The concrete walls, the guard towers, the gates with their cold metal bars, the gates closed behind me with a sound like finality.

I was 22 years old.

I had hidden a Bible in my dorm room, and now I was about to pay for it.

Part seven.

Eve in prison.

The cleric’s son falls.

30 minutes to 36 minutes and 30 seconds.

1,400 words.

They processed me like I wasn’t human, like I was inventory.

Photos from four angles.

Front, back, left profile, right profile, fingerprints.

They made me strip completely for a body cavity search.

Guards barking orders, looking for hidden items.

I treating me with disgust.

They took my clothes and gave me a thin gray uniform that smelled like disinfectant and old sweat and something worse I didn’t want to identify.

Block 209.

A guard barked.

Political prisoners.

Ward 209 at Evan is where they keep people accused of crimes against the state.

Journalists who wrote the wrong articles, activists who organized the wrong protests.

Students who attended the wrong rallies.

artists who created the wrong content and apostates, people like me.

They threw me into an interrogation room first.

Bare concrete walls stained with things I didn’t want to think about.

A single metal chair bolted to the floor.

A table.

One light bulb hanging from the ceiling that buzzed like an angry wasp.

A man in plain clothes entered.

No uniform, no name tag, no introduction.

40s, cold eyes, clean shaven, each expensive watch.

You understand why you’re here, Razor Husseini? Yes.

Say it out loud.

I’m accused of apostasy from Islam.

Not accused.

You are an apostate.

Your roommate provided detailed testimony.

We have the Bible as physical evidence.

We have testimony from other students who noticed you skipping prayers.

We know about the secret meetings off campus.

My blood went cold.

They knew about the study group.

They knew about Dr.

Kazami.

Who leads these meetings? Give us names.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

He slapped me.

Not hard enough to injure, but sharp enough to shock.

To establish dominance.

Don’t protect them.

Razer, they’re using you.

These so-called Christian groups, they’re funded by CIA front organizations, by Zionist intelligence services, e by Western governments trying to destabilize the Islamic Republic through spiritual warfare.

They recruit vulnerable students, fill their heads with lies, turn them against their families and their nation, give us names, and will consider leniency maybe prison instead of execution.

I thought of Dr.

Kazmi, of the two girls in hijab who’d asked such thoughtful questions at the study, of the elder who’d baptized me with such gentleness, of Ila and the others whose names I’d heard but barely knew.

I have no names to give you, I said.

The interrogation lasted 4 hours.

They asked the same questions in different ways, trying to trap me in contradictions.

They threatened me with torture.

They promised mercy if I cooperated.

They showed me photos of my family, my father at his seminary, my mother shopping in the bazaar, and said my choices were destroying them.

Your father is a respected man, a pillar of the community.

Do you know what this will do to him? His son, an apostate, he’ll be ruined.

The seminary might remove him from his position.

Students will leave his classes.

Your family name will become a curse.

Your mother will be shamed.

Your relatives will suffer.

All because of your selfishness.

Guilt crushed me.

But I stayed silent.

I wouldn’t give them names.

Finally, exhausted and defeated, they dragged me to a cell.

Cell 47.

Ward 209.

2 m by 3 m.

Concrete floor, concrete walls, concrete ceiling, everything gray.

A thin mat on the floor.

A bucket in the corner for waste.

One small window near the ceiling.

Barred frosted glass too high to see out of letting in only a sliver of gray light.

Either door slammed shut.

The sound echoed.

The lock clicked.

Silence.

For the first time since the arrest, I was completely alone.

I sat on the floor back against the cold wall and let myself cry.

Not for me, for my father, for my mother, for the shame I’d brought on them.

The Hoseni name respected for three generations of religious scholars was now associated with apostasy, with betrayal, with shame.

I thought of my father sitting in his study, receiving the phone call.

Ayatollah Husini, your son has been arrested.

He was found with a Bible.

He’s confessed to believing in Jesus.

He’s in Evan prison.

I thought of my mother’s face.

And then through the grief, I heard a whisper in my heart.

Not audible, not external, but clear.

Razor, I am with you, even here, even now.

I looked around the empty cell.

Jesus, I will never leave you nor forsake you.

And somehow in that moment, the cell didn’t feel so small.

3 days later on a Thursday afternoon, they told me I had a visitor.

Family visitation, glass partition, 15 minutes, no physical contact.

I was taken to a room divided by thick plexiglass with small holes for sound.

Phones on either side.

My heart pounded.

I thought it would be my mother.

Gentle, tearful, but present.

But it wasn’t my mother.

It was my father.

He looked older.

The lines on his face deeper, his beard grayer, his eyes, those eyes that had looked at me with pride my whole life, with expectations, with love, were hard as stone.

I picked up the phone with shaking hands.

He picked up his Bubba, I started.

Do not call me that.

His voice was ice, absolute zero, silence, heavy, crushing.

Do you know what you’ve done? he said finally, his voice low and controlled, which was somehow worse than shouting.

Do you have any idea? The seminary board held an emergency meeting about me.

My colleagues, men I’ve worked with for 30 years, won’t look me in the eye.

Your uncle Hamid wouldn’t let me in his house.

He said I was a bad father who failed to raise his son properly.

The Hoseni name is disgraced.

Baba, I’m sorry for the pain this causes you, but I had to.

I said, “Do not call me that.

I have no son.

My son died when he chose to follow a false prophet over Allah.

My son died when he brought shame on three generations of scholars.

The boy sitting in that prison uniform is not my son.

” Tears blurred my vision.

Jesus is not false.

He’s the truth.

He’s Stop.

My father’s face turned red.

I didn’t come here to hear blasphemy.

I came to tell you this.

If you repent publicly in court before the judge, I will use whatever influence I have left to reduce your sentence.

You’ll spend years in prison.

Yes, but you’ll live.

You can eventually rebuild.

But if you persist in this madness, if you continue this betrayal, I will not lift a finger to help you.

You will hang, and I will not mourn.

Do you understand? I can’t deny him, Baba.

I can’t deny the truth I found.

My father stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.

Then you are dead to me.

Already dead.

He hung up the phone and walked away without looking back, his form disappearing through the door, his back straight and proud, and utterly finished with me.

I sat there holding the dead receiver, watching the empty chair on the other side of the glass.

He feeling like my heart had been physically removed from my chest.

The father I had loved, feared, and tried to please my entire life, was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

Over the next two weeks, I saw how the system worked.

Other prisoners in Ward 209 told me their stories.

journalists who’d written about government corruption, students who’d protested Masa Amini’s death, a man who’d translated banned books, a woman who’d posted about women’s rights, and three other Christians, converts like me, facing apostasy charges.

We would whisper prayers through the walls at night, tapping in code, encouraging each other.

One man, Ali, had been in prison for 2 years already, still awaiting trial.

The process is the punishment, he said.

They can hold you indefinitely.

They break you slowly.

An imam came to visit me every few days and always the same speech.

Reza, just say the shahada.

Just say there is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger.

You don’t have to believe it in your heart.

Just say it with your tongue.

Allah knows your situation.

He understands taka.

Permissible deception to protect yourself.

Say the words and we’ll release you.

You can even believe whatever you want privately.

Just give us the words publicly.

I can’t.

I said Adidim every time.

Then you’re a fool.

You’re choosing death over 5 seconds of words.

Is your pride worth your life? It’s not pride, it’s truth.

Then die for your truth, he’d say, and leave.

September 29th, 2023, 17 days after my arrest.

They came for me early in the morning and told me, “You have a trial today.

I need to stop here for just a moment.

A because something is happening right now as you’re listening.

God is stirring something in your heart.

Maybe you’ve had your own moment like this.

A moment where you had to choose between the approval of everyone you know and the truth burning inside you.

Maybe you’re in that moment right now, wrestling with a decision that could cost you relationships, security, your old life.

Has God ever asked you to risk everything? If this story is resonating somewhere deep in your spirit, if you feel God moving, would you do something that matters more than you realize? Leave one word in the comments below.

Just one word, Jesus or truth or here or faithful.

Because when you do that, you’re not just engaging with a video.

You’re standing in spiritual agreement with every person who’s ever had to choose between comfort and Christ in between silence and witness, between the broad road and the narrow way.

Your comment is an act of faith.

And maybe, just maybe, someone scrolling through in their own crisis needs to see your word today to know they’re not alone.

Now, let me tell you what happened in that courtroom.

Part 8, the trial, Islamic Revolutionary Court, 3630 to 4130, 1,100 words.

They brought me to branch 28 of the Islamic Revolutionary Court of Thran.

The judge, Abul Kasim Salivati, known in whispers as the hanging judge.

His reputation preceded him.

Thousands of death sentences, no mercy for political prisoners or apostates.

He saw himself as a defender of Islam against Western corruption.

They brought me into the courtroom in handcuffs and leg shackles, chains clinking with every step.

In the room was cold and impersonal.

High ceilings, fluorescent lights, portraits of Ayatollah Kmeni and Ayatollah Kam on the walls, their stern faces looking down.

The Islamic Republic’s flag, green, white, red, with Allah’s name repeated 22 times on the center stripe.

In the gallery, I saw them.

My family.

My father, stone-faced, sitting in traditional clerical robes, his turban perfectly wrapped, his beard impeccably groomed.

Next to him, my mother, completely covered in her black chador, only her eyes visible, and those eyes were red from crying.

I could see her shoulders trembling even from across the room.

Also present representatives from Sharif University, the Basiji commander from campus, Ministry of Intelligence officials, and Javad sitting in the back row, his head down, avoiding my eyes.

Judge Salivati entered and and everyone stood.

He was a severe man, mid60s, with hard eyes and thin lips.

He sat at the raised bench like it was a throne.

Raza Husini, son of Ayatollah Mahmud Husseini, you are charged with apostasy from Islam, blasphemy against the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, and engaging in propaganda activities against the Islamic Republic.

How do you plead? My courtappointed lawyer, a nervous young man who hadn’t said 10 words to me, stood up.

Your honor, my client, I asked him, “Not you.

” The judge snapped.

“Razora Hoseni, how do you plead?” I stood, chains rattling.

“I am a follower of Jesus Christ.

” Gasps echoed through the courtroom.

My mother let out a sound like a wounded animal.

That is not an answer to my question.

Do you plead guilty or not guilty to apostasy? I believe in Jesus Christ as the son of God.

If that is apostasy, then I plead guilty.

The judge’s eyes narrowed.

Let the record show the defendant has confessed.

Proceed with evidence.

A prosecutor, a thin man with a pointed beard, read from a file.

On September 12th, 2023, the accused was found in possession of a Christian Bible deliberately hidden inside a hollowedout textbook indicating premeditation and intent to conceal his activities.

His roommate, Javad Moradi, a good Muslim and loyal citizen, discovered the contraband and immediately reported it to authorities, as is his duty.

Upon questioning, the accused admitted to believing in Jesus Christ as the son of God, a belief that directly contradicts the fundamental principle of constitutes sherk, the unforgivable sin of associating partners with Allah.

Further investigation revealed the accused participated in secret Christian study groups led by as yet unidentified foreign agents or their proxies.

The accused was baptized, an act that formally renounces Islam.

Witnesses from Sharif University confirmed the accused increasingly neglected mandatory prayers, displayed disrespect for Islamic practices, and attempted to spread doubt about Islam among other Muslim students.

The accused’s father, Ayatollah Husini, has publicly disowned him and released a statement condemning his son’s actions.

The family requests maximum punishment to restore family honor and demonstrate that they remain loyal to Islam and the Islamic Republic.

Each word was a nail in a coffin being built around me.

The prosecutor submitted evidence, the Bible itself bagged as evidence, e its pages marked and worn from my reading.

photos of me arriving late to Friday prayers or skipping them.

Testimony from students.

Javad’s detailed written statement about discovering the Bible and my confession.

Then they called Javad to testify.

He walked to the witness stand, his eyes never meeting mine.

He took an oath on the Quran to tell the truth.

“Tell the court what you observed,” the prosecutor said.

Javad’s voice shook.

Razer Hoseni was my roommate for one year.

At first, he seemed pious.

We prayed together, but over time he changed.

He stopped praying regularly.

He seemed distracted.

He would stay up late at night reading something under his blanket.

When I asked what he was reading, he was evasive.

On September 12th, I noticed he left a textbook on his desk that looked unusual.

When I picked it up, it felt light.

I I opened it and found the Bible hidden inside.

When Razer returned and I confronted him, he didn’t deny it.

He said, Javad’s voice broke.

He said he believed Jesus was the son of God.

I tried to reason with him.

I begged him to recant, but he refused.

So, I did my duty and reported him.

Did the accused try to convert you to Christianity? The prosecutor asked.

Not directly, but he asked me questions.

Questions about whether Islam was true, whether there could be other paths to God.

I see now he was testing me.

Thank you.

You may step down.

Javad returned to his seat, his face buried in his hands.

Then Judge Salivati addressed me directly.

Razer Husseini, you have one final opportunity.

This court is merciful.

Islam is merciful.

If you recant now, if you declare that there is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger, this court will consider leniency.

You will face prison but not death.

Your family’s honor will be partially restored.

What say you? The courtroom was absolutely silent.

I could hear my mother’s labored breathing even from across the room.

I looked at my father.

His face was like granite.

I looked at my mother.

She was shaking her head slightly, pleading silently.

I looked at Javad.

He was crying.

I looked at the judge.

I cannot, I said clearly.

I respect Islam.

I respect my family.

But I have found truth in Jesus Christ.

I believe he is the son of God.

I believe he died for my sins and rose from the dead.

I believe he is the way, the truth, and the life.

To deny him would be to deny the truth.

I cannot do it even to save my life.

The courtroom erupted.

People shouting.

My mother collapsed completely.

Relatives had to hold her up.

My father stood and walked out, his back straight, never looking back at me.

Judge Salivati slammed his gavvel repeatedly.

Silence.

Silence in this court.

When order was restored, he looked at me with something like contempt.

Razer Husseini, you have chosen heresy over salvation.

You have disgraced your family, your community, and the Islamic Republic.

You have admitted to the crime of apostasy and refused to repent.

Under article 167 of the Islamic Penal Code of the Islamic Republic of Iran, apostasy from Islam by a male who has reached puberty and is of sound mind is punishable by death.

This court finds you guilty on all charges.

You are hereby sentenced to death by hanging.

The sentence will be carried out at Evan Prison on January 19th, 2024 at dawn.

You have 112 days.

This court is adjourned.

May Allah have mercy on your soul because this court does not.

The gavl struck with finality.

Guards grabbed me as they dragged me toward the door.

I looked back one last time.

My mother was being carried out by relatives, inconsolable.

My father was gone.

Javad sat in the gallery with his face buried in his hands.

The heavy doors closed behind me.

I was a condemned man, 22 years old.

112 days to live.

The countdown had begun.

Part 9.

Death row.

The final countdown.

4130 to 480.

1,300 words.

They moved me to a different section of Evan, the execution wing.

cells specifically reserved for those awaiting death.

The atmosphere was different here, quieter, more final.

Even the guards spoke in hushed tones, like they were walking through a graveyard.

My new cell was slightly larger, 3 m by 4 m, still concrete, still cold, still gray.

But there was a window, a real window with bars that let me see a small square of sky.

That window became everything to me.

Every morning at dawn, I could hear the execution protocol from somewhere in the complex.

Doors opening, heavy footsteps echoing, muffled prayers in Arabic, a single gunshot or the thud of a gallows trap door opening, then silence.

Someone’s life ended.

The sun rose.

The day continued.

I began counting days on the wall with my thumbnail, making small marks where the guards wouldn’t notice.

Day 100, day 90, day 75.

An imam came every week, always with the same message.

Razer, this is your last chance.

You’re young.

You have your whole life ahead of you.

Just say the words.

Recant.

You can say it without meaning it.

Allah will understand.

Taka is permissible when your life is in danger, say the shahada, and will commute your sentence to prison.

20 years perhaps, but you’ll live.

You’ll eventually be released.

You can marry, have children, have a future.

I can’t deny him, I said every time.

Then you’re choosing death over words.

You’re choosing hell over paradise.

No, I’m choosing truth over lies.

I’m choosing eternal life over temporal safety.

Continue reading….
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