I felt the teeth of the saw grinding through my flesh and then through my bone.

I I heard the sound of my own arm being severed from my body.

And then everything went black.

The last thing I remember before losing consciousness was the face of Jesus.

He was looking at me with eyes full of love and sorrow.

He was telling me that he was with me.

He was telling me that this was not the end.

I woke up in my cell with no memory of how I got there.

The first thing I felt was the pain.

It radiated from my left arm like fire spreading through my entire body.

I tried to move, but every motion sent shock waves of agony through my nerves.

I looked down at my arm and saw what they had done to me.

My left hand was gone.

In its place was a bloody stump wrapped in dirty rags that were already soaked through with dark red blood.

The sight of it made me vomit, and I turned my head to the side and emptied my stomach onto the cold concrete floor.

My body was shaking uncontrollably.

My teeth were chattering even though I was burning with fever.

I was going into shock and I knew that without proper medical treatment, I would die in this cell.

The wound was not properly bandaged.

The bleeding had not been stopped correctly.

Infection would set in within hours if it had not already begun.

They had taken my hand, and now they were leaving me to rot.

This was their plan.

They did not need to execute me officially.

They would simply let nature take its course and claimed that I had died of natural causes.

No one would ever know the truth.

The hours that followed were the darkest of my entire life.

I lay on that filthy mattress, drifting in and out of consciousness.

The pain was constant and overwhelming.

It never stopped, not even for a moment.

Every heartbeat sent a pulse of agony through my severed arm.

The fever grew worse, and I began to hallucinate.

I saw faces floating above me, faces of people I had known throughout my life.

My mother appeared and she was crying.

My father appeared and he was shaking his head in disappointment.

Brother Camran appeared and he was reaching out to help me.

Ashkan appeared and he was laughing at my suffering.

The visions blended together in a chaotic swirl of images and sounds that made no sense.

I could not tell what was real and what was imagined.

I could not tell if I was awake or dreaming.

The only constant was the pain anchoring me to my broken body.

I tried to pray, but the words would not form in my mind.

I tried to call out to Jesus, but my voice was too weak to make a sound.

I was slipping away.

I I could feel death approaching like a shadow creeping across the floor of my cell.

It would not be long now, a few more hours perhaps, maybe a day at most, and then it would all be over.

But even in my weakest moment, I refused to give up on God.

I had spent my entire adult life serving him and trusting him.

I had walked into danger zones believing that he would protect me.

He had not protected me from losing my hand.

He had not protected me from this prison cell.

But I still believed he was with me.

I still believed he had a purpose for my suffering, even if I could not understand it.

With the last reserves of strength I had left, I began to pray.

Not out loud because I could not speak, but silently in my heart where only God could hear.

I said, “Lord, I do not understand why this is happening to me.

I do not understand why you allowed them to take my hand.

I do not understand why I am dying alone in this cell.

But I trust you.

I trust that you are still God.

I trust that you still love me.

I trust that you have not abandoned me.

If it is your will for me to die here, then I accept it.

But if you want to save me, then I am asking for a miracle.

I am asking you to do what only you can do.

I am asking you to rescue me the way you rescued Peter from prison.

Send your angels, Lord.

Open these doors.

Set me free.

In Jesus’ name I pray.

Amen.

After I finished praying, I closed my eyes and waited for death.

I had made my peace with God.

I had surrendered my fate into his hands.

Whatever happened next was up to him.

The fever continued to burn through my body.

The pain continued to pulse through my arm.

The darkness continued to press in on all sides.

I do not know how much time passed.

It could have been minutes or hours.

But at some point I fell into a deep sleep that was different from the feverish unconsciousness I had been experiencing.

This sleep was peaceful and calm.

It felt like sinking into warm water that washed away all the pain and fear.

And in that sleep I had a dream.

It was not like my hallucinations.

It was vivid and clear and more real than anything I had ever experienced.

In the dream, I saw a prison cell much like my own.

But this cell was in ancient times with stone walls and iron chains.

A man was sleeping on the floor between two soldiers.

His hands were bound with chains and gods stood at the door watching over him.

I recognized the scene immediately.

It was the story of Peter from the book of Acts 12.

And I had read this passage many times and taught it to believers around the world.

But now I was seeing it unfold before my eyes as if I was actually there.

An angel appeared in the cell, shining with brilliant light.

The angel touched Peter on the side and woke him up.

The chains fell off Peter’s hands by themselves.

The angel told Peter to get up and put on his sandals and follow him.

Peter obeyed thinking he was seeing a vision.

They walked past the first guard post and the guards did not see them.

They walked past the second guard post and again they were invisible to the soldiers.

They came to the iron gate that led fant into the city and the gate opened by itself.

No one touched it.

No one unlocked it.

It simply swung open on its own.

Peter and the angel walked through the gate and into the streets of the city.

Then the angel disappeared and Peter realized that everything was real.

God had sent his angel to rescue him from prison on the very night before he was scheduled to be executed.

I watched this scene unfold in my dream with tears streaming down my face.

And then Jesus himself appeared before me.

He was dressed in white robes and his face radiated love and compassion.

He looked at me and spoke words that I will never forget.

He said, “Daniel, what I did for Peter, I will do for you.

Do not be afraid.

Your story is not over.

I am opening doors that no man can shut.

Trust me, and you will see my glory.

” I woke up from the dream with a gasp.

I was back in my cell, lying on the same filthy mattress.

My arm was still throbbing with pain.

My body was still burning with fever.

Nothing had changed in the physical realm, but something had changed inside me.

The despair that had been crushing my spirit was gone.

In its place was a tiny spark of hope that grew brighter with every passing second.

Jesus had spoken to me.

He had shown me the story of Peter’s rescue for a reason.

He was telling me that he was going to do the same thing for me.

I did not know how.

I did not know when, but I believed it with every fiber of my being.

God was going to open these prison doors.

God was going to set me free.

I just had to trust him and wait for his timing.

I lay on that mattress and began to praise God.

Not for my circumstances, which were still terrible, but for who he was.

I praised him for his faithfulness.

I praised him for his love.

I praised him for never abandoning his children even when they walked through the valley of the shadow of death.

On I praised him with what little strength I had left.

And somehow in the midst of that praise, I felt peace flood my soul.

The pain was still there, but it no longer controlled me.

The fear was still there, but it no longer paralyzed me.

I was ready for whatever came next.

The next morning, I heard footsteps approaching my cell.

The metal door creaked open and two guards entered.

I expected them to drag me to another interrogation session.

I expected more beatings and more questions and more demands for confessions, but instead they stepped aside and a third person entered the cell.

It was a man wearing a white coat, a doctor.

He was carrying a medical bag filled with supplies.

He knelt beside me and began examining my wounded arm without saying a word.

Wong, his face showed no emotion as he unwrapped the bloody rags and inspected the stump where my hand had been.

He cleaned the wound with antiseptic solution that stung like fire.

He applied fresh bandages and gave me an injection that he said would fight the infection.

He put a needle into my other arm and connected it to a bag of fluid that would rehydrate my body.

He worked efficiently and professionally as if he had done this many times before.

When he finished, he stood up and looked at the gods.

He said something in Farsy that I did not understand, and then he left the cell.

The gods followed him and locked the door behind them.

I lay there in stunned silence trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Yesterday they had left me to die.

Today they had sent a doctor to save my life.

Nothing made sense.

But then I remembered the dream and I remembered the words of Jesus.

I am opening doors that no man can shut.

The first door had just opened.

Over the next two days, my condition improved dramatically.

The fever began to subside.

The infection in my arm was brought under control.

I was given food and water regularly.

The gods no longer beat me or dragged me to interrogation.

Something had changed, but I did not know what.

I spent my time praying and thanking God for his mercy.

I recited scriptures from memory to strengthen my faith.

I thought about the believers I had served throughout the Middle East and prayed for their safety.

I thought about brother Camran and wondered if he knew what had happened to me.

I thought about Ashkan and struggled to forgive him for his betrayal.

On the third day after the doctor’s visit, the cell door opened again.

A god motioned for me to stand up and follow him.

My legs were weak, but I managed to walk.

He led me through the corridors of the prison, past other cells where I could hear prisoners crying and moaning.

We climbed a flight of stairs and emerged into a courtyard where a military vehicle was waiting.

The guard pointed at the vehicle and told me to get in.

I obeyed without question.

I had no idea where they were taking me, but I knew that God was in control.

Whatever happened next was part of his plan.

The military vehicle drove through the night for hours without stopping.

I sat in the back with a hood over my head, unable to see where we were going.

Two guards sat on either side of me, but they did not speak a single word throughout the entire journey.

My mind was racing with the questions and fears.

Were they taking me to another prison? Um, were they taking me to be executed in some remote location where no one would find my body? Were they transferring me to Thran to face a public trial and hanging? I had no answers.

I had only the promise Jesus had given me in my dream.

He had said he was opening doors that no man could shut.

He had said my story was not over.

I clung to those words like a drowning man clinging to a rope.

Whatever was happening, I had to believe that God was still in control.

I had to believe that this journey was leading somewhere other than death.

I prayed silently beneath the hood, asking God to guide me and protect me.

I asked him to give me courage for whatever lay ahead.

I asked him to complete the miracle he had started when he sent that doctor to my cell.

The vehicle finally stopped and the guards pulled me out roughly.

Um, I stumbled on weak legs and nearly fell to the ground.

They grabbed my arms and steadied me.

Then one of them removed the hood from my head.

I blinked in the darkness, trying to adjust my eyes.

We were standing on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

There were no buildings or lights visible in any direction.

The stars above were bright and countless.

The air was cold and carried the smell of dust and dry grass.

I looked around in confusion, trying to understand where I was and why they had brought me here.

One of the guards pointed toward the horizon where I could barely make out the silhouette of mountains against the night sky.

He spoke to me in broken English.

He said, “Turkey is that way.

” He said, “Walk and do not look back.

” He said, “If I ever returned to Iran, I would be killed on site, though.

” Then he climbed back into the vehicle and the other god followed.

The engine roared to life, and the vehicle turned around and drove away.

Within minutes, the sound of the engine faded into silence.

I was alone standing on a dirt road in the middle of the night somewhere near the border of Turkey.

I stood there for a long time, unable to move.

My brain could not process what had just happened.

3 days ago, I was dying in a prison cell with my hand cut off, an infection spreading through my body.

Now, I was standing free on a road pointing toward Turkey.

No explanation had been given.

No documents had been signed.

No negotiations had been announced.

They had simply taken me from my cell and driven me to the border and released me into the night.

It made no sense from a human perspective.

The Iranian regime did not release prisoners, especially foreign prisoners accused of espionage.

They held them for years and used them as bargaining chips in international negotiations.

They put them on trial and paraded them before cameras to humiliate their home countries.

They did not drive them to the border in the middle of the night and let them walk free.

But that is exactly what had happened to me.

The only explanation was the one Jesus had given me in my dream.

He had opened doors that no man could shut.

He had done for me what he had done for Peter 2,000 years ago.

He had sent his angels to set me free.

I began walking toward the mountains that the god had pointed to.

My body was weak and every step was painful.

My left arm throbbed constantly, reminding me of what I had lost.

But I was alive and I was free and that was all that mattered.

I walked through the night using the stars to guide my direction.

I prayed as I walked, thanking God for his miraculous deliverance.

I sang worship songs under my breath to keep my spirits up.

I recited scriptures that spoke of God’s faithfulness to his people.

The hours passed slowly, and the terrain grew more rugged as I approached the mountains.

Several times I stumbled and fell, scraping my knees and elbows on the rocky ground, but I got up each time and kept moving forward.

I could not stop.

I could not rest.

I had to reach Turkey before the sun rose, and Iranian patrols spotted me near the border.

I pushed my body beyond its limits, fueled by adrenaline and faith.

And sometime in the early hours of the morning, I crossed an invisible line on the ground and entered Turkish territory.

I collapsed onto the dirt and wept with relief.

I was out of Iran.

I was safe.

God had rescued me.

The next few hours were a blur of exhaustion and confusion.

I wandered through the Turkish countryside until I reached a small village near the border town of Van.

The villagers looked at me with suspicion and concern.

I was a foreigner with their torn clothes and a bloody bandage on my arms, stumbling into their community at dawn.

But when they saw my condition, they took pity on me.

They gave me water and bread and let me rest in one of their homes.

One of them spoke enough English to understand that I needed medical help.

He drove me to a hospital in Van where doctors examined my arm and treated my wounds properly for the first time.

They were shocked at the crude amputation and the infection that had nearly killed me.

They said I was lucky to be alive.

I told them luck had nothing to do with it.

I told them God had saved me.

From then I contacted the Swiss embassy in Anara.

They arranged for me to be transported to the capital where I could receive better medical care and begin the process of returning home.

The embassy officials asked me many questions about what had happened, but I was too exhausted to give detailed answers.

I told them I had been arrested in Iran and tortured and released without explanation.

They looked at me with disbelief, but they did not press further.

They simply helped me get on a plane to Sururik where I would begin my long journey of recovery.

The months that followed were difficult in ways I had not anticipated.

The physical wounds healed slowly, but they did heal.

Doctors in Switzerland fitted me with a prosthetic hand that allowed me to perform basic tasks.

I underwent physical therapy to learn how to live with my new limitations.

But the emotional and spiritual wounds were harder to address.

I suffered from nightmares that woke me up screaming in the middle of the night.

I experienced flashbacks that transported me back to that interrogation room where they had cut off my hand.

I struggled with anger and bitterness toward Ashkan and toward the men who had tortured me.

I questioned why God had allowed this to happen even though he had ultimately rescued me.

and I wrestled with doubts that I had never faced before in my faith journey.

Why had God not prevented the torture? Why had he let them take my hand? Why had he waited until I was near death before sending help? These questions haunted me for months as I tried to rebuild my shattered life.

But slowly through prayer and counseling and the support of fellow believers, I began to find answers.

I began to understand that God’s ways are not our ways.

He does not always prevent suffering, but he always redeems it.

My scars would become my testimony.

My pain would become my platform.

My story would bring glory to his name in ways I could never have imagined.

I returned to Israel in early 2026 to reconnect with my father’s side of the family and to find a new home base for my life.

One, I settled in Tel Aviv in a small apartment overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

I spent my days praying and recovering and slowly rebuilding my strength.

I stayed in contact with the underground church networks I had served for so many years.

I continued to raise funds and support for persecuted believers.

Even though I could no longer travel to dangerous countries myself, I mentored younger missionaries who were willing to take the risks I could no longer take.

I shared my testimony with the churches and Christian organizations who wanted to hear what God had done.

My story spread through the global Christian community and I received messages from believers around the world who said my experience had strengthened their faith.

I was humbled and amazed at how God was using my suffering for his purposes.

Uh the hand that had been taken from me had become a symbol of sacrifice and faith that inspired others to stand firm in their own trials.

What the enemy meant for evil God was turning to good.

On February 28th, 2026, I sat in my apartment watching the news of Ali Kam’s death.

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