BREAKING Feb.

2026: Entire Iranian Parliament Session HALTS as MP Dies & Returns Proclaiming Jesus

For 58 years, I sent Christians to prison, signed death warrants, defended Islam.

Then I met Jesus.

2 days ago, 48 hours ago, February 5th, 2026, 10:47 in the morning Tehran time, I died, not metaphorically, not spiritually, clinically dead on live television in the Iranian Parliament in front of 237 members of the Islamic Consultative Assembly, in front of millions watching press TV.

11 minutes and 33 seconds later, I came back and the first words out of my mouth destroyed my entire life.

My hands are still shaking as I record this.

I’m in hiding.

They’re hunting me right now.

The Iranian government wants this testimony silenced.

Wants me dead.

Wants this story buried before it spreads to every corner of the Muslim world.

But I saw something in those 11 minutes.

Something that changes everything.

something you need to hear before the door closes forever.

My name is Dr.

Raza Husseini Kashani.

In until 48 hours ago, I was a member of parliament in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

I defended Islam for 58 years.

I sent Christians to prison.

I signed death warrants for apostates.

I was certain, absolutely certain I was serving God.

Two days ago, I met the judge and the judge was Jesus.

This is not a story I read.

This is not theology I studied.

This happened 48 hours ago.

The footage exists.

The Iranian government seized it immediately, but not before 14 seconds leaked across social media.

237 witnesses watched me die.

They watched me come back.

And they heard what I said when I woke up.

Right now, the regime is calling it a medical emergency and a mental breakdown.

They’re rewriting history in real time.

They’re scrubbing the internet.

They’re threatening anyone who shares the footage.

That’s why I’m speaking now it immediately while the evidence is still fresh.

While the witnesses are still alive, while the truth can still be verified.

Because what I experienced in those 11 minutes will challenge everything you believe about death, judgment, heaven, hell, and the only way to escape what’s coming.

And because Jesus showed me something about Iran’s future, specific dates, specific events that will begin unfolding in exactly 9 months.

You can verify this testimony by watching what happens.

The prophecies are measurable.

The timeline is precise.

December 31st, 2027.

22 months from today.

The door closes to half.

This isn’t a metaphor.

This isn’t symbolic.

Jesus showed me a literal door over Iran slowly swinging shut.

And when it closes, access to grace becomes exponentially harder.

The countdown has started.

ID and I died 48 hours ago to bring you this warning.

Act one, credibility and the moment of death 2 to9.

Let me tell you who I was before February 5th, 2026 changed everything.

I was born in 1968 in Kam, the holiest city in Iran.

My father was Ayatollah Muhammad Husseini.

My grandfather was executed by the Sha’s Savvak secret police in 1978 for opposing the regime.

Religious martyrdom runs in my blood.

I was raised to be a defender of Islam from the moment I could speak.

I have a doctorate in Islamic law from Calm Seminary.

I studied under some of the most respected scholars in Shia Islam.

I authored three books defending Sharia implementation in modern governance.

For 12 years, I served as a member of parliament.

I sat on the national security and foreign policy committee and I was consulted on policies affecting religious minorities, apostasy laws, and Iran’s relationship with Western powers.

I was known as a hardliner.

When reformist MPS tried to soften apostasy penalties, I was the voice shouting them down.

When Christian house churches were discovered, I signed the arrest warrants.

When a Muslim converted to Christianity, I approved the execution order.

I thought I was serving God.

I thought I was protecting Islam.

I thought I was earning paradise through my zealous defense of the faith.

I was completely wrong.

But there were cracks in my certainty.

cracks I ignored for years.

Three years ago, my wife Zara died of cancer.

I prayed five times a day for her healing.

I fasted.

I gave extra charity.

I begged Allah to spare her.

She suffered for 8 months.

The pain medication stopped working.

She screamed at night.

And then she died in a hospital room that smelled like disinfectant and death.

I buried her and I buried my questions with her.

If Allah was merciful, why didn’t he answer? If my prayers had any power, why did they feel like shouting into emptiness? I watched corruption among the religious elite.

Men who preached piety while accepting bribes, who lectured about morality while keeping secret families, who demanded Sharia for others while exempting themselves.

I said nothing.

I looked away.

I protected the system.

And there was one memory that haunted me more than any other.

In 2008, my neighbor, a man named Hassan, who I’d known for 20 years, converted to Christianity.

He was arrested.

His case came before our committee.

I signed the execution order.

I remember feeling satisfaction as I signed it.

Righteousness, like I was defending God’s honor.

Two weeks later, they hanged him in Evan Prison.

His last words, according to the prison, were, “Jesus, receive my spirit.

” I told myself he died a heretic.

I told myself justice was served.

But late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, I remembered his face, his gentleness, the peace in his eyes, even when he was arrested.

What if he knew something I didn’t? I pushed the thought away.

heresy, blasphemy, dangerous thinking.

But the thought kept returning.

For months before February 5th, I had the same recurring nightmare.

I was standing in a courtroom, not an Iranian court, but something vast and ancient.

Marble floors, stone walls glowing from within.

A judge’s bench rising impossibly high.

And I was the accused.

I could never see the judge’s face, but I could hear the verdict being read.

And then every time I woke up in absolute terror, heart pounding, soaked in sweat.

I thought they were just dreams.

Anxiety about my work, stress about politics.

They weren’t dreams.

They were warnings.

And on February 5th, 2026, I discovered the courtroom was real.

The morning of February 5th, 9 to 11:30.

February 5th started like any other Wednesday.

I woke at 5:30 a.

m.

for morning prayers.

I prayed the words I’d memorized as a child, words I’d recited thousands of times.

They felt hollow that morning, empty ritual, but I pushed through.

Breakfast was dates and tea like always.

I drove through Tyrron’s cold winter morning to the Parliament building.

The city was gray, overcast, the Albor’s mountains hidden behind pollution and clouds.

The parliamentary session was scheduled for 10:00 a.

m.

in the topic amendments to Iran’s apostasy laws, making them stricter, making it harder for Muslims to leave Islam, increasing penalties up to and including capital punishment for public apostasy.

I was one of the primary advocates for these amendments.

The irony is almost unbearable now.

Four hours before I would die and meet Jesus, I was arguing for harsher punishments against people who follow him.

The session began.

Speaker Muhammad Bagger Galibbuff called us to order.

The chamber was full.

237 MPS present.

Press TV cameras in the gallery broadcasting live to millions of Iranians.

The amendments were read.

standard procedural language about protecting Islamic identity, preventing Western corruption, maintaining social cohesion through religious unity.

Then Ahmad Kazami, a reformist MP, stood up.

He dared to question the amendments.

Yet, he suggested maybe execution was too harsh.

Maybe we should show mercy.

Maybe forcing people to stay Muslim through fear of death wasn’t actually Islamic.

I felt rage rising in my chest.

At 10:43 a.

m.

, I stood up and interrupted him.

“Brother Kazami, your words are dangerous.

” My voice echoed through the ornate chamber.

“Anyone who turns their back on Islam has turned their back on God himself.

” “They have chosen eternal damnation.

Our laws must reflect divine justice.

To show mercy to apostates is to show contempt for the pain hit.

A crushing pressure on my sternum like a stone slab dropped on my chest.

My left arm went numb, tingling, heavy.

I gripped the podium, tried to keep speaking.

My voice came out strained.

Contempt for the prophet himself who said I couldn’t breathe.

The chamber tilted on the geometric patterns on the ceiling blurred.

Someone shouted, “He’s having a heart attack.

” I tried to say I was fine.

The words wouldn’t come.

At 10:47 a.

m.

February 5th, 2026, I collapsed.

I felt my knees hit the marble floor, felt the impact up through my spine, but already I was separating, already leaving.

The last thing I saw from inside my body was the camera.

Red light blinking, still recording, still broadcasting.

14 million Iranians watching me die in real time.

The death experience leaving the body.

11:30 to,500.

I was above myself, floating, hovering near the ornate ceiling of the Parliament Chamber.

I could see my body on the floor, face down, arms spled, blood pooling from where I’d bitten my tongue during the fall.

Dr.

Mosen Bahami, the parliamentary physician.

He was running toward me.

Other MPS backing away, some frozen in shock, some pointing, someone screaming for someone to call an ambulance.

I watched it all from above with perfect clarity.

No pain, no panic, just observation.

I could see details I shouldn’t have been able to see.

The dust particles floating in the light streaming through the windows.

The tiny crack in one of the marble floor tiles.

The fear in Kazmi’s eyes as he watched me die after I’d just attacked him verbally.

Dr.

Barami reached my body, started chest compressions.

Someone brought a defibrillator.

I watched him work.

watched my body jolt with each shock.

Watched my chest compress and release.

Watched my face turn blue.

And I felt nothing about it.

That body on the floor felt like something I used to wear.

A coat I’d taken off.

I was the consciousness floating above and not the flesh dying below.

The camera was still recording.

I could see the camera operator’s hands shaking.

I could see the director in the booth gesturing frantically, “Cut the feed.

Cut the cameras.

” They didn’t cut them fast enough.

Then I started moving, not by choice, by pull.

Upward through the ceiling, through the ornate dome, through stone and steel and empty air.

I emerged above the Parliament building, above Tehran.

I could see the entire city spread below me like a living map.

Aadi Tower, the sprawling urban chaos, the mountains in the distance, the cold February air should have frozen me.

But I wasn’t cold, wasn’t hot, just aware.

And then I started falling.

Not down toward Earth, down through something else, through layers.

This wasn’t the white light tunnel people talk about.

This was descent through my own life.

And the first layer appeared, my childhood in calm, playing in the courtyard of my father’s house.

My father’s stern face looming over me.

You will be a servant of Allah, Raza, nothing less.

Our family serves God.

You will serve God.

I saw myself nodding, accepting, never questioning.

The second layer, the seminary.

Teenage years spent memorizing Quran.

The pride of knowing verses perfectly.

The sense of superiority over other students who struggled.

The arrogance of thinking knowledge equaled righteousness.

I saw myself smirking when other students failed exams.

Saw myself judging them.

Saw the pride rotting inside me even as I memorized holy words.

The third layer, my political rise.

The compromises I made.

the reformist colleague I betrayed to advance my career and the bribe I accepted in 1994 50,000 toman and told myself it was fine because I’d give some to charity.

The lies I told to protect powerful men who should have been exposed.

I saw every compromise, every corruption, every moment I chose advancement over integrity.

The fourth layer my wife’s illness.

Zara in the hospital bed.

her screams of pain.

Me praying desperately, fasting, begging, and feeling nothing.

No answer, no comfort, just emptiness and then anger.

Rage at God for not answering.

Rage I never admitted to anyone.

Barely admitted to myself.

I saw myself standing over her grave, angry and bitter, blaming God while pretending to submit to his will.

The fifth layer, Hassan, my Christian neighbor, his arrest, the file on my desk, his photo clipped to the execution order, my pen signing.

The satisfaction I felt in the righteousness, the certainty that I was doing God’s work.

I saw Hassan’s face as they took him away, the peace in his eyes, the forgiveness, and I saw my own face, hard, cold, proud.

Each layer made me heavier, darker, more aware.

Every decision I’d made, every word I’d spoken, every secret sin I’d hidden, all of it present, all of it visible, all of it weighing on me like stones tied to my soul.

I was descending through my own judgment, and I understood I deserved whatever was coming.

The courtroom, 1500 to 2100.

Then I was standing.

The layers vanished.

The descent stopped.

I was in a courtroom carved from a single piece of white stone that glowed from within.

No lamps, no torches, no sun, just luminescence radiating from the walls themselves.

And the ceiling rose so high it vanished into brightness.

The floor was polished smooth as glass.

The judge’s bench rose from the floor like a frozen wave of stone.

Massive, imposing, empty.

I wasn’t alone.

Others stood at their own stands, separated by vast distances, but all visible.

Some were weeping.

Some stood defiant.

Some looked confused.

All of us waiting.

Waiting for the judge.

The air was thick, heavy, like standing in a room where your entire life is about to be decided.

Because it was.

I’d stood in courtrooms before, Iranian courts, religious courts.

I’d been the one passing judgment, sending people to prison, signing execution orders, determining fates.

Now I was the accused.

My stand was carved wood, dark, worn.

There was a space for evidence, for witnesses, for defense.

I had nothing.

On the stand in front of me, it a book materialized, thick, heavy, bound in something that looked like dried blood, dark leather, cracked, and ancient.

The title appeared in gold lettering in Farsy.

The deeds of Reza Husseini Kashani.

The book opened by itself, pages turning, filled with dense handwriting.

every prayer I’d ever prayed, every fast I’d kept, every act of charity, every religious deed documented in meticulous detail.

For a moment, one brief foolish moment, I felt pride.

Look at all I’d done.

Decades of service, thousands of prayers, books written defending the faith.

Then the pages turned to a different section.

Every sin, every compromise, every hidden thing.

March 15th, 1994.

Accepted bribe from construction contractor 50,000 Tomen.

Told yourself it was fine.

Used some for charity.

Kept most for yourself.

Never confessed.

August 3rd, e 2008, signed execution order for Hassan Amadi, Christian Convert.

Felt satisfaction.

Felt righteous.

Felt no mercy.

November 12th, 2019.

Turned away homeless man from your office.

Felt disgust at his filth.

Gave nothing.

January 7th, 2023.

Wife dying in hospital.

Prayed for healing.

Felt rage when prayers went unanswered.

Blamed God.

Hid rage behind pious words.

February 2nd, 2026.

Argued with reformist colleague, insulted him publicly.

Felt superior.

No apology.

Things no one knew.

Thoughts no one heard.

Motives no one saw.

All recorded.

All documented.

All evidence.

The book was so thick I couldn’t see the end of it.

58 years of life.

Every moment recorded.

Every deed weighed.

Then another book materialized beside it.

Thin, radiant, like hammered gold catching sunrise, glowing with internal light that hurt to look at.

In the title, the book of life.

I was drawn to it.

Desperate.

I needed to see my name in there.

Needed confirmation that all my religious service counted for something.

The book opened.

Pages like liquid light, names written in script that seemed to pulse with life.

I searched frantically looking for my name.

Abbas, Ahmed, Ali, Fatima, Hassan, Hussein, Muhammad, Raza, but not my full name.

Someone else.

I searched again and again, flipping through pages of names I didn’t recognize.

My name wasn’t there.

The book of my deeds was thick enough to choke on.

58 years of religious performance documented in exhaustive detail.

The book of life was thin, radiant, perfect, and didn’t contain my name.

I understood with crushing clarity the verdict was already decided.

My good deeds meant nothing.

My prayers meant nothing.

Even my decades of service meant nothing.

I was standing before perfect justice.

And I had no defense.

Then he spoke.

Raza Hoseni Kashani.

The voice filled the entire courtroom.

Every syllable creating reality, every word carrying absolute authority.

The stone walls resonated.

The floor vibrated.

I still couldn’t see his face.

The judge’s bench was too high, too bright, but the voice was unmistakable.

You stand accused before the holy God.

The book of my deeds lifted into the air.

Pages turning by themselves.

Each sin displayed, each compromise revealed.

You have broken my law 10,000 times.

You have rejected my son.

You have clothed yourself in religious garments while your heart remained far from me.

You have judged others while excusing yourself.

You You have sent people to death for following my son while claiming to serve me.

I tried to speak, tried to defend myself.

But I prayed five times daily.

I fasted during Ramadan.

I gave to charity.

I served in your name.

I defended Islam.

I lived for you.

The voice, by whose authority? By what standard? I had no answer.

Your righteousness is as filthy rags before me.

Your prayers are noise in my ears.

Your good works are worthless straw piled high to reach heaven, but collapsing under their own weight.

You have worked to earn what cannot be earned.

You have rejected grace while demanding justice.

Very well.

You shall have justice.

The words landed like physical blows.

Each one stripping away my defenses.

Each one exposing truth.

Every prayer I’d prayed noise.

Every verse I’d memorized on worthless.

Every religious act filthy rags.

You every hour in the mosque.

Empty performance.

And I knew he was right.

I had been trying to build my own bridge to heaven, piling up good deeds like bricks, thinking if I prayed enough, fasted enough, served enough, I could earn paradise.

But standing before perfect holiness, I saw it clearly.

My best efforts were contaminated.

My purest motives were mixed with pride.

My holiest acts were tainted with selfishness.

I deserved judgment, perfect justice, and I had no argument against it.

The sentence is death.

Eternal separation from my presence.

You will fall into outer darkness where you belong.

Justice.

Perfect justice.

And I deserved every bit of it.

The floor beneath me cracked.

Stone splitting with a sound like bones breaking.

A fissure opening.

Darkness emerging from below.

I expected fire.

Everyone expects fire when they think of hell.

This was worse.

Through the crack, I saw infinite space, but not empty.

I saw people, countless people, falling, drifting, alone.

Each person could see others, but couldn’t reach them, couldn’t speak to them, couldn’t connect.

Everyone isolated forever.

This wasn’t physical torment.

This was psychological and spiritual anguish that would never end.

Everyone could see heaven from a distance, see the light, see the joy.

but never access it.

Like standing outside a feast with your face pressed against the window, watching others enjoy what you rejected.

Eternal consciousness of what was lost.

Eternal regret with no possibility of change.

Eternal isolation from God and from others.

Alone forever with guilt, with memories, with whatifs.

No hope of escape, no hope of second chances.

in the door permanently closed.

The absolute finality of it was more terrifying than any flame.

My stand crumbled.

I started falling toward that isolation chamber.

I screamed.

No sound came out.

I reached for anything to grab.

Nothing solid existed.

The darkness rushing up to swallow me.

The terror of eternal aloneeness closing in.

This was hell.

And it was exactly what I deserved.

The hand and the revelation.

21 to 28.

I was falling into eternal isolation.

And then I stopped, not gently, suddenly, violently, like hitting an invisible floor midair, suspended in the darkness between the courtroom above and hell below.

I looked down.

The isolation chamber was still there, still waiting.

People still falling into it.

I looked up.

the cracked floor, the courtroom, the light.

And then I saw it and a hand gripping my wrist, scarred hand.

The scars weren’t healed wounds.

They were open, gaping holes through the wrist, but not bleeding.

Glowing, pulsing with light, strong grip, unbreakable, warm.

I was pulled upward, effortlessly like I weighed nothing.

Lifted back through the crack in the floor, back to solid ground in the courtroom.

standing again before the judge’s bench.

But everything felt different now.

The condemnation still hung in the air.

The verdict still echoed.

The justice still demanded payment.

But now something else was present.

Someone else.

The voice spoke again softer.

Do you understand now? My voice was broken, trembling.

I deserve that pit.

I deserve eternal isolation.

And I have no defense, no excuse, no argument.

I was wrong about everything.

Completely wrong.

You are correct.

Justice demands payment.

In the law requires satisfaction.

Sin cannot go unpunished.

But there is another way.

The judge stood from his bench.

Stepped down, each footstep echoing through the entire courtroom like thunder, walking toward me.

Still shadowed by light too bright to look at directly.

But approaching each step deliberate, each step purposeful, he stepped into clearer light.

And I saw his face, Middle Eastern, olive skin, dark hair and beard, maybe 30 years old in appearance.

But his eyes, they weren’t a color.

They were light itself.

Looking into me, through me, seeing everything, every secret, every sin, every thought.

The scars were visible now, hands, wrists, feet, and a deep wound in his side.

And I recognized him from paintings Hassan had shown me years ago from descriptions I’d read in confiscated Christian literature, usually from the dreams that had been haunting me.

My voice came out as a whisper.

Issa, Jesus.

My entire theological framework exploded in that moment.

58 years of Islamic teaching collided with what I was seeing.

You’re just a prophet.

The words came out desperate, defensive.

In Islam, you’re honored, but human.

You didn’t die on the cross.

Allah raised you up.

You can’t be the judge.

Only Allah judges.

He held up his scarred hands.

The holes through his wrists glowed.

I could see through them.

Look at my hands, Razor.

I looked.

The scars were real, deep.

The wounds that killed him.

A prophet doesn’t bear the sins of the world in his body.

A prophet doesn’t have authority to judge the living and the dead.

A prophet doesn’t have power over death itself.

A prophet doesn’t have his name in the book of life from before creation.

He stepped closer.

I should have been terrified, but I felt something else.

Draw.

pull like my soul recognized him even as my mind resisted.

I am the son of God.

I am the judge.

I am the savior.

I am the only way to the father.

Everything you were taught about me was incomplete.

Deliberately incomplete.

Look at my hands and understand what they mean.

And suddenly I wasn’t in the courtroom anymore.

I was at Golgtha watching the crucifixion.

But not from ground level, from the father’s perspective in heaven.

I saw the sun on the cross.

I saw the crown of thorns.

I saw the nails.

I saw the spear wound.

But more than that, I felt it.

Not the physical pain, though that was immense.

The spiritual anguish, the bearing of sin, I I watched as every sin ever committed by every human who would ever exist was placed on Jesus.

I watched the weight of it crush him.

I watched the father who had never been separated from the son in all eternity turn his face away because he cannot look upon sin.

I felt the separation, the cosmic loneliness, the son crying out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” And I understood he was forsaken so I wouldn’t have to be.

I saw my specific sins, the ones I’d just seen in the book, the ones I thought were hidden.

The lie I told in 1994.

Jesus bearing it on the cross.

The execution order I signed in 2008.

The blood of Hassan on my hands.

Jesus bearing it.

The homeless man I turned away.

Jesus bearing my hardness of heart.

The rage I felt when my wife died.

Jesus bearing my anger at God.

The pride, the corruption.

I the secret sins, the public sins, all of it.

Every sin I’d ever committed, Jesus bearing it in his body on that cross.

The weight of my 58 years of rebellion pressing the nails deeper.

The guilt crushing his chest.

The shame suffocating him.

He did that for me, specifically for me.

And then I heard him say it.

It is finished.

Not I am finished, but it is finished.

The work, the payment, the debt.

I was back in the courtroom, tears streaming down my face.

That’s what my hands mean, Jesus said.

That’s what my scars prove.

I took your place.

I bore your sins.

I satisfied divine justice.

I paid what you could never pay.

An infinite price for infinite offense.

God himself paying the debt humanity owed.

I couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

Everything you were taught said this was wrong, he continued.

and that God wouldn’t do this, that I was just a prophet, that you had to earn salvation through your own works.

He showed me the two books again, the thick book of my deeds, the thin book of life.

Your works damn you.

They prove you guilty.

Even your best efforts are contaminated.

But my work saves you, not because you earned it, because I offer it freely to anyone who believes.

The name written 28 minutes to 32 minutes.

Jesus walked to my stand to the evidence table where the two books sat.

Come stand beside me.

I was terrified, ashamed, hopeful, confused, all of it at once.

I stood next to him, next to the judge who had every right to condemn me.

He opened the book of my deeds again.

All the sins still visible.

All the evidence still damning.

These are yours? Yes.

My voice cracked.

Yes.

All mine.

All true.

All deserving judgment.

And the penalty? Death.

Eternal separation.

The pit.

He looked at me with those eyes of light.

I will take your place.

I couldn’t comprehend it.

But Lord, you’re perfect.

You have no sins.

This is my book, my guilt.

You can’t.

That’s exactly why I can.

Only the sinless can bear the sins of others.

Only the infinite can pay an infinite debt.

Only God can satisfy God’s justice.

He showed me the crucifixion again, but this time more intimately, more personally.

I saw the Roman soldiers driving the nails, but I saw something else overlaid on the image.

I saw my own hands holding the hammer, my sins driving those nails deeper.

Every time I’d judge someone else while excusing myself, another nail.

Every time I’d used religion as a weapon, another stripe on his back.

Every time I’d felt superior to lesser Muslims or to Christians or to anyone, another thorn in his crown.

My sins killed him.

My rebellion demanded his blood.

But he went willingly, knowing my name, seeing my face, choosing to die for me specifically.

This is what your sins cost, Raza, he said gently.

This is what justice demanded.

This is the price that had to be paid.

I paid it in full 2,000 years ago.

But for you today, this moment, it becomes personal.

It becomes yours if you believe.

Then he took the book of life, thin, radiant, my name still absent from its pages.

He held up his scarred hand, and somehow, impossibly blood appeared, fresh red, dripping from wounds that had healed 2,000 years ago, but remained open in eternity.

He dipped his finger in his own blood and he wrote in the book of life on a page that had been blank.

Raza Husseini Kashani my name in the book of life written by Jesus in his own blood.

It is finished.

He said for you today if you believe.

Do you believe? Every fiber of my Islamic upbringing scream no.

This is sherk.

This is blasphemy.

This is betrayal of everything you were raised to believe.

58 years of certainty, of religious identity, of family tradition, of cultural belonging.

All of it hanging in the balance.

But I’d seen the books.

I’d felt the pit.

I’d watched Jesus bear my sins.

I’d looked into his eyes.

And I’d seen his scars.

I fell to my knees.

I believe.

The words came out as a soba.

I believe you are the Messiah.

I believe you died for my sins specifically.

I believe you rose from the dead.

I believe you are the way, the truth, and the life.

I I believe you are God.

Tears were streaming down my face.

58 years of religious pride crumbling.

Forgive me.

Wash me clean with your blood.

I surrender.

All of it.

My life, my career, my certainty, everything.

I’m yours.

Save me, please.

He touched my head with his scarred hand.

Warmth flooded through me.

Light joy I’d never experienced.

Peace that made no logical sense.

Love so intense it should have crushed me but instead lifted me.

You are saved right now.

This moment.

Your sins are forgiven past, present, future.

Your name is written in the book of life in my blood.

You are mine forever.

I wept.

Not from sadness, from relief, from the weightlifting, from 58 years of striving and performing and earning suddenly being replaced with it’s done.

It’s finished.

You’re accepted.

Not because of what I did, but because of what he did.

Grace, pure grace, unearned, undeserved, complete.

I was saved.

The prophecies and the mission.

32 minutes to 37 minutes.

I thought he would send me back immediately.

He didn’t.

There’s something you need to see, Jesus said.

Images appeared in the air around us, not like watching a screen, like stepping into the events themselves.

Past, present, and future layered together.

I’m showing you what’s coming to Iran.

Not to entertain you, not to make you a prophet, but to give you evidence, to give people a reason to believe your testimony.

Watch.

Vision one, the Supreme Leader’s death.

I saw Ayatollah Kamune in a room I recognized.

A secure meeting room in his compound.

Crisis meeting about Iran’s nuclear program.

International pressure mounting.

Internal disscent growing.

A calendar on the wall showed a date.

November 7th, 2026.

9 months from today.

9 months from February 7th.

Kamina clutched his chest, collapsed, aids rushing to help, chaos.

The vision showed his death, not assassination, not peaceful old age, stroke, sudden, unexpected.

This is certain, Jesus said.

This will happen 9 months from today.

Watch.

Verify.

Let this be the first proof of your testimony.

Vision two, the winter revolution.

Winter scenes.

Snow falling on Thrron.

December 2026.

January 2027 Tehran University.

Women protesting, but different from the 2022 protests.

I remembered larger, more organized.

And this time, the military was split.

Some units protecting protesters instead of attacking them.

Young soldiers refusing orders.

Officers defecting.

The trigger.

A Christian woman executed publicly for apostasy.

Hear her testimony going viral before her death.

Her peace, her forgiveness of her executioners, her final words, Jesus, I’m coming home.

The nation erupted.

Enough.

No more.

The regime will weaken.

Jesus said, not fall completely.

Not yet, but weaken.

The grip will loosen.

The door will open wider for a season.

Vision three.

the persecution wave.

But before the opening darkness, Evan prison packed with Christians, believers arrested across Tan Shiraz is Fahan.

Calm Q1 1227 11 to13 months from now.

Torture, interrogations, pressure to recant, 30 believers executed, public hangings meant to terrify, meant to stop the revival.

Satan knows his time is short.

Jesus said, “He will rage.

He will kill.

He will try to stamp out what’s growing.

But for every believer killed, 100 will be born.

On their blood will water the harvest.

” Vision four.

The church explosion house.

Churches across Iran multiplying, growing exponentially.

Muslims having dreams of Jesus simultaneously across the nation.

Thousands of them dreams they can’t explain.

Jesus appearing, calling them by name, telling them to find Christians and ask about the way like Acts 2, Holy Spirit falling on Persians.

I saw numbers 100,000 believers in 2024, 500,000 by end of 2027, 1 million by end of 2028.

the fastest growing underground church in the world.

Unstoppable despite persecution.

Your testimony will spread.

Jesus said, “This very recording, it will reach Farsy speakers across the globe.

Some will mock, some will attack, but my sheep will hear my voice through your words.

They will recognize truth, and they will come.

” Vision five, the closing door.

Then he showed me something that terrified me more than the pit.

A massive door, crystallin, golden, suspended in the air over all of Iran, glowing, beautiful, currently open about 2/3 of the way, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, swinging shut.

A date appeared superimposed over the vision.

December 31st, 2027, 22 months from today.

from February 7th, 2026.

On this date, the door closes to half, Jesus said, his voice heavy with grief.

Not closed completely.

Grace is still available after, but harder to access.

Hearts harden.

Deception increases.

The window narrows.

The time of easy access ends.

I watched the door swing, watched the opening shrink.

Why? I asked him.

Why does it close? Because humans choose.

I call everyone.

I pursue everyone.

But after sufficient revelation, it after sufficient warning, after sufficient evidence, those who continually reject will have their hearts hardened.

They seal their own fate.

I grieve over every single one.

And I saw him weeping.

God himself weeping over Iran, over Muslims who would reject him, over people choosing darkness.

I don’t want the door to close, he said.

But humans have free will, and many will choose to reject me even after seeing evidence.

December 31st, 2027.

That’s when the season of great openness ends for Iran.

There will be other seasons later, but this window, this extraordinary window of mass harvest closes.

Vision six, regional spread, but it won’t stay contained, he continued.

Iranian believers will become refugees.

They’ll carry the gospel, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Central Asia.

The ancient Silk Road will carry my name again.

Eno 2027 to 2030.

The Persian revival period spreading across the region.

You’ll see the beginning before you die.

The return in the aftermath.

37 minutes to 43 minutes.

Jesus looked at me.

I’m sending you back.

Back to my body, but I’m clinically dead.

It’s been I had no sense of time.

How long? 11 minutes and 33 seconds.

Your heart stopped at 10:47 a.

m.

It’s now 10:58 a.

m.

I’m sending you back at 10:59 a.

m.

But why? Why not just let me stay here? I’m saved now.

I’m safe.

Going back means Going back means suffering.

Yes.

He showed me what was coming.

They won’t believe you.

Your colleagues will call you crazy.

Your family will disown you publicly.

Your government will hunt you.

You’ll lose everything you built in 58 years.

You’ll be called a traitor, an apostate, an infidel.

You You’ll live the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.

You’ll die a fugitive.

Then why send me back? Because my sheep need to hear my voice, and I’m choosing to speak through you.

Some will believe.

Not many, but some.

And for those some, it will be worth everything you suffer.

He gave me the command.

Tell Muslims I love them.

I died specifically for them.

I’m not just a prophet.

I’m the savior.

The only savior.

Tell them the door is closing.

Tell them before it’s too late.

Tell them to stop building their own bridges and accept mine.

The promise.

I will never leave you.

I will be with you to the end.

You will suffer.

But you will also see my glory.

You will see Iranians saved.

You will see the revival begin.

You will see the prophecies fulfilled.

And when your work is done, you’ll come back here.

And your name will still be in the book, written in my blood forever.

He touched my forehead.

Go wake up.

Speak.

And I was slammed back into my body like falling from a great height.

10:59 a.

m.

February 5th, 2026.

Air flooding my lungs.

Pain everywhere.

Chest on fire.

Back aching.

Tongue bleeding where I’d bitten it.

Faces above me.

Dr.

Baharami.

MPS camera crew.

Someone crying.

Someone praying in Arabic.

The ornate ceiling.

The geometric patterns.

The cameras red lights still blinking, still broadcasting.

And without thinking, without filtering, without any concern for consequences, I shouted at the top of my lungs, “Isa al-masi hast.

Issa al-masi hast Jesus is the Messiah in Farsy.

” Loud enough for every microphone to catch.

Loud enough for millions of Iranians watching live to hear.

The chamber exploded.

These were MPS backing away like I had a contagious disease.

Someone screaming.

Speaker Galabov shouting for order.

Security guards rushing toward me.

Someone yelling, “Cut the cameras.

Cut the cameras now.

” But I kept shouting, “I saw him.

I saw Jesus.

He’s not just a prophet.

He’s God.

He died for us.

He saved me.

He’s the only way.

” Dr.

Barami trying to calm me.

You’re in shock.

You’re confused.

You had a medical emergency.

I’m not confused.

I was dead.

I saw the courtroom.

I saw the books.

I saw hell.

I saw Jesus.

He’s the Messiah.

He’s Lord.

14 seconds passed before they cut the broadcast.

14 seconds of me proclaiming Jesus as Messiah on Iranian state television.

14 seconds that destroyed my political career, my family relationships, my safety, my entire life.

14 seconds that I would never take back.

And because every word was true, the immediate aftermath, they didn’t wait for me to be medically stable.

11:30 a.

m.

February 5th, security dragged me to a car, drove me to Evan Prison, Ward 209, where they keep political prisoners and apostates.

For the next 8 days, I was interrogated.

You had a medical emergency.

Low oxygen to the brain, hallucinations, perfectly explainable.

Just recant on camera.

Say you were confused.

We’ll release you.

You can go back to your life.

I saw what I saw.

Jesus is Lord.

I won’t deny him.

Think about your family, your father, your sons.

They’re suffering because of your words.

They showed me footage from February 6th, yesterday, just one day after I died.

State television broadcast.

My father Ayatollah Muhammad Husseini, my oldest son, Mimmude, my brothers, all appearing together in public denunciation.

Raza Husseini Kashani is dead to us.

He has betrayed Islam.

He has betrayed Iran.

He has betrayed his family.

We disown him completely.

He is not our son, not our brother, not our father.

He deserves whatever punishment he receives.

My son wouldn’t look at the camera.

His voice shook, but he said the words.

Watching that broke something in me, but it also strengthened my resolve.

Jesus had warned me he’d shown me this would happen, and he’d promised to be with me through it.

Parliament’s emergency session, February 6th afternoon.

Parliament held emergency session.

Motion to strip my immunity, to remove me from office, to declare me apostate.

Vote was 223-7.

Even reformists voted against me.

Only seven MPS, including Ahmad Kazimi, the man I’d been arguing with when I died, abstained.

In official government statement, Resa Husseini Kashani suffered a severe medical emergency resulting in temporary psychological breakdown and blasphemous utterances.

He is undergoing psychiatric evaluation.

His statements do not represent the government or people of Iran.

They tried to rewrite what millions had seen with their own eyes.

But the footage had already leaked.

Those 14 seconds before they cut the broadcast, already spreading on social media, already being shared in WhatsApp groups, already reaching Iranians around the world.

They could suppress the official broadcast.

They couldn’t suppress the truth.

I am recording this from hiding.

Today is February 7th, 2026, 48 hours after I died.

Tomorrow, February 8th, I’ll be moved to another safe house.

In 8 days, February 15th, I’ll escape Iran completely with help from the underground church network.

But right now, today, I need to record this testimony while it’s fresh, while the events are still raw.

While I can still verify the timeline precisely, the Iranian government has issued a warrant for my arrest.

Price on my head.

I can never return to Iran safely.

My family is gone.

My career is gone.

My country is gone.

But I have Jesus and I have a mission.

In 9 months, November 7th, 2026, watch Iran.

Watch what happens to Kamina.

Let that be your first verification in 12 months.

Winter 2026 to 2027.

Watch for the revolution.

Let that be your second verification in 22 months.

December 31st, 2027.

The door closes to half.

This isn’t theory.

This isn’t speculation.

Jesus showed me and he’s never wrong.

He called to salvation.

43 minutes to 48 minutes.

If you’re watching this and you feel something stirring in your chest, that’s the Holy Spirit.

That’s Jesus calling you by name.

I lost everything to bring you this truth.

My career, my family, my country, my safety.

58 years of building a life that collapsed in 14 seconds.

And I do it again without hesitation because what I gained is worth infinitely more than what I lost.

Listen to me carefully.

The door is still open right now, today.

February 7th, 2026.

But Jesus showed me it’s closing.

December 31st, 2027, 22 months away.

Don’t wait.

Your good deeds cannot save you.

Your prayers cannot save you.

Your religious performance cannot save you.

Your family’s faith cannot save you.

Only Jesus saves.

Not Jesus the prophet.

You’re Jesus the Savior.

Jesus the Lord.

Jesus, the son of God, who died specifically for you.

I’m going to pray a prayer.

The prayer I should have prayed decades ago.

The prayer that would have saved me years of striving and earning and performing.

If you mean it, if you’re ready to stop building your own bridge and accept Jesus as the only bridge to God, I’m pray with me out loud right now, wherever you are.

Don’t worry about who might hear.

Don’t worry about consequences.

The door is closing.

There’s no time for fear.

Jesus Isa al-Masi, I confess I am a sinner.

My good works cannot save me.

My religion cannot save me.

My prayers cannot save me.

Only you can save me.

I believe you died on the cross for my sins.

I believe you rose from the dead on the third day.

I believe you are the way, the truth, and the life.

I believe you are God in flesh.

I believe you are the only way to the father.

Forgive me.

Wash me clean with your blood.

Write my name in the book of life.

I surrender my life to you completely.

I receive you as my Lord and Savior.

Thank you for catching me.

Thank you for saving me in your holy name.

Amen.

Pause 3 seconds.

If you prayed that prayer and meant it, you are saved right now, this moment.

Your name is written in the book of life in Jesus’s blood forever.

Not because of anything you did, not because you’re good enough.

Not because you prayed enough or earned enough.

Because of what he did, because he died for you, because he offers grace freely to anyone who believes.

You are forgiven.

You are free.

You are his.

comment below.

Just write saved or prayed or Jesus is Lord and let us know.

We want to celebrate with you.

We want to pray for you.

Each we want to connect you with believers who can help you grow.

Welcome to the family.

And if you’re not ready to pray that prayer yet, if you’re still processing, still questioning, still afraid, that’s okay.

Jesus is patient.

But don’t wait forever.

The door is closing.

Final call to action in closing.

48 minutes to 50 minutes.

Before I finish, I need to ask you for help.

I can’t go back to Iran.

I can’t speak in parliament anymore.

I can’t reach my own people directly.

But you can.

You have Muslim friends, co-workers, neighbors, refugees in your community.

People searching for truth but trapped in systems that punish questions.

Share this video.

Copy the link.

Send it in WhatsApp, post it on social media, email it, however you can.

Yes, they might get angry.

They might accuse you of trying to convert them, and they might stop speaking to you.

But what if what if just one person watches and recognizes Jesus calling them? What if one person hears this testimony and realizes their good works aren’t enough? What if one’s soul is saved because you were willing to share? December 31st, 2027.

22 months from today, the door closes to half.

We don’t have time for fear.

We don’t have time for comfort.

We don’t have time for worrying about offending people.

Share this testimony.

Let the Holy Spirit convict.

Let Jesus draw.

Let God do what only God can do.

Every share fights back against the Iranian government’s attempt to suppress this.

Every share reaches someone who needs to hear.

Every share might be the difference between someone’s salvation or damnation.

Share it now before you forget before you move on to the next video.

E before this moment passes.

Do it for the Iranians who will die in the Q2027 persecution wave.

Do it for the Muslims having dreams of Jesus who need Christians to explain what those dreams mean.

Do it for the door that’s slowly closing.

And subscribe to this channel because I’ll be posting updates as the prophecies unfold as Kam dies in November as the revolution begins in winter as the church explodes in growth.

You’ll want to see the verification in real time.

Hit subscribe, hit the bell, turn on notifications, watch as Jesus proves this testimony true through fulfilled prophecy.

Closing words, 50 minutes to 5030.

My name is Dr.

Raza Husseini Kashani.

48 hours ago, February 5th, 2026, a 10:47 a.

m.

Thrron time.

I died for 11 minutes and 33 seconds in the Iranian Parliament in front of 237 witnesses and millions of television viewers.

I met Jesus.

He saved me.

He wrote my name in the book of life with his own blood.

He showed me Iran’s future.

He sent me back to testify.

And now I’ve told you everything.

What you do with this testimony is between you and him.

But don’t wait.

The door is closing.

9 months until KA dies.

22 months until the door closes to half.

Jesus is calling.

He’s been calling.

He died for you specifically.

Your name can be written in that book today.

Believe.

Surrender.

Be saved.

Isa al- Masihust.

Jesus is the Messiah.