You’re a fool, he’d say, and leave, shaking his head.

Maybe I was a fool by the world’s standards.

But I remembered Peter’s words when Jesus asked if the disciples would leave him, too.

Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.

Where else could I go? He back to the emptiness I’d felt before.

Back to the religion that felt like a prison.

back to pretending.

No, even death was better than that.

Other prisoners in the execution wing became my community.

Men who’d been sentenced to death for various reasons.

Some political, some criminal, some religious like me.

There was Mahmood, a journalist sentenced for insulting the Supreme Leader.

There was Karim, convicted of drug trafficking, who’d found God in prison and spent his days in prayer.

And there were two other Christians, Daniel, who’d converted 5 years ago and been caught leading a house church, and Ramine, who’d been a Muslim scholar before encountering Christ through studying comparative religion.

We would encourage each other through the walls, tapping in code, in whispering prayers during the brief moments when we were taken out for exercise in the small concrete yard.

Stay strong, brother.

Daniel would say, “We’re not dying for nothing.

We’re witnesses, martyrs, if it comes to that.

Our blood will water seeds that others will harvest.

” As January approached, the weight of the countdown grew heavier.

Day 30, day 20, day 10.

They allowed me to write letters.

I wrote to my mother.

Mama, my beloved mother, I love you more than words can express.

I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.

But please understand, I’m not sorry for finding truth.

Jesus has given me a peace that surpasses all understanding.

Don’t grieve for me as one without hope.

We will meet again either in this life if you find him too or in eternity.

I pray for you every day.

Your son Razer.

I wrote to my father, “Baba, you taught me to seek truth above comfort, to value integrity above popularity, to stand firm in my convictions even when the whole world opposes me.

I learned that from watching you.

>> >> I hope one day you’ll understand that I’m following those principles you instilled in me.

I forgive you for disowning me.

I don’t blame you.

I pray that Jesus will reveal himself to you as he did to me.

I love you, your son, Razer.

I wrote to Dr.

Kazimi, though I knew he’d likely never receive it.

Professor, thank you for the Bible.

Thank you for introducing me to Jesus.

You planted a seed that bore fruit.

Whatever happens to me, it was worth it.

Keep doing what you’re doing.

Keep being light in the darkness.

Your student, Razer.

The letters were all confiscated.

None were sent.

But writing them helped me process.

Helped me say goodbye.

January 15th, 2024.

Of 4 days left.

They brought me my final meal.

A tradition even in Iranian prisons.

Zeresh polo, barbar rice with saffron and chicken.

My favorite dish as a child.

My mother used to make it for special occasions.

The smell alone brought tears to my eyes, flooding me with memories of home, of childhood, of a life that felt impossibly distant now.

I couldn’t eat it.

I gave it to Mahmood, the journalist in the next cell.

Instead, I fasted and prayed.

January 17th.

Two days left.

The Imam came one final time.

Raza, this is your absolute last chance.

Tomorrow they will prepare you.

The day after, at dawn, you die.

Your father has sent a message through me.

He says, “If you recant now, he will personally petition the Supreme Leader for mercy.

But you must recant now.

There’s no more time.

” I looked at him.

Tell my father I love him.

Tell him I forgive him.

Tell him I pray he finds the peace I’ve found.

But I cannot deny Jesus Christ.

He died for me.

I can die for him.

The imam stood to leave, then paused at the door.

I’ve been doing this for 20 years.

I’ve seen many apostates.

Most recant at the end.

The fear becomes too much.

You’re different.

You actually believe this.

I do.

Then may your God have mercy on you because ours will not.

He left January 18th, 2024.

My last full day of life.

I prayed through the entire day.

I read from memory passages from the gospel I’d memorized.

John 14, where Jesus promises his disciples peace and the Holy Spirit.

Philippians 1, where Paul says, “For to me to live is Christ and to die is gain.

” Daniel and Ramine prayed through the walls with me.

Razor, brother, we’re with you.

Daniel said, “You’re not alone.

Our Jesus is with you.

We’re with you.

The whole church, the global body of Christ is with you in spirit.

” As night fell, they came for me at 8:00 p.

m.

“It’s time to prepare,” a guard said, not unkindly.

They moved me to a special cell reserved for those in their final hours.

Smaller, closer to the execution chamber, a single bed, a prayer rug, a copy of the Quran placed there in case I changed my mind.

I ignored the Quran and knelt beside the bed.

Jesus, I prayed aloud, not caring who heard.

I’m ready.

I’m scared, but I’m ready.

I trust you.

If this is my time, receive my spirit.

If you have another plan, your will be done.

I’m yours.

Completely yours.

The cell was cold, silent, waiting.

My execution was scheduled for 5:30 a.

m.

sunrise, 6 hours away.

I lay down on the thin bed, not expecting to sleep, are resigning myself to a final night of wakefulness.

But at 2:22 a.

m.

exactly, everything changed.

Listen to me carefully.

What I’m about to tell you happened exactly as I describe it.

I’m not speaking metaphorically.

I’m not being poetic.

This is literal testimony of what occurred in that cell.

And the reason I need to tell you this now before I continue is because what happens next is the reason this video exists at all.

If this testimony has touched you, if you believe that God still does the impossible, that Jesus still breaks into our darkest moments, that miracles haven’t stopped just because we live in modern times, would you share this video? Not for me, not for views, but for the one person in your network who’s about to give up, who’s in their own prison? Who needs to know that the same God who was about to move in my story is ready to move in theirs? Your share could be the miracle someone is praying for right now.

Will you be part of that? Now, let me tell you about 222 I am part 10.

The visitation 222 I am 48 minutes to 51 minutes 900 words January 19th 2024 22 I am exactly.

I know the precise time because there was a digital clock visible through the small window in my cell door, maintained by the guards for execution timing.

I was lying on the thin bed, staring at the ceiling, praying in whispers.

3 hours and 8 minutes until my scheduled execution.

My mind kept cycling through everything.

memories of childhood, my mother’s face, my father’s disappointment, the moment I first read the gospel, Javad’s betrayal, the trial.

In the countdown that had led to this moment, I was praying, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.

Forgive those who have condemned me.

Use my death for your glory.

Comfort my mother.

Save my father.

Let my death count for something.

Let it not be meaningless.

And then the cell began to fill with light.

Not from the bulb.

It was off.

And besides, this wasn’t artificial light.

Not from outside.

It was the middle of the night.

And the prison was dark.

The light came from everywhere and nowhere.

Like the air itself was glowing like light was emanating from the very walls.

I sat up, heart hammering against my ribs.

And then I saw him.

Jesus stood at the foot of my bed.

I knew it was him instantly with a certainty beyond doubt.

Not because he looked like the pictures.

He didn’t look European or Western at all.

He had Middle Eastern features, dark hair, olive skin, a beard.

But it was his presence that identified him.

The love radiating from him was so intense, so pure, so overwhelming that I could barely breathe.

He was dressed in simple white robes, glowing but not blinding.

His face, how do I describe it? It was both ancient and young, both fierce and gentle, both fully human and unmistakably divine.

His eyes held the weight of eternity and the tenderness of perfect love.

When he spoke, his lips didn’t move in the normal way.

But I heard him clearly, not in my ears, but deeper in my spirit, in a way that transcended language.

I understood him in Farsy, in English, in a language that was beyond words.

Razer, son of Mahmood, beloved of the father.

I fell off the bed onto my knees, tears streaming down my face.

Lord, your testimony is not finished.

You will not die today, but Lord, in the execution, you will walk out of this place.

” His voice was absolute authority and infinite gentleness combined.

I have work for you to do.

Many will come to me through your witness.

Your story will travel beyond Iran, beyond the Middle East.

You will tell the nations what I have done.

How? How is that possible? Do not fear.

Am I not the one who walked Peter out of prison? The one who closed the mouths of lions for Daniel? The one who raised Lazarus from the dead? What is a prison to me? He reached out and placed his hand on my head.

Warmth flooded through me.

Not physical heat, but something deeper, more fundamental.

Peace, strength, life itself.

I felt like every cell in my body was being filled with light.

At 4:00 a.

m.

the way will open.

Walk out.

I have prepared people to help you.

Trust me.

Do not be afraid.

I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

Lord, I don’t understand.

You don’t need to understand.

You only need to trust.

Do you trust me, Razer? Yes, Lord.

with everything I am.

Then watch and see what I will do.

Tell them later that miracles still happen.

Tell them that I am the same yesterday, today, and forever.

Tell them that following me costs everything but gives back infinitely more.

And then he smiled, and that smile contained all the joy in the universe.

The light began to fade slowly like dawn receding.

His form became less distinct, then transparent, then gone.

I was alone in the cell again, but everything had changed.

The air itself felt different, charged with possibility, with presence.

The fear I’d carried for 112 days was gone, replaced by a piece so complete it made no logical sense.

and I looked at the clock through the window.

2:28 a.

m.

I had 1 hour and 32 minutes until 4:00 a.

m.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands shaking, not from fear, but from awe, and waited for God to move.

The minutes crawled by.

2:30, 2:45, 3:00.

Every sound in the prison seemed amplified.

Distant footsteps, pipes creaking, other prisoners restless movements.

3:30 a.

m.

30 minutes left.

3:45 a.

m.

15 minutes.

3:55 a.

m.

5 minutes.

I stood by the door, my ear pressed against it, listening.

4:00 a.

m.

exactly.

The lights went out.

Part 11.

The escape.

Divine orchestration.

51 minutes to 55 minutes.

1,100 words.

The lights didn’t just flicker.

They died completely.

Not just in my cell.

I could hear shouts of confusion from guards throughout the entire ward.

In Evan prison backup generators should activate within seconds.

They’re tested monthly.

They’re fail safes.

They didn’t activate.

The prison was completely dark except for the faint gray light of early morning beginning to show through high windows.

And then I heard it click.

The electronic lock on my cell door released.

The mechanism made a sound like a sigh, like it was surrendering.

My hand trembled as I pushed the door.

It swung open, smooth and silent.

I stepped into the corridor.

Emergency lights should have been glowing.

They weren’t.

The hallway was pitch black except for that distant gray light.

I heard yelling from somewhere else in the complex.

Fire in the east wing.

Fire in the east wing.

Everyone to the east wing.

Footsteps running.

Dozens of guards running away from me toward the reported emergency.

I walked forward, me hands outstretched in the darkness, my bare feet cold on the concrete floor.

My heart hammered so loud I was certain someone would hear it.

I passed other cells.

I could hear prisoners inside, awake, confused.

No one called out.

It was like God had silenced them.

The first checkpoint, a security door that required a key card and a code.

It should have been locked.

I reached for the handle, not expecting it to move.

It turned in my hand.

The door opened through the checkpoint.

Another corridor.

Two guards usually sat at a desk here.

I could see their silhouettes slumped in their chairs.

Not dead.

I could see their chests rising and falling in the dim light.

just asleep, deeply asleep, like they’d been commanded to rest and their bodies obeyed.

The CCTV camera above them had a red indicator light.

It was off, and the entire security system was down.

I kept moving, following corridors I barely remembered from my arrival, guided by instinct or something beyond instinct.

Second checkpoint, three guards, all asleep.

One was snoring softly.

Their weapons were still in their holsters.

I moved past them like a ghost.

Third checkpoint.

The intake area where I’d been processed.

The guard station was empty.

Papers were scattered on the desk.

A half empty cup of tea still warm when I accidentally brushed against it.

The final gate, the one that led outside to the prison yard and the outer perimeter.

This was reinforced steel locked with three separate mechanisms, electronic, mechanical, and manual.

This gate should have been impossible.

I touched the handle.

It swung open on silent hinges.

I stepped outside into the pre-dawn air of Thran.

At the cold January wind hit my face, freezing, shocking, real.

>> >> The sky was still dark, but the eastern horizon showed the first hint of gray blue that comes before sunrise.

I was standing outside Evan Prison.

Free.

Actually free.

I looked back at the prison, the concrete walls, the guard towers, the place I was supposed to die in 90 minutes.

The gate was still open behind me like it was waiting.

I fell to my knees on the cold pavement, looking up at the sky, tears streaming down my face.

Jesus, you did it.

You really did it.

You kept your promise.

A car pulled up beside me.

Old white Toyota, engine idling quietly.

The driver’s window rolled down.

A woman in a black chardor looked at me.

Razor Hoseni? My voice shook.

Yes.

Get in now.

We have maybe 5 minutes before they realize you’re gone.

I climbed into the back seat in the car pulled away slowly.

No screeching tires, no drama, just a normal car driving through Tehran’s empty pre-dawn streets.

The woman drove in silence for 10 minutes, taking turns, checking mirrors, navigating with obvious experience.

Finally, she spoke.

My name is Leila Karimi.

I’m part of the network, the Christian network that helps people escape.

We’ve been praying for you since your arrest.

How did you know to be here? How did you know exactly when Dr.

Kazmi told us to be at Evans North Gate at 4:15 a.

m.

? He said God showed him in a dream.

He said Jesus visited you in your cell and told you that you’d walk out at 4:00 a.

m.

We didn’t understand.

It seemed impossible, but Dr.

Kazmi said we needed to have faith.

So, three of us have been taking shifts, parking here every morning at 4:00 a.

m.

for the past week, waiting, and here you are.

I sat back, stunned.

God had been preparing my rescue before I even knew I needed it.

She drove me to a safe house in South Thran, a residential neighborhood where houses were close together, a small apartment on the second floor of a building.

She used a key, led me inside quickly.

Dr.

Kazami was waiting in the small living room.

When he saw me, he stood up, his face breaking into a smile of pure joy.

He embraced me like a father embracing a son he thought was dead.

“You’re alive,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

“Praise Jesus, you’re alive.

I knew he would do it.

I knew he wouldn’t let you die.

” “How did you know? How did you see?” God showed me.

Two weeks ago, I had a dream.

Jesus stood in front of me and said, “Prepare the way for Razer.

He walks out at 4:00 a.

m.

on January 19th.

I’ll be ready.

” I didn’t know how it was possible, but I’ve learned not to question when God speaks clearly.

He showed me documents spread on a table.

A fake passport with my photo, but a different name.

Amir Taheri.

Travel papers, visa documents, money.

How long have you had these? 3 weeks.

We started preparing the moment we heard about your arrest.

The network has contacts.

People who create documents, people who coordinate escapes, people who provide safe houses.

God told several of us in dreams.

Prepare the way for Razer.

So, we prepared and here you are.

Over the next 3 days, I stayed hidden in that apartment.

I couldn’t go outside.

Dr.

Kazami explained the plan.

Drive from Thran to Trees, 600 km northwest.

Stay with a Christian family there and then cross the border into Turkey through mountain passes with a Kurdish guide.

The authorities will be searching for you.

He said your escape will be headline news.

The son of an Ayatollah escaping from Evan prison.

They’ll be humiliated.

They’ll be looking everywhere.

But the network has done this before.

Trust the process.

On the fourth night, January 23rd, we left.

Three of us in Dr.

Kazimi’s old Peugeot.

Me, Dr.

Kazimi, and Leila.

We drove through the night avoiding major checkpoints using back roads that the network had mapped.

Every time we saw police, my heart stopped, but we passed through unchallenged.

It was like we were invisible.

We arrived in Tre at dawn and stayed with a family who ran a carpet shop.

Secret Christians who’d been part of the network for years.

Your number 47, the husband, Hassan, you told me while serving breakfast.

Number 47.

The 47th person we’ve helped escape.

You’re in good company.

That night, a guide arrived, a Kurdish Christian named Azad.

He would lead us across the border.

The trek took 6 hours through the mountains in January in snow, in darkness, following paths only Azad knew.

My feet went numb, my lungs burned, but we kept climbing.

As dawn broke on January 25th, Azad pointed to a valley below.

That’s Turkey.

You’re free.

We crossed into Turkish territory.

I knelt in the snow and wept.

A Turkish church was waiting in the nearest village.

They connected me with a refugee organization.

Within 2 weeks, I was granted asylum and flown to Vienna, Austria.

I arrived with nothing, no money, no belongings, just the clothes on my back and a heart overflowing with gratitude.

For the first time in months, are I slept without fear.

If you’re still with me, that means something profound.

It means God has kept you here to hear this complete testimony.

To be reminded that he still does the impossible.

That the God who walked into my cell is the same God who can walk into whatever impossible situation you’re facing.

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