The underground church will become an above ground explosion of faith that will shake the foundations of the Middle East.

The throne of the Ayatollah will bow before the throne of Jesus Christ.

It has already begun and nothing on earth or under the earth can stop it.

If this testimony has touched your heart, write in the comments, “The fire has already started”.

Let it be a declaration.

Uh let it be a prayer.

Let it be a prophecy over the nation of Iran.

Jesus is coming.

He is already here.

And the year of fire is upon us.

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I was the official English interpreter for Ali Kam before his death.

I would have died with him but Jesus saved me.

>> That was me few hours ago.

But I recorded this testimony on March 2nd, 2026 from my mother’s living room in Los Angeles, California, especially for this channel.

3 days ago, I should have died.

Three days ago, the man I served for six years was killed in a massive military strike along with dozens of people I worked with every day.

I was supposed to be there.

I was supposed to be standing beside him as I had done countless times before.

But I was not there.

I was here thousands of miles away sitting with the mother I had rejected for years.

I do not know how to explain what happened.

I do not know if it was faith or coincidence or something else entirely.

My mother says it was Jesus.

She says her prayer saved my life.

I am not ready to believe that yet.

But I cannot deny that something miraculous happened.

Something pulled me out of Iran exactly one week before death came for everyone in my world.

And I need to tell this story because I need to understand it myself.

My name is Daria Farhadi.

I am 34 years old.

I was born in Los Angeles, California in the summer of 1992.

My father was Iranian.

My mother was American.

They met in the late 1980s when my father was living in California working as a journalist for a small Persian language newspaper that served the Iranian immigrant community.

He had left Iran years earlier during the chaos of the Islamic Revolution seeking opportunities in the West.

My mother was a librarian at a public library in Santa Monica.

She was kind and curious and fascinated by other cultures.

When she met my father at a community event, she was drawn to his intelligence and passion.

He was drawn to her warmth and openness.

They fell in love quickly and married within a year.

I came along 3 years later, their only child, a bridge between two very different worlds.

My earliest memories are filled with sunshine and happiness.

We lived in a modest apartment in West Los Angeles, not far from the beach.

My mother would take me to the Santa Monica Pier on weekends, buying me ice cream and letting me ride the carousel until I was dizzy with joy.

My father would read me Persian poetry at bedtime, translating the ancient words into English so I could understand their beauty.

I grew up speaking both Farsy and English, switching between them effortlessly depending on who I was talking to.

At home, we celebrated both American holidays and Persian traditions.

We had Christmas trees and no ruse tables.

We ate turkey on Thanksgiving and gourmet sabzi on ordinary Tuesdays.

I did not feel torn between my two heritages.

I felt lucky to have both of them.

I was a happy child living a happy life with parents who loved me and loved each other.

But there were things happening beneath the surface that I was too young to understand.

My father never fully adjusted to life in America.

He missed Iran deeply.

Even though he had chosen to leave, he followed Iranian politics obsessively, reading newspapers and listening to radio broadcast from Thran.

He had friend in the Iranian immigrant community who shared his views.

Men who gathered in living rooms to debate politics and dream about their homeland.

Some of them hated the Islamic Republic and wanted it overthrown.

But my father was different.

Over the years, his views had shifted.

He began to see the Islamic Republic not as an oppressive regime, but as a necessary force protecting Iran from Western imperialism.

He admired the supreme leader Ayatollah Ali Kame whom he had actually known briefly in his youth before leaving Iran.

They had moved in the same political circles as young men.

My father spoke of Kam with respect and even affection calling him a principled leader who truly cared about the Iranian people.

My mother did not share these views.

She was a typical American liberal who believed in democracy and human rights and separation of church and state.

She did not understand how my father could support a theocratic government that oppressed women and executed dissident.

They argued about it sometimes.

Late at night when they thought I was asleep, I would hear their voices rising through the thin walls of our apartment.

My mother’s voice pleading and confused.

My father’s voice defensive and passionate.

I did not understand what they were arguing about at the time.

I just knew that something was wrong between them.

The arguments grew more frequent as I got older.

The tension in our home thickened like fog.

I started to dread dinner time because that was when the political discussion would begin and the warmth between my parents would freeze into cold silence.

Everything changed in 2002 when I was 10 years old.

My father received a phone call that transformed our lives forever.

Someone from the Iranian government had reached out to him through intermediaries in the immigrant community.

They knew about his journalism background.

They knew about his support for the Islamic Republic.

They knew about his old connection to people now in position of power.

They were offering him a position in Tehran working in the regime’s media apparatus, helping to shape Iran’s message to the world.

It was everything my father had dreamed of, a chance to return home, a chance to serve his country, a chance to be part of something he believed in.

He accepted without hesitation.

He told my mother that he was going back to Iran and that he was taking me with him.

The conversation that followed was the worst night of my childhood.

I remember hiding in my bedroom, pressing my ear against the door, listening to my parents scream at each other.

My mother was sobbing, begging my father not to take me away from her.

She said Iran was dangerous for a girl raised in America.

She said, “I would never adjust to life under Islamic law”.

She said, “He was destroying our family for his political fantasies”.

My father shouted back that Iron was his home and would be my home, too.

He said, “I needed to know my roots, my culture, my heritage”.

He said America was corrupting me with its materialism and immorality.

He said he was saving me, not destroying me.

The argument went on for hours.

I cried silently in my room, clutching my stuffed animals, not understanding why my world was falling apart.

When they finally stopped shouting, the silence was even worse.

I knew that something had broken between them that could never be repaired.

The divorce was finalized within months.

My mother fought for custody, but my father had resources she did not.

He had connections in the Iranian community who helped him navigate the legal system.

He argued that I needed a father’s guidance and that he could provide me with a better education and a more moral upbringing in Iran.

I do not know exactly how he won, but he did.

The court granted him primary custody with visitation rights for my mother.

I remember the day we left for the airport.

My mother was standing in the doorway of our apartment, tears streaming down her face, her arms wrapped around herself as if she was trying to hold herself together.

I ran to her and hugged her so tight.

I thought I would never let go.

She whispered in my ear that she loved me more than anything in the world.

She said she would come for me as soon as she could.

She said this was not goodbye forever, but it was.

I would not see her again for many years.

The flight to Terran was long and confusing.

I slept most of the way, exhausted from crying.

When we landed, I stepped off the plane into a world I did not recognize.

The airport was crowded and loud, and everyone was speaking Farsy so fast I could barely understand them.

Women were covered in black shadows and headscarves.

Men with beards and stern faces moved through the terminal with purpose.

Signs in Arabic script that I could not read hung from the ceilings.

I gripped my father’s hand tightly, terrified of getting lost in this strange place.

He smiled down at me and said, “Welcome home”.

But it did not feel like home.

It felt like a foreign country because that is exactly what it was to a 10-year-old girl who had spent her entire life in sunny California eating hamburgers and watching Disney movies.

Those first months in Iran were the hardest of my life.

Everything was different.

The food, the language, the clothes, the rules.

I had to learn to wear hijab whenever I left the house.

I had to learn to lower my eyes when speaking to men outside my family.

I had to learn that the freedom I had taken for granted in America did not exist here.

Girls could not wear shorts or tank tops.

Girls could not sing or dance in public.

Girls could not question their teachers or challenge authority.

I made mistakes constantly in the beginning.

I would forget to cover my hair properly.

I would speak too loudly in public.

I would express opinions that girls were not supposed to have.

My teachers scolded me.

My classmates mocked me.

They called me the American girl with the loose tongue.

I would come home crying.

And my father would hold me and told me to be patient.

He said I would learn.

He said I would adapt.

He said, “Iran would become my home if I gave it a chance”.

And slowly, painfully, it did.

Months turned into years.

I learned the rules and followed them.

I learned to pray five times a day facing Mecca.

I learned to fast during Ramadan until my stomach achd with hunger.

I learned to recite Quran verses in Arabic even though I did not fully understand what they meant.

I learned to be invisible, modest, obedient.

The American girl who had run freely on California beaches disappeared.

In her place emerged an Iranian girl who covered her hair and lowered her eyes and never questioned the system that controlled every aspect of her life.

I buried my American self so deep inside me that sometimes I forgot she had ever existed.

I became what Iran wanted me to be because that was the only way to survive.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending and I started believing.

Islam became my truth.

The Islamic Republic became my home and my mother became a distant memory I tried not to think about because thinking about her hurt too much.

By the time I finished high school in Thran, I had transformed completely.

The frightened American girl who had arrived at 10 years old was gone.

In her place stood an 18-year-old Iranian woman who believed fully in the Islamic Republic and its values.

I wore my hijab with pride.

I prayed with sincerity.

I fasted with devotion.

I had absorbed everything my teachers and my father had taught me about Islam, about Iran, about the corrupt west that I had once called home.

I no longer miss California or the beach or the carousel at Santa Monica Pier.

Those memories felt like scenes from someone else’s life.

I was Iranian now.

I was Muslim now.

I was a daughter of the revolution.

and I was ready to dedicate my life to serving my country.

When it came time to choose a university and a career path, I knew exactly what I wanted.

I wanted to work in media.

I wanted to be a voice for Iran on the world stage.

I enrolled in the faculty of communication at a prestigious university in Thran.

My father was proud of my choice.

He said journalism was a noble calling, a way to fight for truth against the lies of the western media.

He said Iran needed intelligent young people who could tell our side of the story to the world.

He used his connections to ensure I had access to the best professors and the best opportunities.

I threw myself into my studies with fierce determination.

I learned about mass communication theory, about propaganda techniques, about how to shape narratives and influence public opinion.

I studied the history of Western media and how it had been used to demonize Iran for decades.

I learned to see America and Israel not as distant powers, but as active enemies working constantly to undermine my country.

Every lecture reinforced what I already believed.

The West was evil.

Iran was righteous.

And I was being trained to be a soldier in the information war.

I graduated in 2014 with the highest honors in my class.

My professors recommended me for positions at several government media organizations, but I wanted something specific.

I wanted to work at Press TV, Iran’s English language news channel that broadcast to international audiences.

Press TV was the regime’s primary tool for reaching Western viewers and countering the narratives of CNN, MBBC, and other foreign networks.

It was where the most talented English-speaking journalists in Iran worked.

It was where I could use my fluent American English to fight against the country that had once been my home.

When I applied, my qualifications were perfect.

I had the education, the language skills, and most importantly, the ideological commitment.

I was hired immediately as a junior correspondent.

On my first day at the press TV studios in Thran, I felt like I had finally found my purpose.

I was going to make my father proud.

I was going to make Iran proud.

I was going to show the world the truth.

My early years at Press TV were exciting and demanding.

I started with a small assignments, writing a scripts for news segments and conducting research for senior correspondents.

But I quickly proved myself capable of much more.

My English was flawless, better than most of my colleagues who had learned it as a second language.

I could speak with an American accent that made me sound authentic and relatable to Western audiences.

And I had something else that set me apart.

I had actually lived in America.

I knew its culture, its weaknesses, its hypocrisies.

I could criticize the United States with the authority of someone who had seen it from the inside.

My supervisors recognized this advantage and began giving me more prominent assignments.

Within two years, I was appearing on camera, delivering commentary segments that attacked American foreign policy and defended Iran’s position on everything from nuclear negotiations to regional conflicts.

I became known for my sharp tongue and my fearless crites of Western governments.

I called out American presidents for their lies about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

I expose British hypocrisy in claiming to support human rights while selling weapons to Saudi Arabia.

I mock European leaders for lecturing Iran about democracy while their own societies crumble under economic inequality and racism.

My segments were popular with Iranian audiences and with the international community of people who were shared our skepticis.

I received fan mail from viewers around the world who appreciated hearing a different perspective from the mainstream media.

I was invited to speak at conferences and universities in Russia, China, and other friendly nations.

My star was rising rapidly.

By the time I was 26 years old, I was one of the most recognizable faces on Press TV.

My father would call me after my broadcast and tell me how proud he was.

He said I was fulfilling the destiny he had always imagined for me.

The work was not always easy.

There were things I had to say on camera that I was not entirely sure I believed.

There were stories I had to spin in ways that felt uncomfortable.

There were moments when I wondered if I was telling the truth or just a different kind of lie.

But I pushed those doubts aside.

I reminded myself that every media organization had an agenda.

CNN had an agenda.

BBC had an agenda.

Fox News had an agenda.

At least my agenda was to defend my country against enemies who wished to destroy us.

At least I was fighting for something I believed in.

The doubts would surface occasionally, usually late at night when I was alone in my apartment, but I became skilled at silencing them.

I would pray and ask Allah for guidance.

I would read the Quran and find comfort in its certainties.

I would remember everything my father had taught me about loyalty and service and the doubts would fade back into the shadows where they belong.

My dedication and talent did not go unnoticed by the highest levels of the regime.

In 2020, when I was 28 years old, I received news that changed the trajectory of my career forever.

I was being promoted to a position that most journalists could only dream of.

I was being appointed as a personal translator and interpreter for the supreme leader himself, Ayatollah Ali Kame, the man my father had known decades ago.

The most powerful person in the Islamic Republic.

I would be part of his inner antiourage, translating his speeches for English speaking audiences, interpreting during meetings with foreign dignitaries, traveling with him wherever he went.

It was an honor beyond anything I had imagined.

It was also a tremendous responsibility.

Any mistake I made would reflect on the Supreme Leader himself.

any mistransation could cause diplomatic incidents.

The pressure would be immense, but I accepted without hesitation.

This was what I had been working toward my entire adult life.

I remember my first day in the Supreme Leader’s presence.

I was nervous beyond words.

My hands were shaking as I entered the room where he sat surrounded by advisors and guards.

He was older than I expected, his beard white, and his shoulders a slightly stooped with age, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, taking in everything around him with quiet intensity.

When he looked at me, I felt like he could see into my soul.

One of his aids introduced me as the new translator, mentioning my background and my work at Press TV.

The Supreme Leader nodded slowly and asked if I was the daughter of Masud Farhadi.

I said yes, surprised that he remembered my father.

He smiled faintly and said my father had been a good friend many years ago.

He said he was glad to see that loyalty ran in the family.

Then he turned back to his work and I understood that the conversation was over.

But in that brief exchange, I felt a connection to history, to my father’s past, to the revolution itself.

I belong here.

I was meant to be here.

The years that followed were the most intense of my life.

I became part of the Supreme Leader’s inner circle.

One of only a handful of people trusted to be in his presence daily.

I traveled with him across Iran, accompanying him to religious ceremonies, military installations, political rallies, and private meetings.

I translate his speeches into English for international broadcast, carefully choosing words that conveyed both his meaning and his authority.

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