Moshaba was not yet the supreme leader at that time.

His father, Ayatollah Ali Kam, was still alive and in power.

But those of us who operated at high levels knew that Moshaba was being groomed for succession.

He was heavily involved in strategic decisions, intelligence operations to end political maneuvering behind the scenes.

He was also deeply controversial.

Many within Iran’s political establishment resented him, viewing him as unqualified, as benefiting from nepotism rather than merit.

There were factions that opposed his rise, but he also had powerful allies, commanders in the revolutionary guard, influential clerics, intelligence officials who had invested in his ascension.

I had interacted with Moshtaba indirectly several times over the years, attending the same highlevel briefings, contributing to reports that were presented to him, operating in overlapping circles.

We weren’t close, but my name and my work were known to him.

I reached out to an intermediary, a senior official I had worked with on multiple classified projects over the years.

I’ll call him Hussein.

He was a pragmatic man and less ideological than most, focused on power and survival.

He trusted me because I had always been reliable, discreet, effective.

I told Hosan that I needed to speak with Mojaba privately about a matter of urgent national security, something sensitive that could not be discussed through normal channels.

He asked me what it was about.

I told him I couldn’t say that it was too sensitive, that it needed to go directly to Moshaba without intermediaries.

Hosen was skeptical but intrigued.

He made some calls.

Within a week, the meeting was arranged.

It took place in a secure government building in Tehran in a small windowless conference room designed for confidential discussions.

The room had no windows, reinforced walls, electronic countermeasures to prevent surveillance.

Mojaba arrived with two aids.

Both intelligence officials I recognized.

He was in his early 50s dressed in traditional clerical attire, his beard neatly trimmed, his eyes sharp and calculating.

He sat across from me at the conference table.

The aids stood near the door.

You have 15 minutes, Moshaba said curtly.

Hussein says you have something urgent.

What is it? I looked at the aids, then back at Moshaba.

I need to speak with you alone, I said quietly.

His eyes narrowed.

Why? Because what I’m about to tell you is not for anyone else to hear.

Not yet.

He studied me for a long moment, weighing whether I was wasting his time or whether there was something genuinely important.

Finally, he nodded to the aids.

Wait outside.

They hesitated, clearly uncomfortable leaving him alone with me, but he repeated the command more firmly.

They left closing the door behind them.

We were alone.

Moaba leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, his expression skeptical.

You have my attention.

Speak.

I took a deep breath.

I prayed silently for courage, for clarity, for the Holy Spirit to guide my words.

And then I began.

What I’m about to tell you will sound impossible, I said.

But I ask that you hear me fully before you respond.

What I share with you is not speculation, not analysis, not political maneuvering.

It is a message I was commanded to deliver.

His expression didn’t change, but I saw a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

I told him everything.

I told him about my encounter with Jesus Christ, about the vision I had received, about the detailed revelation of Iran’s coming spiritual awakening.

I had described what I had seen.

Millions of Iranians encountering Christ in dreams and visions.

Underground churches exploding with growth.

Government officials and revolutionary guard commanders surrendering to Jesus.

A wave of salvation sweeping across the nation that no force on earth could stop.

As I spoke, I watched his body language carefully.

At first, he seemed amused, as if he were listening to the ravings of a madman.

But as I continued, as I provided specific details, cities, numbers, patterns, dynamics, his expression began to shift.

And then I told him the part that made everything change.

I was shown that your father will be killed in air strikes on February 28th, I said quietly, holding his gaze.

The chaos that follows will create the conditions for your rise to power.

You will become the supreme leader, but you will not rule over the Iran you expect.

The ground is already shifting beneath you.

What God is doing cannot be stopped by force, by propaganda, by political strategy, or by military might.

The color began to drain from his face.

His hands, which had been resting calmly on the table, began to tremble slightly.

I continued, my voice steady.

I am telling you this not so you can stop it.

You can’t.

But so that when it happens, when everything I’ve described begins to unfold, you will remember that you were warned.

You will remember that God gave you a chance to respond before the shaking began.

There was a long, heavy silence.

Mojaba stared at me, his jaw tight, his eyes searching my face for signs of deception, insanity, or hidden agenda.

You expect me to believe?” he said slowly, his voice low and controlled.

“Uh, that Jesus Christ, a prophet from 2,000 years ago, appeared to you in a vision and told you that my father will be assassinated, that I will become supreme leader, and that Iran will experience a Christian revival.

” “I don’t expect you to believe it,” I said quietly.

“I’m simply delivering the message I was commanded to deliver.

What you do with it is between you and God.

His eyes narrowed dangerously.

And what do you want from me? What is your agenda? Who sent you? No one sent me except God.

I said, “I have no agenda.

I gain nothing from this conversation except the certainty of my own arrest.

I’m telling you this because you need to know what’s coming.

Not so you can prevent it, but so that when it unfolds exactly as I have described, you will know that it came from the hand of God.

He stood abruptly, eat his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

You’re either insane, he said coldly, or you’re working for a foreign intelligence agency.

Either way, you’re finished.

He walked to the door and opened it.

The aids immediately stepped back into the room.

Detain him, Moshtaba ordered, his voice hard.

I want him questioned thoroughly.

Find out who he’s working for, what intelligence he’s leaked, and what his real objective is.

The guards moved toward me.

I stood calmly, making no attempt to resist.

As they grabbed my arms, I looked directly into Mojaba’s eyes one last time.

When February 28th comes, I said quietly, you’ll know I was telling the truth.

And when the revival begins, when you see Iranians turning to Christ by the millions, you’ll remember this moment.

Um, you’ll remember that God reached out to you before the shaking began.

For just a fraction of a second, I saw something flicker in his eyes.

Fear, uncertainty, something that looked almost like conviction.

But then his expression hardened.

He turned and walked out of the room without another word.

The guards dragged me out through a back entrance and threw me into an unmarked van.

My arrest had begun.

I was taken to an unmarked detention facility on the outskirts of Thran.

It was the kind of place that doesn’t officially exist where people disappear and their families are left with no answers, no recourse, no hope.

The building looked ordinary from the outside, a nondescript industrial structure that could have been a warehouse or a factory.

But inside it was a labyrinth of interrogation rooms with holding cells and corridors designed to disorient and break the human spirit.

They stripped me of my belongings, my clothes, my identity.

They gave me a gray uniform and a number.

They threw me into a windowless cell with concrete walls, a metal bed frame with no mattress, a bucket in the corner.

The first three days were the worst.

I was interrogated around the clock by rotating teams of agents who worked in shifts to keep me disoriented and exhausted.

They wouldn’t let me sleep.

Every time I started to drift off, they would drag me back to the interrogation room and start again.

They wanted to know who had sent me, what foreign government I was working for, what intelligence I had leaked, what my real objective was, who my contacts were.

I told them the truth that I had encountered Jesus Christ, that I had been given a prophetic message and that I had delivered it to Mojaba Kam out of obedience to God.

They didn’t believe me.

They were convinced I was covering for a deeper conspiracy, that I was a spy, an agent of Israel or America, or some other enemy of Iran.

The interrogations became more aggressive.

They deprived me of sleep for days on end.

They subjected me to stress positions, forcing me to stand for hours, to kneel on rough surfaces, to hold my arms extended until my muscles screamed.

They use psychological tactics, lying to me about my family, telling me that Ila had been arrested, that my children were being questioned, that I could save them if I just confessed the truth.

I knew they were lying, but the fear they planted was real.

There were moments when I thought I wouldn’t survive.

A moments when the pain and exhaustion were so overwhelming that I wanted to recant, to tell them whatever they wanted to hear just to make it stop.

But something supernatural happened in that cell.

I felt the presence of Jesus with me.

Not in a dramatic, visible way like the first encounter, but in a quiet, steady assurance that I was not alone.

There were times when I could barely stand.

When my body was shaking with exhaustion, when my mind was foggy from sleep deprivation, and I would feel a wave of peace wash over me, a supernatural strength that didn’t come from me.

I would hear whispers in my spirit.

I am with you.

I will never leave you.

No weapon formed against you will prosper.

Sometimes I would sense angels in the room.

I couldn’t see them, but I could feel their presence standing in the corners surrounding me.

I holding back the worst of the darkness.

There was one night, I think it was around day seven, when the interrogation had been particularly brutal.

They had beaten me, not enough to cause permanent damage, but enough to inflict serious pain.

My ribs were bruised, my face swollen, blood dripping from my nose.

They threw me back into my cell and slammed the door.

I collapsed on the concrete floor, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

And in that moment of complete brokenness, I felt Jesus closer than ever.

It was as if he knelt beside me on that filthy floor, as if he wrapped his arms around me and held me while I wept.

I heard his voice in my spirit, clearer than any audible sound.

Barum, I am proud of you.

You are mine.

You are doing exactly what I called you to do.

Do not fear.

I am sustaining you.

And this suffering is not meaningless.

It is producing fruit that will last for eternity.

I wept, not from pain, but from overwhelming gratitude, that the king of the universe would be present with me in that dark, filthy cell, that he would call me his own, that he would count me worthy to suffer for his name.

On the eighth day, they brought in a different interrogator.

I recognized him immediately, a man named Raza, someone I had worked with on intelligence briefings years earlier.

He was known for his psychological expertise, his ability to extract confessions from the most hardened operatives.

He sat across from me in the interrogation room, studying me in silence for a long time.

I must have looked terrible.

I hadn’t showered in over a week.

My face was swollen and bruised.

My hands were shaking from exhaustion.

Uh, but I met his gaze steadily.

You really believe what you’re saying, don’t you? he finally said, his tone almost curious.

“Yes,” I whispered.

My voice was hoarse from the days of questioning and dehydration.

He leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.

“I’ve been doing this for 20 years,” he said.

“I can usually tell within the first hour whether someone is lying.

” “And you?” He paused, his brow furrowed.

“You’re not lying.

You actually believe you encountered Jesus Christ.

You actually believe you were given a prophetic message.

I nodded slowly because it’s true.

He stood and paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

Let me tell you what’s going to happen, he said.

You’re going to stay here until you give us something we can use.

And if you don’t, you’ll be charged with apostasy, espionage, and treason.

Now, do you understand what that means? I nodded.

I knew exactly what it meant.

Execution.

But here’s the thing, he continued, stopping to look at me directly.

I’ve seen a lot of people in this chair.

Political prisoners, spies, traitors, criminals.

Most of them break.

Most of them eventually tell us what we want to know.

He paused.

But you’re different.

You’re not afraid.

Not really, and that bothers me.

He pulled his chair closer and sat down, leaning forward.

“I’m going to give you one chance to walk away from this,” he said quietly.

“Recant.

Say you were confused that you had a psychotic break, that stress caused you to imagine things.

We’ll process you out quietly.

You’ll lose your position, but you’ll keep your life.

You can go home to your family.

” I looked at him and felt a surge of compassion.

He was offering me a way out.

A part of him even seemed to genuinely want me to take it, but I couldn’t.

I can’t recant the truth, I said quietly.

Jesus is real.

He appeared to me.

What he showed me will happen exactly as I described.

I’m sorry, but I can’t deny him.

Not to save my life, not for anything.

Raise aside a look of genuine regret crossing his face.

“Then may God help you,” he said softly and walked out.

The interrogations continued, but they became less intense over the following days.

I think they realized I wasn’t going to break and they didn’t know what to do with me.

I wasn’t giving them actionable intelligence.

I wasn’t confessing to espionage.

I was simply maintaining the same story that I had encountered Jesus that I had been given a prophetic message that I had delivered it faithfully.

They couldn’t understand it.

I didn’t fit their paradigms.

And then on February 28th, everything changed.

I was still in the detention cell when I heard the commotion.

It started as distant shouting, then grew louder.

Guards running through the corridors, alarms blaring, voices raised in panic and confusion.

I sat up on the metal bed frame, my heart pounding.

I didn’t know what was happening, but I felt a strange supernatural calm settle over me.

I closed my eyes and prayed.

Lord, whatever this is, I trust you.

Your will be done.

Hours passed.

No one came to my cell.

The chaos continued.

footsteps, doors slamming, raised voices, but no one explained anything.

Finally, late in the evening, a guard opened my cell door.

His face was pale, his hands shaking slightly.

“Get up,” he said tursly.

He led me through the facility when I noticed that the atmosphere had completely changed.

The guards looked shaken, distracted, afraid.

Something major had happened.

He brought me to a small room with the television.

Several other guards and low-level officials were gathered around it, watching the news in stunned silence.

On the screen, emergency reports were flooding in.

Breaking news banners scrolled across the bottom.

Reporters speaking in urgent, trembling voices.

Air strikes had hit multiple strategic locations across Iran.

precision strikes targeting key infrastructure, military installations, and most significantly a highsecurity compound where Ayatollah Ali Kame had been staying.

The Supreme Leader was dead.

I stood there watching the chaos unfold on the screen, and I felt the weight of the prophecy settling into reality exactly as Jesus had shown me on the date displayed on the screen, February 28th.

The guard who had brought me into the room turned and looked at me, his eyes wide with something between fear and awe.

You knew, he whispered.

You told them this would happen.

You said February 28th.

Word spread quickly through the facility.

The guards began talking among themselves, glancing at me with a mixture of suspicion and superstitious dread.

He predicted the Supreme Leader’s death.

He said it would happen on this exact date.

How could he have known? Within hours, the officials who had been holding me were in a state of confusion and panic.

Some wanted to release me immediately, terrified of what it might mean to continue detaining a man who had accurately predicted the Supreme Leader’s death weeks in advance.

Others wanted to keep me locked up precisely because of that knowledge, viewing me as even more dangerous now that the prophecy had been fulfilled.

Arguments broke out among the officials.

They didn’t know what to do with me.

I was an anomaly that didn’t fit their categories.

For the next several days, I remained in the cell, but the interrogation stopped.

The guards brought me food and water, but avoided making eye contact, as if they were afraid of me.

On March 4th, 6 days after the air strikes, a senior official I had never seen before came to my cell.

He was an older man, gay-bearded, wearing civilian clothes.

“You’re being released,” he said without preamble.

“No charges will be filed.

You will sign a document stating that you were detained for routine questioning and that you were treated appropriately.

And you will not speak publicly about your detention or about your meeting with Moshtaba.

” Do you understand? I nodded.

I understood perfectly.

They wanted me to disappear, to fade into obscurity, to become a non-issue.

If you violate these terms, he continued, “If you speak publicly, if you cause any trouble, you and your family will face severe consequences.

” “Is that clear?” “Yes,” I said quietly.

He handed me my belongings, my clothes, my phone, my wallet, and had me escorted to the exit.

They released me onto a side street on the outskirts of Tyrron in the middle of the night.

No explanation, no apology, just a warning to disappear and keep my mouth shut.

I stood on that dark street breathing the cold night air, feeling the overwhelming reality of freedom after 3 weeks in captivity.

And I knew exactly what I had to do next.

I I couldn’t go home.

Not yet.

It wasn’t safe.

If I returned to my apartment, they could easily find me and rearrest me on different charges.

And I couldn’t put Leila and the children at risk.

I made my way to a safe location, a contact within the underground church network that I had reached out to in the weeks before my arrest.

They had been praying for me.

When I showed up at their door, they wept, embraced me, thanked God for my release.

Over the next several days, they helped me make contact with other believers who specialized in helping people escape Iran.

There is a network, an underground railroad of sorts that helps Christians and other persecuted individuals get across the borders to safety.

It took weeks of dangerous travel.

Continue reading….
« Prev Next »