Because it is never too late for any human being to accept the radical and transformative grace of Jesus Christ.

The same Jesus who found me in my crushing loneliness and profound emptiness is actively looking for the lost souls of Iran right now.

I want to speak directly to the brave people of my homeland and to every single person listening to my voice across the world today.

The brutal Islamic regime truly believed they could extinguish the magnificent light of Christ by throwing me and countless other believers into the darkest and most unforgiving holes of the earth.

They thought that torture, isolation, and the constant threat of a violent execution would force us to abandon our newfound faith.

But they were completely and utterly wrong in their arrogant calculations.

The underground church in the nation of Iran is currently exploding with miraculous and unstoppable growth.

Jesus is appearing in vivid dreams and bright midnight visions to ordinary Muslims all across the country.

He is calling them by their true names just as he called mine in that lonely apartment in the holy city of Nshad.

And he is offering them a pure and unconditional love they have never experienced in their strict traditions.

Hundreds of thousands of weary Iranians have already said yes to him, choosing to risk their earthly lives for the promise of an eternal kingdom.

The holy fire of spiritual revival has already started.

And there is absolutely no government, no military force, and no earthly dictator powerful enough to put it out.

My life is a living and breathing proof that the darkest places on this earth are simply empty canvases for the brilliant and glorious light of God.

I learned through immense pain that having the exact face of a ruthless tyrant is not a curse if God ultimately decides to use it as a holy megapathon for his eternal truth.

I learned that the absolute greatest and most effective weapon we possess against the demonic forces of worldly oppression is not violence, anger or bitter revenge, but pure and radical forgiveness.

When you can look directly into the eyes of the person who ordered your brutal torture and offer them the unconditional love of Jesus, you completely and permanently disarm their worldly power.

You might be facing your own dark and terrifying prison right now as you listen to my testimony.

You might be dealing with the crushing and suffocating weight of family rejection, a severe illness that doctors cannot cure, or a deep spiritual depression that makes you feel completely invisible and forgotten by the entire world.

I want you to know with absolute certainty that the exact same Jesus who sat beside me on the freezing and bloody four of ward 209 is standing right beside you in your room today.

He sees every single hidden teio.

You cry in the dark.

And he is waiting patiently to wrap your exhausted soul in his perfect and supernatural peace.

You are not forgotten.

You are not a mistake.

And your beautiful story is far from over.

If this testimony of miraculous survival and radical grace has touched your weary heart today, I want to ask you to do something very specific to show your support.

Please scroll down to the comment section below this video and type the words the fire has started.

Let those simple words be a digital declaration of your own faith and a powerful message of solidarity for the persecuted believers around the entire world who are suffering for the name of Christ.

I also warmly invite you to subscribe to this channel right now.

By subscribing, you are joining a beautiful and growing global family of believers who desperately need to hear the absolute truth about the miracles God is still performing in the modern world.

We need to stand together in these incredibly dark times to constantly remind each other that the light of the world always wins the final battle.

I walked into the most heavily guarded and dangerous compound in Tehran, fully expecting to lose my earthly life in a matter of minutes.

Instead, I found an eternal and glorious freedom that no human chain can ever bind and no prison wall can ever contain.

My name is Mosen Kamani.

I was once the invisible, broken, and discarded brother of the Supreme Leader of the Ron.

But today I am a proud, joyful and eternal son of the living God.

May the grace, the boundless love, and the absolute peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all today and forever more.

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The flames were already being prepared when I arrived at my family’s private compound in Riyad.

I could see the workers building the massive fire pit in the center courtyard, stacking wood and dousing it with accelerant.

The acurid smell of gasoline mixed with the desert heat made me nauseous.

My hands trembled as I was escorted from the black SUV by two of my father’s security guards.

Their grip on my arms firm and unyielding.

I knew what awaited me.

I had been caught with the forbidden book.

And in my family, in our interpretation of Islamic law, there was only one punishment for apostasy, death by fire.

My name is Amira Bint Abdullah al- Sawud and I am 30 years old.

I am or perhaps was a princess of the Saudi royal family, a distant relative of the king himself.

I was born in Riyad in 1994, the youngest daughter of Prince Abdullah al-Saud, one of the wealthiest and most conservative members of our extended royal family.

My father controlled oil interests worth billions of dollars and wielded enormous influence within the most hardline religious circles of the kingdom.

I grew up in unimaginable luxury.

Palaces with marble floors and gold fixtures.

Private jets that whisked us to Paris and London for shopping.

Designer clothes from every fashion house imaginable.

Servants attending to my every need before I could even articulate it.

But I also grew up in a gilded cage where every aspect of my life was controlled by men, by tradition, by an interpretation of Islam that left no room for questions or freedom.

My childhood was one of contradiction.

We traveled the world, but I saw it through tinted windows and from behind the bodyguards.

We owned homes in the most beautiful places on earth, but I was never allowed to walk alone on a beach or through a park.

I had access to the finest education money could buy.

But certain subjects, comparative religion, western philosophy, feminism, were strictly forbidden.

I was educated at the finest private schools in Saudi Arabia, always surrounded by bodyguards and chaperons who monitored my every conversation and movement.

At 16, I was sent to study at a women’s university in Riyad, where we learned literature, languages, and Islamic studies in an environment completely segregated from men.

I excelled academically, particularly in English, which would later become both my liberation and my doom.

Yes, my love for English literature was tolerated by my family because it was seen as a practical skill for international business and diplomacy.

I devoured Jane Austin, the Bronte sisters, George Elliot, women writers who wrote about female agency and independence, themes that resonated deeply with my imprisoned soul, even though I didn’t yet have the vocabulary to articulate why.

At 22, I was married to a cousin I barely knew, a marriage arranged by my father to strengthen family alliances and increase wealth.

I met Fisel three times before our wedding.

always in the presence of chaperons, always for brief, formal conversations about nothing of substance.

He was handsome in a conventional way, educated at the best schools, and came from an equally wealthy and conservative family.

A my wedding was the most lavish event Riyad had seen that year.

10,000 guests, millions of dollars spent on flowers and decorations and entertainment.

My wedding dress alone costing more than most people earn in a lifetime.

But I felt like an expensive commodity being transferred from one owner to another, not a bride celebrating love.

Faal, my husband, was a devout Wahhabi Muslim who believed women were possessions, not partners.

He never beat me.

That would have been unsemly for someone of our social status.

But he controlled every aspect of my life with cold efficiency.

He monitored my phone calls, restricted my movements even more than my father had, and made it clear that my purpose was to bear sons and maintain his household’s reputation.

For 8 years, I lived the life expected of me, praying five times daily, both wearing full nikab in public, bearing children.

I had two sons, Abdullah and Khaled, named after my father and brother, hosting other royal women for elaborate tea parties.

Never questioning the system that imprisoned me.

I had everything money could buy, but nothing my soul needed.

Freedom, choice, dignity, hope.

My sons were my only joy.

Abdullah was six, serious and thoughtful like his grandfather.

Little Khaled was four, bright and curious, and always asking questions that made his father frown.

I poured all my love into them, even as I watched the system that had crushed my spirit begin to shape theirs.

Already, Abdullah was being taught that women were inferior, that his mother’s primary value was her obedience to his father.

The change began 8 months ago when my older brother Khaled, who had been studying business at Harvard, had returned to Saudi Arabia for a family wedding.

Khaled had always been different from our other brothers, more open-minded, more questioning, more willing to challenge the rigid boundaries of our upbringing.

Our other brothers had attended Western universities too, but they treated it as a credential gathering exercise, insulating themselves from Western ideas and counting the days until they could return to Saudi Arabia.

Khaled had actually engaged with new ideas.

During the wedding celebrations, he pulled me aside into a private garden, one of the few places we could speak without being immediately overheard.

The garden was beautiful in the way only extreme wealth can create in a desert.

Lush greenery, fountains, flowers imported from around the world.

We sat on a marble bench surrounded by roses.

Amira, he said quietly, looking around to make sure we weren’t being watched.

I brought you something.

Something I think you need to read.

From inside his stove, he pulled out a book wrapped in plain brown paper secured with tape.

It was small enough to hide, but clearly substantial.

“Hide this carefully,” he whispered urgently.

“Read it only when you’re completely alone.

If father or your husband finds it, I don’t know what they’ll do, but I think it’s worth the risk.

” “What is it?” I asked, my heart already racing with a mixture of fear and excitement.

The mere act of receiving a secret book felt dangerous and thrilling.

“It’s a Bible,” he said, watching my face carefully.

“The Christian Holy Book in English.

” “Amira, I’ve been reading it at Harvard.

I’ve been meeting with Christians, attending their services, but asking questions they’ve never tried to stop me from asking.

and sister.

Everything we’ve been taught about Christianity is wrong.

Everything.

This book, it changed my life completely.

It might change yours, too.

I should have refused.

I should have told my father immediately.

Possessing a Bible in Saudi Arabia was illegal for ordinary citizens and absolutely unthinkable for members of the royal family.

We were supposed to be the guardians of Islamic orthodoxy, the exemplars of proper Muslim behavior.

But something in Khalid’s eyes, a peace, a joy, a freedom I’d never seen before in any member of our family made me take the book.

“Are you Christian now?” I asked, barely able to form the words.

The concept seemed impossible.

a Saudi prince, a member of one of the most important Muslim families in the kingdom.

He was converting to the religion of the West.

He hesitated, then nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

Yes, I accepted Jesus as my savior 3 months ago.

I was baptized in a church in Cambridge.

Amira, he’s real.

He’s not what the imams told us.

He’s not some weak prophet who was inferior to Muhammad.

He’s God himself who became human to save us.

He loves you more than you can imagine.

Please just read it.

Start with the Gospel of John.

Just read it with an open mind.

That night after my husband fell asleep, he always fell asleep quickly having no interest in conversation or intimacy beyond the biological function of producing heirs.

I locked myself in my private bathroom.

It was the only place I had any privacy.

The one room in our vast house where servants and my husband didn’t enter without permission.

The bathroom was larger than many people’s apartments, all marble and gold fixtures, but it felt like a prison cell.

I sat on the cold marble floor, my hands shaking as I turned to the Gospel of John, and began reading by the light of my phone, which I dimmed to avoid any light showing under the door.

In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.

Have you ever started reading something that you knew could cost you everything? That’s where I was that night, sitting on a bathroom floor in a palace, reading words that were illegal in my country, that could destroy my family and cost me my life.

I read for 3 hours until my eyes burned and my legs cramped from sitting on the cold marble floor and my back achd from hunching over the small book.

I read about Jesus turning water into wine at a wedding feast.

About him healing the sick with just a touch or a word.

About him speaking to a Samaritan woman at a well.

Speaking to her directly at length.

Treating her with dignity and respect even though she was a woman and a foreigner and a person with a questionable past.

In my 30 years of Islamic teaching, I had never encountered anything like this.

The God of the Bible spoke directly to women, valued them, listened to them.

Jesus touched lepers when everyone else avoided them.

He ate with tax collectors and sinners when the religious authorities condemned such associations.

He forgave prostitutes when others wanted to stone them.

He challenged the religious authorities who oppressed people with endless rules and hypocritical standards.

He offered grace instead of judgment, does love instead of fear, inclusion instead of rigid hierarchy.

I returned to that bathroom every night for weeks, reading more and more, absorbing words that felt like water to someone dying of thirst.

I read the sermon on the mount where Jesus said, “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

These were revolutionary words in my context.

Mercy, not strict justice.

Purity of heart, not just outward ritual observance.

Peacemaking, not the aggressive defense of honor and tradition.

a kingdom available to the persecuted, not just the powerful.

Not I read about Jesus healing a woman who had been bleeding for 12 years, a woman who would have been considered ritually unclean and untouchable in her society.

Instead of being angry that she touched him, Jesus called her daughter and commended her faith.

I read about him raising Gyrus’s little girl from the dead, about him weeping at his friend Lazarus’s tomb.

This was a God who felt emotion, who suffered, who understood pain.

This was so different from the distant stern Allah I had been taught about.

But what shattered me completely was reading about the crucifixion and resurrection.

I read how Jesus was betrayed by a friend, arrested by religious authorities who felt threatened by his message, beaten and mocked by soldiers.

I read how he was nailed to a cross.

the the most shameful and painful form of execution the Romans had devised.

How he hung their dying while people mocked him and challenged him to save himself if he was really God.

How he forgave his executioners while dying.

Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.

How he rose from the dead 3 days later, conquering death itself and offering eternal life to anyone who believed in him.

The Quran taught that Jesus wasn’t crucified.

That God would never allow his prophet to be killed in such a shameful way that someone else was made to look like Jesus and was crucified instead while the real Jesus was taken up to heaven.

But as I read the gospel accounts, four independent accounts that all told the same basic story with slightly different details, something in my spirit knew this was true.

This was real.

The God had loved humanity so much that he became one of us, suffered as one of us, died for us, and rose again to offer us eternal life.

I began comparing the Quran to the Bible more deliberately, reading passages side by side on my phone.

The differences were stark and impossible to reconcile.

The Quran’s Jesus, Issa, was just a prophet.

Admittedly, a great one who performed miracles and would return at the end times, but just a human prophet nonetheless.

The Bible’s Jesus was God incarnate, the second person of the Trinity, the Savior who died for sins and offers eternal life as a free gift to anyone who believes.

The Quran taught salvation through works, praying five times a day, fasting during Ramadan, giving arms, making the pilgrimage to Mecca if possible, following the five pillars.

He is obeying all of Allah’s commands as interpreted by religious authorities, hoping your good deeds outweigh your bad deeds on judgment day.

There was no assurance, no certainty, just hope that maybe you’d done enough.

The Bible taught salvation through grace, a free gift that couldn’t be earned through human effort, only received by faith in what Jesus Christ had already accomplished.

For by grace you have been saved through faith.

And this is not your own doing.

It is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.

I thought about my life of religious performance.

I had prayed five times daily for 30 years, often rushing through the prayers mechanically while my mind wandered.

I had fasted every Ramadan, enduring the hunger and thirst, not out of love for God, but out of fear of what people would think if I didn’t.

I had memorized Quranic verses in Arabic without fully understanding what they meant.

I had worn hijab and nikab until my identity was completely erased behind fabric.

I had submitted to my father, then to my husband, following every rule imposed on me without question.

But I had never felt peace, never felt loved by God, never felt certain of paradise.

I was always anxious, always wondering if I’d prayed correctly, fasted properly, obeyed sufficiently.

There was no rest, no assurance, no confidence, just endless striving and perpetual uncertainty.

The Jesus of the Bible offered something completely different.

Come to me all who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me.

For I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls.

Or for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

Rest.

That’s what my soul was starving for.

Continue reading….
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