted Jesus, his voice trembling with joy.

I looked at him, at Miam, at the others, and my heart swelled.

This was why I’d suffered because Jesus wanted to reach them to show them his love.

I was no colonel now, but I was leading a greater mission, one that changed eternities.

Life wasn’t easy.

We lived simply, scraping by, always watching for danger.

The government still watched converts, and I knew prison could come again.

But fear didn’t rule me anymore.

Jesus was my shield, his love my strength.

I’d sit with Arlet at night, our boys asleep, and we’d pray, our hands clasped.

“Thank you, Jesus,” I’d say, my voice thick, “for turning my pain into purpose.

” Arllet would smile, her eyes shining.

“He always does,” she’d say.

We’d read John 14:6 together, the words that had called me years ago.

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

They were more than words now.

They were my life, my reason to keep going.

To those listening, I know what it’s like to lose everything.

Your place, your pride, your safety.

Maybe you’re searching, wondering if there’s a truth worth living for.

Maybe you don’t know Jesus, but you feel a pull, a whisper in your heart.

I was a Muslim, a colonel, a prisoner, and Jesus found me.

He’s not just a religion.

He’s a savior, a friend who loves you through the fire.

If you’re hurting, if you’re lost, turn to him.

Read his words.

Ask him to show you.

He carried me from a cell to a new mission.

From despair to hope.

He’s calling you just as he called me to a love that’s worth everything.

My story doesn’t end here.

Every day I live for Jesus, sharing his love in secret rooms, in whispered prayers.

I’ve lost much, but I’ve gained more.

Peace, purpose, a savior who never leaves.

If you’re listening, Christian or not, I pray my story touches you.

I pray you see Jesus, the way, the truth, the life, and choose to follow him.

He’s worth it all and he’s waiting for you.