If this testimony has moved you, if somewhere deep in your spirit, you know that miracles haven’t stopped, would you hit subscribe? Not as a casual viewer, but as a declaration of faith.

As someone who believes that God still moves, that these stories need to be preserved and told.

That what happened to me isn’t just my rescue.

It’s proof that nothing is too hard for the Lord.

Your subscription is an act of belief in a God who still intervenes.

Now, let me tell you what my life looks like today.

Ena and about the message I received that changed everything once more.

Part 12.

New life from death to purpose.

55 minutes to 59 minutes and 30 seconds.

1,000 words.

I arrived in Vienna on February 8th, 2024.

The Iranian church there welcomed me with open arms.

a small community of exiles, refugees, and converts who’d all paid prices for their faith.

They gave me a room in a church member’s apartment.

They gave me clothes, food, community for the first time in 5 months, I was safe.

2 months later, on April 14th, 2024, I was publicly baptized again.

This time, not in secret, not in a farmhouse, but in a church in Vienna.

in front of 200 people.

When I came up out of the water, the congregation erupted in applause.

I stood there dripping, weeping, overwhelmed by the journey God had brought me through.

In I enrolled in a Bible training program, I wanted to understand deeply the faith I’d nearly died for.

I studied theology, church history, systematic doctrine, pastoral ministry.

Every class felt like treasure.

But I also felt a burden, a calling.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Iran, about the millions of people still trapped in darkness, about the secret believers hiding their faith, about the seekers asking questions they’re not allowed to ask.

So I started a YouTube channel called Testimony of Light.

I recorded my story in Farsy, the whole story from beginning to end.

I taught about Jesus, about grace, about the gospel.

The response was overwhelming.

Within 3 months, the channel had 50,000 subscribers.

Iranians inside Iran watching through VPNs Diaspora.

Iranians around the world.

Messages poured in.

I’m in Thran and I’ve been searching.

Your story gave me courage.

I left Islam years ago, but was afraid to seek God.

You showed me Jesus is real.

I watched your testimony with my family.

We all prayed together to accept Christ.

My father disowned me for converting.

Your story helped me know I’m not alone.

I connected people with house churches inside Iran through the network.

I answered theological questions through encrypted messages.

I prayed with seekers via secure video calls.

Within a year, I’d helped over 200 Iranians come to faith in Christ.

Some are still in Iran, meeting in secret.

Others have escaped to Turkey, Europe, America.

All of them are part of God’s growing family.

Dr.

Kazimi is still in Iran, still coordinating the network, still risking his life.

He messages me occasionally through secure channels.

Razer way.

We helped three more escape this month.

Your story gave them courage.

Keep telling it.

I also work with an organization that trains underground pastors in Iran through encrypted online courses.

I mentor new converts.

I help translate Christian resources into far.

My life is simple now.

A small apartment in Vienna, a desk with a computer, a Bible, and a purpose bigger than myself.

I wake up every morning grateful.

Every sunrise is a gift I wasn’t supposed to receive.

Every breath is borrowed time turned into eternal purpose.

And then 6 months ago, I received a message that broke me completely and rebuilt me again.

It came through the network, a letter that had been smuggled out of Iran through multiple hands, taking weeks to reach me.

It was from my mother.

Her handwriting was shaky but unmistakable.

The letter said, “Razer, my son, my beloved son, I cannot sleep.

I see your face every night.

Your father will not speak of you.

He has forbidden your name in our house, but I cannot forget.

I cannot stop loving you.

I am your mother.

That will never change.

I have been praying.

At first, I prayed to Allah to bring you back to make you see sense.

But then something happened.

I started reading about Jesus in secret.

I found a Bible online.

I read the same words you read.

And Razer, I had a dream.

In the dream, Jesus stood in our courtyard by the fountain.

He looked at me with such love and said, “Your son is alive because I love him and I love you too, Zara.

Come to me.

” I woke up.

I whispered, “Jesus, if you are God, show me.

” And the peace that filled our room, I cannot describe it.

I believe now, Razer.

I believe Jesus is who he says he is.

I cannot tell anyone.

Your father would divorce me.

I would lose everything.

But in my heart, I follow Jesus.

I pray to him.

I read the gospel on my phone late at night.

I found two other women in Mashhat who are secret believers.

We meet once a week in one of their homes.

We pray together.

We encourage each other.

We are the church in hiding.

One day, when it’s safe, I will leave Iran and find you.

Until then, know that I believe.

Know that your testimony led your mother to Christ.

Know that I pray for you every day.

Your mother who loves you, Zahara.

I wept for an hour after reading that letter.

My father disowned me, but God gave me my mother.

The price I paid for following Jesus brought the greatest harvest I could imagine.

My mother’s salvation.

Last month, I learned something else through the network.

Remember Dr.

Kazmi and the professor who started all of this.

3 weeks after my escape, the authorities arrested him.

They suspected he was connected to Christian activities.

They interrogated him for 6 weeks and then inexplicably they released him.

Just let him go.

Government officials told him, “We can find no reason to hold you.

You’re free.

He’s back at the university, still teaching, still running the secret study groups, still coordinating escapes.

God protected him just like he protected me.

My story wasn’t just about my rescue.

It was about strengthening a network that rescues others.

We’re at the end now, and I want to thank you for walking this entire journey with me.

If you’ve made it this far, it’s not by chance.

God has something he wants to say to you in these final words.

Before I close, would you do one thing? Comment below and tell me what part of this testimony spoke to you most.

Was it the prison? The family’s rejection? The moment Jesus appeared, the escape, the new life, my mother’s conversion? Because your comment isn’t just engagement.

It’s your own testimony that God is real, that he still speaks, that he still rescues, and maybe, just maybe, someone scrolling through right now in their own darkness needs to read your words to know they’re not alone.

Will you take that step of faith? Now, let me leave you with one final truth.

Part 13, final call.

What is he worth? 5930 to 62 0.

Yandax’s 700 words.

If you’re watching this, wherever you are, whether you’re in Iran, in the West, in a country where faith is free, or one where it’s forbidden, I want to speak directly to you for these final moments.

Maybe you’re searching.

You’ve been told one thing your whole life, but something inside you whispers, “There’s more.

” You’re right.

There is more.

His name is Jesus.

He’s not a religion.

He’s a person.

He’s not a system of rules.

He’s a relationship.

And he’s reaching out to you right now.

Maybe you’re a secret believer.

You’ve encountered Christ, but you’re terrified of what confession will cost.

You’re not alone.

There are millions of us around the world.

In Iran, Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Indonesia, North Korea, followers of Jesus who live in hiding.

Jesus sees you.

He knows your fear.

He doesn’t condemn it.

He understands and he’s with you in it.

Maybe you’re comfortable.

You live in freedom.

You call yourself a Christian, but faith has become routine.

Can I ask you, when was the last time Jesus cost you something? When was the last time following him required sacrifice, discomfort, risk, or maybe you’re hostile? You think Christianity is western imperialism, cultural colonization, a tool of oppression.

I understand.

I thought that, too.

But Jesus isn’t Western.

He’s Middle Eastern.

Born under Roman occupation, executed by an empire.

He understands oppression.

And he offers freedom that no government can give or take away.

Here’s what I learned in that prison cell in those moments before I thought I’d die.

Following Jesus will cost you.

It cost me my family, my country, my father’s love, my plans for the future, my name and reputation, my safety and security.

But here’s the other truth, the deeper truth.

Jesus is worth it.

I’m worth more than my father’s approval.

Worth more than the Hoseni legacy.

Worth more than a comfortable life.

Worth more than safety, security, or success.

Because Jesus gives what nothing else can.

Forgiveness for every failure.

Peace in every storm.

Purpose that outlasts your life.

Love that never fails, never changes, never abandons.

Life that doesn’t end when your body does.

On that cell floor, when I thought I had 3 hours to live, I had more peace than I ever had in my father’s house.

That’s not religious rhetoric.

That’s lived experience.

This isn’t about religion.

It’s about relationship.

Jesus Christ, God in human flesh, lived a perfect life, died on a Roman cross, taking the punishment for humanity’s sin, and 3 days later rose from the dead, defeating death itself.

If you believe in him, not just intellectually, but with trust, with surrender, he forgives you, adopts you, gives you eternal life.

It’s not about being good enough.

I wasn’t.

It’s about accepting grace.

And once you accept it, your life is no longer your own.

You belong to him.

And that belonging is the greatest freedom you’ll ever know.

My name is Razer Husseini.

I’m 23 years old.

I was sentenced to death for hiding a Bible in my university dorm room.

But Jesus intervened not just to save my life, but to give me a life worth living, he can do the same for you.

Whatever prison you’re in, physical, emotional, spiritual, mental, Jesus can walk in.

He’s not stopped by walls, by governments, by circumstances, by your past, by your mistakes.

Call out to him.

Even if you don’t have the perfect words, even if you have doubts, even if you’re afraid, just say, “Jesus, if you’re real, show me.

I want to know the truth.

” He will answer.

Maybe not the way you expect.

Maybe not on your timeline, but he will answer.

Your story isn’t over yet.

Neither is mine.

Neither is the church’s story in Iran, in the Middle East, in the persecuted world.

Jesus is still building his kingdom one heart at a time, one testimony at a time, one rescue at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, yours is next.

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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.

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