The apartment belonged to a Christian widow named Sister Miam who had opened her home as a refuge for underground believers and visiting workers like myself.

She welcomed me with tea and fruit and a warm smile that reminded me of my own mother.

I felt safe in her home.

I had no idea that safety was about to become an illusion.

Over the next two days, I met with several house church groups in different parts of Isvahan.

I delivered the funds and supplies I had brought from Europe.

Um, I prayed with the believers and listened to their stories of faith and persecution.

I encouraged them with the scriptures and reminded them that Christians around the world were praying for them.

The meetings were emotional and powerful.

One young man told me he had been fired from his job at a factory after his employer discovered he had converted from Islam.

He had a wife and two small children and did not know how they would survive.

I gave him money from the donations I had collected and prayed over his family.

He wept and thanked me over and over again.

Another woman told me her teenage son had been arrested two months earlier for attending a house church.

She did not know where he was being held or if he was even alive.

I held her hands and prayed for her son’s protection and release.

These were the faces of the persecuted church and real people with real suffering and real faith that put my comfortable western Christianity to shame.

On June 12th, everything changed.

I was having breakfast at sister Mariam’s apartment when brother Cameron burst through the door with panic in his eyes.

He told me to turn on the television immediately.

I grabbed the remote and switched to an Iranian news channel.

The screen was filled with images of explosions and smoke and chaos.

The anchor was speaking rapidly in Farsy, but brother Camron translated for me.

Israel had launched a massive military operation against Iran.

Air strikes were hitting targets across the country.

Military bases were being destroyed.

Nuclear facilities were under attack.

And most significantly, the headquarters of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps had been struck in Tehran.

And I watched the footage in stunned silence as the anchor confirmed the news that would shake the entire nation.

Major General Hussein Salami, the commanderin-chief of the IRGC, had been killed in an Israeli air strike.

The 65-year-old hardliner who had led the revolutionary guards since 2019 was dead.

The man who had threatened to destroy Israel countless times, had been eliminated by the very enemy he had sworn to annihilate.

Iran was at war, and I was trapped inside its borders.

The next several hours were filled with confusion and fear.

Brother Kamran told me I needed to leave Iran immediately.

The borders might close at any moment.

Foreigners would be viewed with extreme suspicion.

If the authorities discovered that I had an Israeli father, I would be arrested as a spy or worse.

That he urged me to get to the airport in Thran and catch the first flight out of the country.

But the situation was already spiraling out of control.

Reports came in that several airports had been damaged in the strikes.

Flights were being cancelled across the country.

The roads were filled with military convoys heading toward unknown destinations.

Leaving Iran was no longer a simple matter.

I tried to book a flight online, but the airline websites were overwhelmed with traffic.

I called the Swiss embassy in Tehran, but the lines were jammed.

I was stuck in Isvahan with no clear way out and a war raging around me.

Brother Kamran told me to stay calm and trust God.

He said we would find a way, but I needed to be patient and careful.

I agreed, but inside I was terrified.

I had faced danger before on my missions, but nothing like this.

This was war.

in real war with missiles and bombs and death falling from the sky.

The 12-day conflict that followed was unlike anything the Middle East had seen in decades.

Israeli forces struck with precision and overwhelming power.

They targeted IRGC commanders, military installations, missile factories, and nuclear facilities.

The Iranian regime scrambled to respond, but their capabilities were degraded faster than they could react.

Salami’s death had decapitated the IRGC leadership, and chaos spread through the command structure.

I watched the war unfold on television from the safety of Sister Miam’s apartment.

Every day brought new reports of air strikes and casualties.

Every night the sky over Isvahan would light up with distant explosions and the sounds of air defense systems firing at unseen targets.

Mubai prayed constantly asking God to protect me and to protect the believers who had risked so much to host me.

I asked him to end the war and bring peace.

I asked him to show me a way out of this nightmare.

But the days kept passing and I remained trapped in a country that was tearing itself apart.

As the war continued, the Iranian regime became increasingly paranoid.

They knew they were losing and they needed someone to blame.

They began hunting for spies and saboturs and foreign agents.

The IRGC set up checkpoints throughout the cities, searching cars and demanding identification papers.

Foreigners were being detained and interrogated.

The atmosphere was thick with fear and suspicion.

Brother Camran told me I could not leave the apartment under any circumstances.

Uh if I was stopped at a checkpoint and they examined my background, they might discover my Israeli heritage.

Even though I had entered on a Swiss passport, the Iranian intelligence services had ways of digging deeper.

They had informants and databases and connections to other countries.

If they wanted to find out who I really was, they could do it.

I stayed hidden in the apartment, praying and waiting and hoping that the war would end soon.

But even as the bombs stopped falling, a different kind of danger was growing closer.

A danger that would come not from enemy missiles, but from a trusted brother who would betray me to my enemies.

The war officially ended on June 24th, 2025.

After 12 days of intense combat, a ceasefire was brokered by international powers and the guns fell silent.

But the aftermath was just beginning.

Iran was wounded and were humiliated.

Salami was dead along with dozens of other highranking commanders.

Key military installations had been destroyed.

The nuclear program had been set back by years.

The regime was furious and desperate to restore its authority.

They launched a massive crackdown on anyone suspected of collaborating with foreign powers.

Arrests swept through the country like a wave.

People disappeared from their homes in the middle of the night.

Prisons filled with accused spies and traitors.

The paranoia that had gripped the nation during the war now intensified into something even darker.

Anyone with foreign connections was a potential target, and I had more foreign connections than almost anyone in the country.

Ducky, I was an Israeli hiding behind a Swiss passport who had been secretly meeting with underground Christians throughout the war.

If the authorities ever discovered the truth about me, I would not simply be arrested.

I would be executed as an enemy spy.

Brother Cameron urged me to remain patient.

He said the situation was too dangerous for me to attempt an escape right now.

He said we needed to wait for things to calm down before we could plan my departure.

I trusted his judgment because he knew this country far better than I did.

So I waited in the apartment praying and hoping that the storm would pass.

But the storm was not passing.

It was coming directly for me.

It was during these tense days of waiting that I made a decision that would cost me dearly.

Brother Camran introduced me to another believer who had offered to help shelter me during this dangerous time.

His name was Ashkan and he lived in a different part of Isvahan near the Co St Paul Bridge.

Brother Cameron said Ashkan was a trusted member of the underground church who had helped other foreign workers in the past.

He said I could stay at Ashkan’s apartment for a few days while we finalized plans for my departure from Iran.

I agreed because I trusted brother Kaman completely.

If he vouched for Ashkan, then Ashkan must be trustworthy.

I packed my small bag and moved to Ashkan’s apartment on June 28th.

He welcomed me warmly and prepared a room for me to stay in.

We talked about faith and about the war and about the future of Iran.

He asked me many questions about my background and my work with persecuted Christians.

And and in a moment of foolishness that I will regret for the rest of my life, I told him the truth.

I told him that my father was Israeli.

I told him that I had dual citizenship.

I told him that I had been using my Swiss passport to enter Iran and serve the underground church.

I shared this information because I thought he was my brother in Christ.

I thought I could trust him the way I trusted brother Cameron.

But I was wrong.

I was terribly, terribly wrong.

I spent three days at Ashkan’s apartment near the Sioal Bridge.

He was hospitable and kind and made me feel welcome in his home.

We shared meals together and prayed together and discussed the scriptures like brothers in Christ.

He told me about his journey to faith and how he had encountered Jesus through a satellite television program beamed into Iran from outside the country.

He said he had been a a devout Muslim his entire life until he heard the gospel message and felt something stir inside him that he could not explain.

He said he had given his life to Jesus 3 years ago and had been serving the underground church ever since.

His story was similar to countless other Iranian believers I had met over the years.

I had no reason to doubt him.

I had no reason to suspect that behind his warm smile and gentle words was a heart capable of betrayal.

Looking back now, I can see the signs I missed.

The way he asked too many questions about my background and my work, the way his eyes flickered when I mentioned my Israeli father.

The way he excused himself to make phone calls in another room.

But at the time, I saw none of this.

I was tired and stressed and desperate for friendship in a hostile land.

And I let my guard down completely and it nearly cost me my life.

On the morning of July 1st, 2025, I woke up to the sound of loud banging on the apartment door.

Ashkan was already awake and standing in the hallway.

He looked at me with an expression I will never forget.

It was not fear or surprise.

It was guilt.

The banging grew louder and voices shouted in Farsy demanding that the door be opened immediately.

Ashkhan walked to the door and unlocked it without hesitation.

He did not try to warn me or help me escape.

He simply opened the door and stepped aside as a group of men in military uniforms rushed into the apartment.

There were six of them, all carrying weapons and wearing the insignia of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.

They grabbed me before I could even react and they threw me to the ground and pressed my face into the cold tile floor.

One of them put his boot on the back of my neck while another bound my hands behind my back with the plastic zip ties.

They were shouting questions at me in Farsy, but I could barely understand what they were saying.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would explode.

My mind was racing trying to comprehend what was happening.

And then I heard Ashkan’s voice speaking calmly to one of the officers.

He was pointing at me and nodding his head.

He was confirming something.

He was telling them who I was.

They dragged me out of the apartment and threw me into the back of a military vehicle.

A black hood was placed over my head so I could not see where they were taking me.

The vehicle drove for what felt like an hour through the streets I could not identify.

on.

I bounced around in the back as we hit bumps and made sharp turns.

I prayed silently asking God to protect me and give me strength.

I asked him to forgive Ashkan for what he had done.

I asked him to be with me in whatever dark place I was being taken to.

The vehicle finally stopped and I was pulled out roughly by my arms.

They marched me across what felt like a courtyard and then down a flight of stairs into what I could only assume was an underground facility.

The air grew cold and damp.

The sounds of the outside world disappeared completely.

I heard metal doors opening and closing.

I heard screams echoing from somewhere in the distance.

I knew I was in a prison.

I knew I was in the hands of people who had no mercy and no regard for human life.

Uh, the hood was finally removed and I found myself standing in a small concrete room with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Two men in plain clothes stood before me.

They were not wearing uniforms, but I knew they were intelligence officers.

Their eyes were cold and calculating.

They looked at me like I was an insect they were about to crush.

The interrogation began immediately, and it was brutal.

They asked me who I was working for.

They asked me how long I had been spying for Israel.

They asked me to identify other foreign agents operating in Iran.

They asked me to reveal the names of every Iranian Christian I had ever met.

I told them I was not a spy.

I told them I was a humanitarian worker helping persecuted people.

I told them I had no connection to any intelligence agency.

They did not believe me and they beat me with their fists and kicked me when I fell to the ground.

They slapped my face and pulled my hair and screamed insults into my ears.

They called me a Zionist dog and a Christian infidel and a traitor to humanity.

They said I would never leave this place alive unless I confessed to everything they accused me of.

I kept telling them the truth, but the truth was not what they wanted to hear.

They wanted me to confirm their suspicions.

They wanted me to give them names and information they could use to arrest more people.

They wanted me to be the spy they believed I was.

When I refused to cooperate, the beatings intensified.

Hours passed or maybe days.

I lost all sense of time in that windowless room.

There was only pain and fear and the endless cycle of questions and violence.

After what felt like an eternity, they threw me into a small cell with no windows and a single metal door.

The cell was barely large enough for me to lie down.

The walls were stained with things I did not want to identify.

There was a thin mattress on the floor that smelled of mold and human waste.

A bucket in the corner served as my toilet.

The only light came from a small gap under the door where the hallway lights seeped through.

I collapsed onto the mattress and wept.

My entire body was in pain.

My face was swollen from the beatings.

My ribs achd with every breath.

Blood dripped from cuts on my forehead and lips.

But the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional devastation I felt.

Ashkan had betrayed me.

A man I had trusted as a brother in Christ had handed me over to my enemies.

after he had looked me in the eyes and shared meals with me and prayed with me.

And then he had picked up the phone and called the IRGC to come arrest me.

I could not understand how someone who claimed to follow Jesus could do something so evil.

Had his faith been a lie from the beginning? Had he been an informant planted in the underground church to identify foreign workers? or had he simply been weak and afraid and decided to save himself by sacrificing me? I did not know the answers, and perhaps I never would.

The days that followed blurred together into a nightmare of interrogation and isolation.

They came for me at random hours, dragging me from my cell to the interrogation room, where the questions and beatings continued.

They wanted names.

They wanted locations.

They wanted proof that Israel had sent me to undermine the Islamic Republic.

Oh, I gave them nothing because I had nothing to give.

I was not a spy.

I was a missionary who had come to help suffering people.

But they did not care about the truth.

They had already decided I was guilty and they were determined to break me until I confirmed their narrative.

They used different techniques to try to make me talk.

They deprived me of sleep for days at a time.

They blasted loud noises into my cell throughout the night.

They withheld food and water until I was so weak I could barely stand.

They threatened to arrest my mother in Switzerland and bring her to Iran to face trial alongside me.

They showed me photographs of my contacts in the underground church and said they had already been arrested because of me.

I did not know if these photographs were real or fabricated to manipulate me.

Uh I did not know what was true and what was lies.

The only thing I knew for certain was that I was completely alone in the hands of men who wanted to destroy me.

One day they came for me with a different energy.

There were more guards than usual and they were carrying equipment I had not seen before.

They dragged me to a room that was larger than the interrogation room.

In the center of the room was a wooden table with straps attached to it.

Medical instruments were laid out on a tray beside the table.

My blood ran cold when I saw those instruments.

I knew something terrible was about to happen.

The guards threw me onto the table and strapped down my arms and legs so I could not move.

The man in a white coat entered the room and looked at me with complete indifference.

He was a doctor, or at least someone with medical training, but he was not there to heal me.

He was there to hurt me.

One of the interrogators leaned over me and spoke in English so I would understand every word.

He said I had been convicted of espionage against the Islamic Republic of Iran.

He said I had been sentenced to punishment according to Islamic law.

He said they were going to take my left hand as payment for my crimes against the nation.

I screamed and begged and pleaded for mercy.

I told them I was innocent.

I told them I was not a spy.

I told them to contact the Swiss embassy and verify my identity.

But my words meant nothing to them.

They had already made their decision.

They were going to mutilate me.

and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

The doctor picked up a surgical instrument from the tray.

It was a bone saw with a serrated blade that gleamed under the harsh lights.

Uh, and two guards held my left arm steady against the table while the doctor positioned the saw just above my wrist.

I was screaming so loud that my throat felt like it was tearing apart.

I was thrashing against the straps with every ounce of strength I had left, but I could not break free.

I was completely helpless.

The interrogator looked at me one final time and asked if I had anything to confess.

I looked into his eyes and said the only words that came to my mind.

I said, “Jesus is Lord.

” The interrogator’s face twisted with rage.

He nodded to the doctor and the blade began to cut.

The pain was beyond anything I had ever imagined.

It was not just physical pain.

It was a searing fire that consumed my entire being.

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