The EX3CUTION of Leon Trotsky – The Creator of the Red Army

Hello everything is fine? Welcome back to our channel.

Today we are going to talk about the assassination of Leon Trotsky, a Russian revolutionary exiled in Mexico, who on August 20, 1940, was killed with an ice axe embedded in his skull by a Soviet agent who had infiltrated his home months earlier .

And look at that, the assassin Ramon Mercader managed to fool armed guards.

Guard dogs and all of Trotsky’s security detail, posing as the boyfriend of one of the secretaries.

Stalin had ordered Trotsky’s assassination since 1929, when he exiled him from the Soviet Union, and for 11 years tried everything: shootings, bombs, infiltrated agents, until finally Mercader managed to get alone with him in the office and attacked from behind.

And at the end of the video, I’ll tell you what Trotsky did after being hit in the head with an ice axe and the last words he said before dying in the hospital 26 hours later.

So go ahead and leave your like, subscribe to the channel, and turn on notifications.

Let’s get to the video because today’s promises to be good too.

Origins: Ukraine, 1879.

It was a cold November night in 1879 when a child was born in a town called Yanovka, in the interior of Ukraine, whom the ruler of Russia would one day consider the country’s most dangerous enemy .

His real name was Lev Davidovic Bronstein.

The world would know it by another name.

The name, stolen from a prison guard, was chosen with the calculated coldness of someone who knows they are building a legend.

The son of a Jewish farmer, Lev grew up among wheat fields and poverty, but he had something that didn’t fit within a farm setting: a mind that devoured books and questioned everything.

While still a teenager, he went to study in Odessa.

He didn’t finish university; he abandoned his books to organize workers in the streets because, for him, theory without action was worthless.

In 1898, at only 19 years old, he was arrested for actively participating in Marxist revolutionary groups .

He spent two years awaiting trial before being deported to Siberia.

It was winter, and the temperature reached -40 degrees Celsius.

Others would have given up.

Ah, but Lev Bronstein began planning his escape.

The escape and birth of Trotsky.

In 1902, he escaped from Siberia with a false passport.

I needed to choose a name, right? He took the surname of Nikolai Trotsky, a prison guard in Odessa, an ordinary man who never imagined that his name would be imprinted on the pages of world history.

It was perfect irony.

Trotsky stole his captor’s identity to remain free.

With that passport, he arrived in London and knocked on Vladimir Len’s door.

The two looked at each other.

Lenin knew immediately that he had before him not just an ally, but a force of nature.

Trotsky was 23 years old and already spoke as if he had lived three lives.

The 1905 Revolution and new exiles.

In the 1905 revolution, Trotsky returned to Russia and emerged as the leader of the Petrograd Soviet, the first workers’ council in Russian history.

He was arrested again, deported again to Siberia, and escaped again, this time to Vienna, where he lived for years writing Marxist analyses that circulated clandestinely throughout Europe.

He lived in Austria, France, Spain, and even made it to New York, always with the political police of some government on his tail, always with a briefcase full of manuscripts and a head full of plans.

They were men without a country, but with a mission that transcended any border.

1917, the moment that changed everything.

Well, when the Russian Revolution broke out in February 1917, Trotsky was in New York writing articles for socialist newspapers.

As soon as he found out, he immediately set sail for Russia, but was detained by the British in Canada, who saw him as a threat.

He was imprisoned in Halifax for weeks, and when he finally arrived in Petrograd in May 1917, he was received as a hero.

In October of that same year, Trotsky personally organized the armed uprising that overthrew the provisional government.

Den was the political mastermind, the face of the movement, but Trotsky was the executor, the man who coordinated every detail of the coup, who ensured that the soldiers and sailors were positioned in the correct places, that the bridges were taken, that communication was cut off.

Without Trotsky, October 1917 could have been a major defeat.

The Red Army, built from scratch.

In 1918, Lenin appointed Trotsky as People’s Commissar for Military and Naval Affairs.

In simpler terms, the head of the revolutionary army.

That’s it .

But there was a problem.

That army simply didn’t exist.

The old militaristic structure had collapsed.

Trotsky had to create an army for an entire nation emerging from a devastating war.

Just imagine.

And what he did was controversial and brilliant at the same time.

He recruited officers from the Sharist army, the so-called military specialists, placing political commissars alongside each one to ensure loyalty.

He also created armored trains that traveled along the battlefronts, from where he personally commanded operations, issued orders, executed deserters, and fired up soldiers with speeches that remained in the memory of those who heard them.

The Russian Civil War lasted from 1917 to 1922.

It was five years of carnage, with more than 7 million dead from fighting, famine, and disease.

Trotsky’s Red Army faced the monarchist Whites, military interventions from 14 foreign countries, and dozens of regional armies.

And look, he beat them all.

If you’ve made it this far , then hold on until the end, because what comes next will show you how Stalin used such a cold and calculated method to eliminate Trotsky that not even the fortress with machine guns could save the revolutionary.

And the most shocking detail, I’ll tell you, is that the killer went inside the house dozens of times before acting.

The death of Lenin and the beginning of the end.

Lenin died on January 21, 1924.

He was 53 years old and his brain had been destroyed by a series of strokes.

His last lucid period was marked by a growing preoccupation with one man, Joseph Stalin.

In his notes dictated from his sickbed, known as Len’s testament , he warned the party about Stalin’s behavior, describing it as rude, spiteful, and dangerous.

He recommended his removal, but the party ignored him.

What happened in the following years was a masterpiece of political maneuvering.

Stalin possessed a skill that Trotsky deeply despised: bureaucratic patience.

While Trotsky gave speeches at rallies and wrote brilliant theoretical texts, Stalin sat in endless party meetings, controlled appointments, distributed positions, and built a network of invisible loyalties.

That was a spider’s job , wasn’t it? Silent, methodical, deadly.

Progressive expulsion, 1925-1929.

In 1925, Stalin removed Trotsky from the Commissariat of War.

He was expelled from the Politbo in 1926.

In 1927 he expelled himself from the Communist Party, the very party that Trotsky had helped to found, that he had fought to bring to power, that he had defended with his life on the battlefields of Lameados.

In January 1928, Trotsky was deported to Almata, in Central Asia, 4000 km from Moscow, to a place where winter lasted 8 months and isolation was complete.

But even from there, he wrote letters, articles, political analyses, all of which circulated clandestinely to his supporters around the world.

In 1929, Stalin went even further, expelling Trotsky from the Soviet Union itself.

It was an exile with no return.

Trotsky then went to Türkiye, then France, then Norway.

In each country, Soviet diplomatic pressure forced his expulsion.

Governments were giving in.

Trotsky pressed on, always with his briefcase, always with his pen, always with his voice.

Political Asylum and Frida Carlo.

In December 1936, the Norwegian government, pressured by Moscow, put Trotsky on a plane bound for Mexico.

Mexican President Lázaro Cárdenas had granted political asylum, a rare act of courage for the time that left Stalin, well, furious.

Trotsky arrived at the port of Tampico in January 1937, already 57 years old.

Exhausted, but still burning with desire.

He was initially received at the Blue House, in the Coyoacan neighborhood of Mexico City.

It was the residence of the painter Frida Kahlo and the moralist Diego Rivera, who were Trotskyist sympathizers.

The relationship between Trotsky and Frida went beyond mere hospitality.

The two had a brief, passionate affair that Rivera discovered and that Natalia Sedova, Trotsky’s wife, had silently endured for decades.

It was an environment of art, politics, and constant tension.

In 1939, after disagreements with Rivera, Trotsky moved into his own house on Vienna Avenue, also in Koyoan.

That’s where the transformation truly began.

The fortress, walls, guard towers, and machine guns.

The house was converted into a fortress.

The walls were reinforced and raised.

Steel gates were installed.

Alarm systems covered every entrance.

Watchtowers were built at the corners.

Eight armed guards worked 24- hour shifts, including young American socialists who had come specifically to protect the exiled leader.

Trotsky knew that Stalin had a long arm, a very long arm indeed.

From Mexico, he continued to attack Stalin publicly.

devastating articles, books, denunciations of the Moscow Trials, those judicial aberrations where old comrades of Lenin confessed to impossible crimes under torture before being shot.

In 1938, Trotsky organized the Fourth International, a global network of Marxists who rejected Stalinism.

Each publication was a slap in Stalin’s face, and Stalin never forgot the slaps he received.

The NKVD and the choice of assassin.

In 1939, the headquarters of the NKVD, the Soviet secret police , launched Operation Utka.

In Russian, Utka means duck.

The irony was cruel.

The greatest military strategist that the Russian Revolution had produced would be hunted like a duck.

The officer in charge was Leonidom, a veteran of assassination and sabotage operations.

He had under his command a very ordinary asset, Caridad Mercader, an NKVD agent and mother of a young man named Ramon Mercader del Hill.

Born in Barcelona, ​​Spain , in 1913, Ramon had fought in the Spanish Civil War on the side of the Republicans.

He was a fanatical, obedient, and disciplined communist.

He spoke French and English fluently, was young and attractive enough not to arouse suspicion, and crucially, was willing to kill.

In Moscow, Ramon received months of intensive training, including false identity, seduction and infiltration techniques, and methods of silent assassination.

Its operational codename was Gnome.

His alias was Jack Murnard, a Belgian student from a wealthy family.

The seduction of Silvia Adelov.

The infiltration plan was refined and cold.

In Paris, Jack Murnad deliberately approached Silvia Adlov, an American from New York, a teacher and active Trotskyist, who had direct contacts with the Koyoacan circle.

Ramon seduced her and cultivated the relationship for months.

He was affectionate, attentive, and charming.

Silvia had no idea that she was being used as a key to open the door of a fortress.

She took him to Mexico and introduced him as her boyfriend.

Jaes began to appear regularly at Koyoacan’s house.

The guards recognized him by his face.

The secretaries greeted him.

Each visit was calculated.

He mapped out the routine, identified blind spots in security, and assessed the right moment.

Every smile was a lie, every conversation a preparation.

May 24, 1940, the Siqueiros attack.

In the early morning of May 24, 1940, a group of 20 armed men attacked Trotsky’s house.

The group’s leader was David Alfaro Siqueiros, one of Mexico’s most famous moralists, a Stalinist communist, and a veteran of the Spanish Civil War .

The attackers wore Mexican police and military uniforms to pass through the outer security checkpoints .

More than 400 shots were fired.

The walls of Trotsky’s room were riddled with marks.

Steban Volkov, Trotsky’s grandson, then 14 years old, lay on the ground as bullets whizzed overhead .

Trotsky and Natalia threw themselves into the corner of the room, embracing each other on the floor.

When the shooting stopped, Trotsky, believe it or not, was still alive either by a miracle of positioning, or because the attackers, despite all the artillery, didn’t enter the room to confirm whether the target had been shot down.

The exile had survived a machine gun attack.

Ramon Mercader was in the shadows that night.

He had provided the attackers with information about the house’s layout , but the plan had failed.

The NKVD recalibrated everything.

This time, it would be a single man, silent and close by.

The weapon of choice.

Ramon Mercader chose a mountaineering ice axe, technically called a PL, manufactured by the Austrian company Veg Fmess.

He cut a wooden handle in half so that the tool could be hidden under a raincoat folded over his arm.

To the guards, he was a mountaineer.

“ I had a rare skill with the ice axe,” he would later tell investigators.

Two blows were enough to crack a huge block of ice.

The strategy was simple in appearance and brutal in execution: arrive with a political article supposedly written by him, ask Trotsky to review it, wait for the right moment when the old revolutionary lowered his head over the paper, and then act.

It was 5:20 p.

m.

on a summer afternoon.

Tuesday, August 20, 1940.

In Coyoacán, the sun beat down strongly on the walls of the Fortress.

At exactly this time, 5:20 p.

m.

, Ramon Mercader arrived at the entrance.

He carried his folded raincoat over his left arm, pressed tightly against his body.

Underneath it, tied with a string, was the ice axe.

The guards greeted him and let him through.

He was the usual visitor; everyone was used to it.

Trotsky in his office on the second floor, surrounded by books and papers.

On the table, two revolvers.

Look, at that… Within easy reach, an alarm button.

But when Mercader presented the article and asked for a review, Trotsky sat down and began to read.

That was exactly what Mercader needed.

Mercader placed the raincoat on the table, covering the ice axe, and then waited.

When Trotsky was absorbed in reading, head bowed, pen in hand, Mercader picked up the ice axe and struck.

The scream no one expected.

The blade penetrated 7 cm into Trotsky’s skull, fracturing the parietal bone.

Mercader expected instant and silent death.

Yes, but that’s not what happened.

Trotsky let out a long, visceral, inhuman scream, the sound the guards below would never forget.

And then, with an ice axe embedded in his own skull, bathed in blood, Leon Trotsky rose from his chair.

He turned to the assassin, spat at him, and began to fight.

With his own hands at 60 years of age, a piece of metal piercing his brain.

Trotsky fought.

Mercader had the bones in his hand broken during the confrontation.

The screams brought the guards running.

They threw Mercader to the ground and began to beat him.

Trotsky, still standing, covered in blood, still had the strength to order: “Don’t kill him.

” He needs to speak.

Natalia Cedova ran up the stairs and found her husband standing there, staggering, his face covered in red.

He murmured her name.

Natasha, I love you.

It was the last time he would speak coherently.

The hospital and the last words.

Trotsky was then rushed to the Green Cross hospital.

Doctors worked for hours.

A renowned neurosurgeon was flown in from the United States, but he wouldn’t arrive in time.

During the surgery, Trotsky briefly regained consciousness.

His last recorded words, as reported by James Pickon, national secretary of the American Socialist Workers Party, were these.

Open quotation marks.

I will not survive this attack.

Stalin finally accomplished the task he had previously attempted unsuccessfully.

Close quotation mark.

At 7:25 PM on August 21, 1940, Leon Trotsky died.

Between the blow from the pickaxe and death, he resisted for more than 26 hours.

Enough time for the killer to be interrogated, identified, and arrested.

In the following days, an estimated 300,000 Mexicans marched past his coffin in Mexico City.

The man Stalin wanted to eliminate had mobilized 300,000 people even in death.

The tomb in the garden.

Leon Trotsky was buried in the garden of his own house on Vienna Avenue in Koyocan.

The same place where he lived his last years in exile, where he built a fortress that wasn’t enough.

Today the house is a museum open to the public.

The grave is there, covered by the Mexican soil that he never chose as his destination.

Ramon Mercader, 19 years of silence.

Ramon Mercader spent 19 years and 8 months in a Mexican prison without ever revealing his true identity.

He denied being Spanish, denied any connection with the NKVD, and maintained until the end the fiction that he was Jack Murnat, a Belgian student.

It was only in 1953, after Stalin’s death, that the truth came to light.

Investigators identified his fingerprints and connected them to his real identity.

The world has discovered who Trotsky’s assassin was.

Well, upon his release in 1960, Mercader was received as a hero in the Soviet Union.

Alexander Shelpin, head of the KGB, personally presented her with the Hero of the Soviet Union medal and the Order of Leni, in what they call a special act.

That’s according to the official document.

Mercader spent his final years in Ravana.

He died on October 18, 1978, and was buried in Moscow under the false name of Lopes Ramon Ivanovic.

The pickaxe in the museum.

Indeed, the pickaxe used in the murder was kept for decades under the bed of the daughter of a Mexican police officer who had participated in the investigation.

Just look.

In 2005, it was auctioned off and acquired by C.

Milton, an American historian specializing in espionage.

Today, the tool, with the rusted imprint of Mercader’s fingerprint still visible on the blade, is on public display at the International Spy Museum in Washington, D.

C.

A silent witness to the most elaborate assassination of the Cold War.

Leon Trotsky built armies, led revolutions, and challenged empires and dictators.

He was arrested four times and exiled to four continents.

He survived an assassination attempt with a machine gun.

He survived for 26 hours with an ice axe in his skull.

But in the end, Stalin got what he wanted.

But he didn’t achieve what he wanted most: for the world to forget Leon Trotsky.

84 years later, the world still remembers him.

Well, if this story impressed you, and I bet it did , comment below which part shocked you the most.

Was it Trotsky’s resistance after the coup, the infiltrator who deceived everyone for months, or the ice axe kept under a bed for decades? I confess that this one was the best of all for me, you know? Tell me about it.

And if you’d like our next video to be about another story of espionage, political assassination, or 20th-century revolutions, feel free to suggest it in the comments, okay? Perhaps you will choose our next topic.

Big hug to everyone and see you in the next video.

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JESUS Takes Control as Iranians Out Celebrating The End Of Khamenei Islamic Regime | NDE STORY – YouTube

Transcripts:
[screaming] >> That was the exact view I saw in heaven.

Multitude of Iranians gathered at an open space and called the name of Jesus.

I died on the Talegan Valley located in the Alborz mountain range approximately 120 km northwest of Tehran in Iran in March 2025.

My heart stopped.

My breathing stopped.

For 20 minutes, I was clinically dead.

But I was not gone.

I was standing in front of God’s throne in heaven watching 24 elders bow down and sing holy, holy, holy to a being so glorious I could not look at his face.

And then Jesus Christ appeared beside me.

The same Jesus I had been taught my whole life was just a prophet, nothing more.

But he was not a prophet.

He was God.

And he showed me something that will shake every Iranian to their core.

He showed me the future.

He showed me war coming to Iran in 2026.

Missiles falling on Tehran.

The Islamic Republic collapsing in fire and chaos.

And in the middle of the destruction, Jesus himself appearing in the sky over our capital city visible to millions stopping the war with a single word.

I watched him take control of Iran.

I watched the regime fall.

I watched the supreme leader’s power broken.

And then he showed me something even more impossible.

He showed me the Imam Khomeini Hosseiniyeh the heart of Islamic power in Tehran filled with over a million Iranians carrying pictures of Jesus waving Christian flags and shouting Jesus is Lord where the supreme leader once stood.

I am the son of one of the most respected Imams in Alborz province.

I was being trained to replace my father.

I had memorized the entire Quran by age 12.

I was a devoted Muslim for 30 years.

But everything I believed was a lie.

And Jesus sent me back from death to tell you what is coming.

The Islamic Republic has less than 2 years left.

Iran is about to go through fire.

And on the other side, millions of Iranians will belong to Jesus Christ.

This is my story.

This is my warning.

And what you are about to hear will change how you see Iran’s future forever.

My name is Ali Mehraban.

I am recording this testimony in a hidden location somewhere in Iran that I cannot reveal.

If you are watching this video, it means someone has managed to upload it before the authorities take it down.

What I am about to tell you will sound impossible.

It will sound like madness to some of you.

Like blasphemy to others.

But I swear on everything that I am, everything I have ever believed that what I am about to share with you is the absolute truth.

I am 30 years old.

I was born and raised in Alborz province in a family that has served Islam for three generations.

My grandfather was an Imam.

My father is Imam Hussein Mehraban one of the most respected religious leaders in our region.

Our mosque in Karaj has served thousands of families for over 40 years.

I grew up inside those walls breathing the air of devotion memorizing the words of the Quran before I could even read Persian properly.

From the time I was 5 years old, my father began training me.

Not just as a son but as his successor.

Every morning before dawn, he would wake me for Fajr prayer.

We would pray together just the two of us in the quiet darkness.

And then he would sit me down with the Quran.

He taught me to recite each surah with perfect pronunciation with the proper reverence and understanding.

By the time I was 12, I had memorized the entire Quran.

My father wept with pride the day I completed the memorization.

He held my face in his hands and said “You are marked by Allah for greatness, my son.

You will carry this family’s legacy forward.

” Those words became my identity.

They became my purpose.

Everything I did from that moment forward was aimed at one singular goal to become the Imam that would replace my father when his time came to meet Allah.

I studied under my father every single day.

He taught me Islamic jurisprudence the Hadith collections the commentaries of the great scholars.

He taught me how to lead prayers how to give sermons how to counsel families in crisis how to settle disputes according to Sharia law.

When I turned 18, I began teaching Quran classes to the younger children at our mosque.

By 22 I was leading Friday prayers when my father was away.

By 25, I was giving my own lectures on Islamic theology to packed rooms of men who were twice my age.

They respected me because I carried my father’s name but also because I knew the religion deeply.

I lived it.

I breathed it.

Islam was not just my faith.

It was my entire existence.

My mother, Zahra, raised me to be devout in every aspect of life.

She taught me modesty discipline and total submission to Allah’s will.

She fasted beyond Ramadan.

She prayed extra prayers late into the night.

Our home was a house of constant worship.

There was no television, no music, nothing that would distract from devotion to Allah.

My parents lived as examples of what they taught.

And I followed that example without question.

I never doubted.

I never questioned.

Why would I? I had everything.

I had a father I deeply respected.

I had a community that honored me.

I had a future that was certain and secure.

I would become Imam Ali Mehraban.

And I would serve Allah and guide my people just as my father and grandfather had done before me.

I was engaged to be married to a young woman named Fatemeh the daughter of another respected Imam in a neighboring city.

Our families had arranged the marriage 2 years ago.

And we were planning the wedding for later in the year.

Everything in my life was perfectly aligned.

I had no complaints, no doubts, no fears.

I believed with absolute certainty that I was walking the straight path that Allah had laid out for me.

I prayed five times a day without fail.

I fasted during Ramadan and on additional days throughout the year.

I gave to the poor.

Um I studied the Quran and Hadith for hours every day.

I taught others.

I lived as purely as I knew how.

And I believed that when I died, I would meet Allah and enter paradise because I had been faithful.

But there was one practice I had that was entirely my own, something I did not do because my father told me to but because I genuinely loved it.

I loved hiking alone in the mountains.

Ever since I was a teenager, I would take solo trips into the Alborz mountain range near our home.

There was something about being alone in the vast beauty of Allah’s creation that made me feel close to him.

I would hike for hours.

Sometimes an entire day.

Just me and the mountains and the sky.

I would stop at high points and pray looking out over the valleys below feeling small and humbled before the majesty of what I believed Allah had made.

My favorite destination was Talegan Valley.

It is about 120 km northwest of Tehran.

A stunning place of green valleys, towering peaks, and the massive Talegan Lake created by the dam.

There are waterfalls scattered throughout the area.

Karkabud waterfall is one of the most beautiful.

The trails wind through forests and along ridges with views that take your breath away.

In the summer, the valley is cool and green, a perfect escape from the heat of the city.

I had been there many times before, always alone, always using the time to pray and meditate.

In March of this year, 2025, I felt a strong pull to go back to Talegan Valley.

It was early spring.

The weather was just beginning to warm.

The valley would be beautiful, still quiet before the summer tourists arrived.

I told my father I was going on a solo hike for the day to spend time in prayer and reflection.

He smiled and nodded.

He knew I did this often.

My mother packed me food for the journey.

I left our home in Karaj early in the morning, drove northwest toward the mountains, and arrived at Talegan Valley just after sunrise.

The air was crisp and clean.

The lake shimmered under the morning light.

I parked my car near one of the trailheads, shouldered my small backpack with water and food, and began walking into the mountains.

My plan was simple.

Hike deep into the valley, find a quiet place near one of the waterfalls, and spend several hours in prayer and supplication to Allah.

I wanted to thank him for my blessings, ask for guidance in my upcoming marriage, and seek his favor as I prepared to eventually take over my father’s role as Imam.

This was not my first solo hike, and I had no reason to expect that this day would be any different from the dozens of other peaceful hikes I had taken before.

I was wrong.

This day would change everything.

The hike started perfectly.

I followed a trail that wound along the eastern side of Talegan Lake, climbing gradually into the hills.

The morning sun warmed my back as I walked.

Birds were singing in the trees.

The sound of water rushing over rocks filled the air from streams feeding into the lake below.

I could see the snow-capped peaks of the Alborz range in the distance, still covered in white even though spring had begun in the valleys.

Everything felt peaceful.

Everything felt right.

As I walked, I prayed quietly under my breath, reciting verses from the Quran, thanking Allah for the beauty around me.

I felt close to him in those moments, surrounded by mountains and sky and the pure clean air.

This was why I loved these solo hikes.

Out here, away from the noise of the city, away from people and responsibilities, I could focus entirely on my relationship with Allah.

After about 2 hours of steady hiking, I reached a fork in the trail.

One path continued along the ridge with open views of the valley.

The other descended toward a forested area where I knew there was a waterfall.

I chose the forest path, wanting to find a quiet spot near water where I could sit and pray for a while.

The trail became narrower as I walked deeper into the trees.

The canopy overhead blocked much of the sunlight, creating patches of cool shadow.

The sound of the waterfall grew louder as I got closer.

I could smell the moisture in the air, that fresh scent that comes from water hitting rocks and creating mist.

It was beautiful.

It was exactly what I had hoped to find.

I felt grateful.

I felt blessed.

I remember thinking to myself that Allah had guided me to this perfect place for prayer.

I reached the waterfall around mid-morning.

It was not a massive fall, but it was lovely, about 10 m high, cascading down a rocky cliff into a clear pool below.

The area around it was green with ferns and moss.

Large smooth stones surrounded the pool, perfect for sitting.

I found a flat rock near the water’s edge, set down my backpack, and sat down facing the waterfall.

I closed my eyes and began to pray.

I started with Al-Fatiha, the opening chapter of the Quran, reciting it slowly and carefully.

Then I moved into personal supplication, speaking to Allah in my own words, uh thanking him for my family, for my education, for my future, for this beautiful place.

I prayed for my father’s health.

I prayed for wisdom as I prepared to become an Imam.

I prayed for my upcoming marriage to Fatima.

I prayed for our community.

I must have sat there praying for 30 minutes, maybe longer.

Time seemed to disappear in that place.

Then something changed.

I started to feel strange.

It began as a subtle sensation, like a heaviness in my chest, a pressure that had not been there before.

I opened my eyes and looked around, thinking maybe I was just tired from the hike or dehydrated.

I reached for my water bottle and took a long drink, but the feeling did not go away.

In fact, it got stronger.

The heaviness spread from my chest into my arms and legs.

My head started to feel light, disconnected, like I was floating slightly above my body.

I stood up, thinking that maybe sitting too long had cut off circulation or something simple like that.

But when I stood, the world tilted.

My vision blurred at the edges.

I tried to take a step toward my backpack, but my legs would not cooperate properly.

They felt weak, unstable, like they could not hold my weight.

I remember feeling confused more than frightened at first.

This made no sense.

I was a healthy 30-year-old man.

I hike these mountains regularly.

I was not sick.

I had not injured myself.

There was no reason for this sudden weakness.

But my body was not listening to logic.

The heaviness increased.

My heartbeat became loud in my ears, pounding hard and fast.

My breathing grew shallow and difficult.

I stumbled forward, trying to reach the trail, uh thinking I needed to get back down the mountain, back to my car, maybe to a clinic.

But I only made it a few steps before my knees buckled.

I fell forward onto the soft ground near the edge of the trail.

I tried to push myself up, but my arms had no strength.

The world around me started to fade.

The sound of the waterfall became distant and muffled.

The green of the forest started turning gray.

Panic hit me then, real panic.

I realized I was losing consciousness and I had no idea why.

My mind raced through possibilities.

Heart attack? Stroke? Some kind of sudden illness? I tried to call out for help, but no sound came from my throat.

I was completely alone in the forest, far from the main trail, far from any other hikers.

No one knew exactly where I was.

If I passed out here, how long would it be before anyone found me? Hours? Days? I I tried to fight it.

I tried to stay awake.

I tried to pray, to call out to Allah for help, but the words would not form.

The darkness was closing in too fast.

My vision narrowed to a tiny point of light, and then even that disappeared.

Everything went black, but I was not unconscious.

That is the strangest part.

My body had shut down completely.

I could not see, could not hear the waterfall, could not feel the ground beneath me, but my mind was awake.

I was aware.

I was conscious in a way I had never experienced before.

It was like being trapped inside my own head with no connection to my physical senses.

And then I felt movement, not physical movement, but something else.

Something was pulling me.

Not my body, but me.

The part of me that thinks and feels and exists beyond flesh and bone.

I was being pulled away from my body, away from the forest, away from the physical world entirely.

The sensation was terrifying and irresistible at the same time.

I could not stop it.

I could not resist it.

I was being taken somewhere.

My first thought was death.

I must be dying.

This must be what happens when you die.

According to everything I had been taught in Islam, when a person dies, the soul sleeps in the grave until the day of resurrection.

There is no consciousness, no awareness, just a sleep that lasts until Allah raises everyone for judgment.

But I was not sleeping.

I was fully awake.

I was aware of being pulled somewhere specific.

This was not what I had been taught to expect.

Fear gripped me.

Where was I going? Was this the angel of death coming for me? Was I about to face the questioning in the grave that we are taught about? I tried to recite the Shahada, on the declaration of faith, “There is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger.

” But the words felt empty.

They dissolved before they could even form fully in my mind.

The pulling continued.

I was moving through darkness, or maybe it was not darkness, but simply the absence of physical reality.

I had no body to see with, no eyes to open or close, but I was moving.

And then, ahead of me, I saw light.

Not like sunlight or electric light.

This was different.

This light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

It grew brighter as I moved toward it, or as it moved toward me.

I could not tell which.

The light was pure and clear and somehow alive.

It had presence.

It had consciousness.

And I understood immediately that I was being pulled toward something far greater and far more terrifying than I had ever imagined.

Whatever I had believed about death, whatever Islam had taught me to expect, I was about to discover that I had been completely unprepared for what actually happens when you leave your body behind.

The light surrounded me completely.

One moment I was moving through darkness toward it, and the next moment I was inside it, consumed by it.

But it was not harsh or blinding.

It was clear and pure, like looking at the sun, but without pain, without needing to close your eyes.

I could see even though I had no physical eyes.

I could perceive everything around me with a clarity I had never experienced in physical life.

And what I saw made every teaching I had ever received about the afterlife completely shatter.

I was standing in a massive space.

I say standing, but I had no legs, no body.

I simply existed there, aware and present.

The space around me was beyond anything I can properly describe with human language.

It was like a throne room, but calling it a room does not capture the scale or the reality of it.

It was existence itself restructured around one central purpose, the worship of the one seated on the throne.

And there was a throne, massive, glorious, made of materials I had never seen before.

It shimmered with colors that do not exist on Earth.

Gold, but not the gold we know.

Light, but not the light from any sun.

The throne radiated power and authority and holiness so intense that I felt crushed by the weight of it.

And seated on that throne was a figure I could not fully see.

I tried to look directly at his face, but I could not.

The glory surrounding him was too intense, too pure, too overwhelming.

Every time I tried to focus on his face, but my perception would fail.

It was like trying to stare into the heart of the sun.

All I could perceive was blazing light and glory and a presence so holy that I wanted to disappear.

I had never felt so small, so unworthy, so absolutely terrified in my entire existence.

This was not Allah as I had imagined him.

This was something far beyond anything Islam had ever taught me.

The figure on the throne was clothed in gold.

Not wearing gold, but clothed in it as if the glory itself was his garment.

The gold was not just a color, but a substance of pure holiness and beauty.

It moved like fabric, but shown like fire.

I could see layers of it flowing and shifting, radiating outward in waves of light.

And surrounding the throne were treasures, mountains of them.

Precious stones that sparkled with their own inner light.

Pearls larger than anything I had seen on Earth.

Crowns made of materials I could not name.

Riches beyond calculation, beyond imagination.

But these treasures were not the focus.

They were simply there, part of the environment of this place, valuable beyond measure, but insignificant compared to the one seated on the throne.

Everything in this place existed to point toward him, to glorify him, to declare his worth.

And then I saw them, the elders, 24 of them arranged in a circle around the throne.

They were not standing.

They were bowing low, faces to the ground in a posture of absolute worship and submission.

They wore white robes that glowed with purity, and on their heads were golden crowns.

But even as I watched, they would remove their crowns and cast them down before the throne, as if even these symbols of authority and honor were nothing compared to the one they worshipped.

These were not ordinary beings.

I could sense their age, their wisdom, their authority.

They were elders in every sense, ancients who had existed far longer than human history.

Beings of immense power and dignity, yet they lay prostrate before the throne without hesitation, without pride, in total and complete surrender.

And they were singing.

The song filled everything.

It was not music like we know it.

It was something deeper, something that existed before music, the original sound from which all beauty flows.

Their voices blended together in perfect harmony, and the words they sang shook the very foundation of that place.

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come.

” They sang it over and over, but it never became repetitive or boring.

Each time they sang those words, new layers of meaning opened up.

Each time the glory increased.

Each time I understood more fully what holiness actually meant.

And each time I felt more utterly undone by the weight of it.

I had spent 30 years of my life praying to Allah five times a day.

I had bowed my face to the ground in mosques and in my home and on prayer rugs thousands upon thousands of times.

I had recited prayers declaring Allah’s greatness and holiness.

But standing in this place, hearing these elders worship, I realized with crushing certainty that I had never truly understood what holiness meant.

I had never encountered it.

I had worshipped an idea, a concept, a teaching passed down through Islam.

But this this was actual holiness, raw, undiluted, absolute purity and perfection and power.

And it was not the Allah of the Quran, I knew that instantly.

This was different.

This was someone else entirely.

The holiness radiating from the throne was like a fire that burned away every impurity.

I felt completely exposed.

Every sin I had ever committed, every wrong thought, every moment of pride or lust or anger or deception, all of it was visible here.

Nothing could be hidden in this light.

I saw my entire life laid out before me in perfect clarity.

I saw the times I had been harsh with students who struggled to memorize Quran.

I saw the pride I had felt when people praised my knowledge.

I saw the moments I had judged others in my heart while maintaining a face of piety.

I saw the lustful thoughts I had entertained and then pushed away, uh thinking they did not count because I did not act on them.

I saw the times I had loved my reputation more than truth.

I saw every single thing, and I was drowning in shame.

According to Islam, I should have been confident standing before Allah.

I had lived a good life.

I had prayed, fasted, given to charity, memorized the Quran, taught others, served my community.

My good deeds should have outweighed my bad deeds.

I should have been worthy of paradise.

But in this place, in the presence of actual holiness, all my good deeds looked like filthy rags.

Nothing I had done was pure enough.

Nothing was good enough.

Nothing could stand before this level of perfection.

I was completely undone.

I deserved judgment.

I deserved punishment.

I deserved to be cast away from this presence forever because I was sinful and unholy, and this place was pure.

I wanted to cry out, but I had no voice.

I wanted to fall down, but I had no body to fall.

I simply existed there in total exposure, completely helpless, absolutely terrified.

The weight of guilt was crushing me.

I was aware of every single failure, every single sin, all at once.

It was unbearable.

I could not escape it.

I could not hide from it.

I was naked before perfect holiness, and I knew I deserved condemnation.

Everything Islam had taught me about earning paradise through was revealed as a lie.

There was no balanced scale here.

There was only perfection or imperfection, holiness or sin.

And I was drowning in my sin with no way to save myself.

And then something happened that I did not expect.

The elders continued to sing.

The holiness continued to radiate from the throne, but I became aware of something else, a presence beside me, though I could not yet see who it was.

And I heard a voice.

The voice was gentle, but carried absolute authority.

It knew my name.

It knew everything about me.

And it said words that would begin to shatter everything I had believed for my entire life.

The voice said my name, Ali.

And then it said something that made no sense according to my Islamic training.

It said, “I want to show you something.

I want to show you what is coming to your nation, to Iran.

Watch.

” The throne room disappeared.

One moment I was standing in that place of overwhelming holiness, crushed under the weight of my sin, listening to the 24 elders sing their endless song of worship.

The next moment, everything shifted.

The light changed.

The space around me transformed.

I was no longer in the throne room.

I was somewhere else entirely, hovering above something, looking down like a bird flying high in the sky.

But I was not in a body.

I had no wings, no physical form.

I simply existed there, seeing everything below me with perfect clarity.

And what I saw filled me with terror.

I was looking down at Iran.

I recognized the landscape immediately, the mountains, the cities, the roads.

But something was terribly wrong.

Everything was burning.

Smoke rose from multiple cities.

I could see explosions, flashes of light, buildings collapsing.

This was not the Iran I knew.

This was Iran at war.

The voice spoke again beside me, the same voice that had called my name moments before.

I still could not see who was speaking, but the voice was clear and close, as if someone stood right next to me.

The voice said, “This is what is coming, Ali.

This is the future of your nation.

Watch carefully.

You must remember everything you see because you will go back and tell them.

I wanted to ask questions.

I wanted to know when this would happen, why it would happen, how it could be stopped.

But I could not speak.

I could only watch as the scene below me continued to unfold.

I saw military forces moving through the streets of Tehran.

I saw Iranian Revolutionary Guard soldiers taking positions throughout the city.

I saw missiles launching from sites I recognized in the mountains.

And then I saw something that made my heart stop.

I saw other militaries responding, Western forces, American jets flying over Iranian airspace, explosions hitting military installations across the country.

This was not a small conflict.

This was total war.

I watched as the fighting spread across Iran.

I saw battles in multiple cities.

I saw infrastructure destroyed, power grids failing, communications cut off.

I saw civilians running through streets trying to escape the violence.

I saw families huddled in basements while bombs fell above them.

I saw hospitals overflowing with wounded.

I saw mass graves being dug.

The scale of destruction was beyond anything I had imagined.

This was not just a military operation.

This was the complete breakdown of order, the collapse of everything holding the nation together.

I saw government buildings in Tehran hit by precision strikes.

I saw Revolutionary Guard commanders killed.

I saw chaos spreading through the ranks of Iran’s military as leadership structures fell apart.

And through it all, I kept thinking, “Why is this happening? What could bring this level of destruction to my country?” Then the scene shifted again.

The view zoomed in closer to Tehran, focusing on specific locations.

I could see the presidential complex, the parliament building, the offices of the supreme leader.

And I watched as one by one, these centers of power were struck, not by bombs or missiles, but by something else.

It was like watching a structure collapse from the inside.

I saw officials fleeing.

I saw documents being burned.

I saw the symbols of the Islamic Republic being torn down, not by foreign invaders, but by Iranians themselves.

The regime was falling apart.

The government that had ruled Iran since 1979 was crumbling.

I saw Ayatollah Khamenei’s image, which had been displayed on buildings and billboards across the nation for decades, being ripped down and burned in the streets.

The Islamic Republic was ending, and it was ending in fire and blood and chaos.

But then something happened that I could not explain with any logic or reason.

In the middle of all this destruction, in the middle of the war and the collapse, a figure appeared in the sky above Tehran.

I saw him clearly.

He was standing in the air above the city, visible to everyone below.

His appearance was like nothing I had ever seen.

He radiated light, but it was not the overwhelming light of the throne room.

This was focused, intentional, personal.

He was a man, but more than a man.

He wore robes of pure white that moved in a wind I could not feel.

His face was kind, but carried absolute authority.

His hands were extended toward the city below, and I could see scars on his palms.

Scars like someone had driven nails through his hands, and I knew immediately who this was.

This was Jesus, not Isa, the prophet that Islam teaches about.

This was Jesus Christ, and he was appearing over my nation in power and glory.

The moment he appeared, the fighting stopped.

I watched as soldiers on both sides lowered their weapons.

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