God bless you as you listen to this testimony by our brother Farhad. This testimony was shared in Persian and carefully translated to English for the benefit of everyone.
My name is Farhad Rahimi. I was born and raised in the ancient city of Qom, a place where faith is not just practiced, it breathes through the streets, the homes, the very air you inhale.
If you grow up there, belief is not a question. It’s a certainty handed to you before you even learn how to ask why.
I remember the day everything changed with unsettling clarity. It did not begin as a day of doubt.
It began as a day of conviction. It was late afternoon when I met the others.
We gathered in a narrow alley not far from the old bazaar where the walls carried whispers of history and silence.
There were about 10 of us, all dressed in white garments. Some of the younger men had wrapped their heads tightly.
Their faces hardened with a seriousness that felt rehearsed. I stood among them, my heart steady, or at least I thought it was.
“Tonight,” one of the older men said, his voice low but sharp, “we remind them that this land is not for their kind of worship.”
No one argued. No one hesitated. I didn’t either. Looking back now, that silence says more about me than anything I could confess.
We moved together just before evening prayers, walking with purpose through the streets of Tehran.
The city was alive in its usual rhythm, cars weaving through traffic, vendors shouting, children laughing, but we were detached from it, like men walking inside a different reality.
The church stood quietly at the end of a modest street. It wasn’t grand or imposing.
In fact, it looked almost hidden, as if it didn’t want to be seen. A small cross rested at the top, simple and unadorned.
I remember staring at that cross longer than I should have. “Why do they stay?”
One of the men beside me muttered. “Why don’t they leave?” I didn’t answer. At the time, I believe I didn’t need to.
The moment we approached, everything shifted. The air felt heavier, though I told myself it was just tension.
One of the men lifted a framed portrait high above his head, shouting words of defiance.
Others raised their rifles, AK-47s gleaming faintly under the fading light. And then the shouting began.
“No church in Iran.” “This place does not belong here.” I heard my own voice among them, louder than I expected.
It’s strange how easily a man can become part of a crowd, how quickly his voice stops being his own.
We fired into the air. The sound shattered the calm of the street, echoing off the buildings like thunder.
Birds scattered. Windows opened. Fear spread faster than the smoke from our guns. Inside the church, movement erupted.
People screamed. Some tried to run. Others froze. Then he came forward, the priest. He was older than I expected.
His hair silver, his face lined not with fear, but with something I couldn’t immediately understand.
He wore a white robe, simple but dignified, with faint gold patterns that caught the strange light around us.
He raised his hand, not in anger, not in defense, but in peace. “Please,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos, “calm yourselves.
There is no need for this.” His words only fueled the others. Two men rushed forward and grabbed him roughly, dragging him down the steps.
I watched it happen, my body still, my mind strangely distant. “Leave this place,” one of them shouted in his face.
“You are not welcome here.” The priest winced but did not resist. Instead, he looked at us, really looked.
His eyes moved from one face to another and for a brief second they met mine.
There was no hatred in them. That unsettled me more than anything else. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice quieter now, but somehow stronger, “violence will not give you what you think it will.”
I felt something shift inside me then, like a crack forming in a wall I had spent years building.
But I pushed it down quickly. Doubt was not something we allowed ourselves. Not that day.
Someone beside me fired another shot into the air. The sound was deafening at such close range.
The priest flinched slightly this time, but he did not pull away. “Stop this,” he said louder now.
“You don’t understand what you are doing.” His words felt strange, almost misplaced. Of course we understood.
We believed we were defending truth, protecting something sacred. At least, that’s what I told myself.
But then, something changed. It began with the light. At first, I thought it was just a reflection of the setting sun through the stained glass windows.
But this was different. It grew brighter, too bright, yet it didn’t hurt the eyes the way it should have.
It was not natural. It was alive. The shouting slowed. The guns lowered. Even the man holding the portrait seemed to freeze.
The light poured out from inside the church, spilling onto the steps, washing over us in a way that felt both overwhelming and strangely gentle.
It erased shadows. It softened edges. It made everything look exposed. My heart began to race.
“What is this?” Someone whispered. No one answered. I felt it then, not fear, not exactly, but something deeper.
Something I had no name for. The priest stopped struggling entirely. His face changed. The tension left his body, replaced by a calm that felt certain.
And then, I saw him. Or at least I believe I did. It’s difficult to explain what cannot be contained in words.
The light took form, or perhaps it revealed what was already there. A presence stood within it, radiant, undeniable.
No one told us to run. No one gave an order. But one by one we stepped back.
Then we turned. And then we ran. I don’t remember how far I went or how long it took before I stopped.
My lungs burned, my legs shook, and my mind, my mind refused to make sense of what had just happened.
All I knew was this. I had gone there believing I was right, but I did not leave the same man.
I did not stop running until the noise of the city swallowed me again. Tehran moved as if nothing had happened.
Cars rushed past, horns blaring, people argued over prices, and somewhere in the distance, a radio played a familiar tune.
It felt almost offensive how ordinary everything was while inside me something had been torn open.
I bent over, my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. My chest rose and fell rapidly, but wasn’t just exhaustion.
It was confusion and something dangerously close to fear. “What did we see?” One of the men asked between breaths.
His voice trembled. I had never heard that from him before. “No one saw anything,” another snapped quickly.
“It was just light. Maybe something inside the building, electricity, reflection.” “Electricity?” The first man interrupted.
“You think electricity makes people run like that?” Silence fell between us. I didn’t speak.
I couldn’t. Because deep down I knew it wasn’t just light. We began to separate without saying much more.
No one wanted to continue the conversation. It was as if speaking about it would make it real.
And reality was something we were no longer sure we could control. As I walked home alone, the streets felt unfamiliar.
The same buildings, the same narrow roads, the same scent of dust and fuel, but everything felt shifted.
My mind replayed the moment over and over again. The priest’s size, the calm in his voice, and that light, that presence.
I shook my head, trying to push it away. “You’re imagining things, Farhad,” I muttered under my breath.
“You let the moment get to you. That’s all.” But even as I said it, I didn’t believe it.
When I reached home, my mother was in the kitchen. The smell of saffron rice filled the air, warm and familiar.
It should have comforted me. It always had. “You’re late,” she said without turning. “Wash your hands.
Food is ready.” Her voice was gentle, steady, unchanged. I stood there for a moment longer than usual, watching her.
There was something about the normalcy of the scene that made my chest tighten. “Farhad,” she called, turning slightly.
“Did you hear me?” “Yes,” I replied quickly. “I heard you.” I washed my hands, sat down, and tried to eat.
But every bite felt heavy, like I was forcing something down that my body didn’t want.
My father noticed. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said, looking at me over his glasses. “Something happened?”
“No,” I answered too quickly. He raised an eyebrow. “No?” I avoided his gaze. “Just tired.”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Hmm.” The conversation ended there, but the silence that followed felt louder than any argument.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, the faint glow of the streetlight creeping through the window.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it again. The light, the figure within it, the way everything around me seemed to lose its power in its presence.
And then something else began to trouble me. The priest. Why wasn’t he afraid? We had guns.
We were shouting. We dragged him like he was nothing. Yet his voice never broke.
His eyes never hardened. If anything, there was concern, not for himself, for us. That realization unsettled me more than the light itself.
Violence will not give you what you think it will. His words echoed in my mind, refusing to fade.
I turned on my side, pulling the blanket over my shoulder as if it could shield me from my thoughts.
“What if,” I started, then stopped. I didn’t want to finish that sentence. Because finishing it meant questioning everything I had built my life on.
Morning came too quickly. I got up, washed, and prepared for day as usual. Routine became my refuge.
If I could just move forward, ignore what happened, maybe it would lose its hold on me.
But it didn’t. When I stepped outside, I saw one of the men from the night before.
His name was Hamid. He stood across the street speaking to another man, but when his eyes met mine, he immediately looked away.
That was enough to tell me everything. He was thinking about it, too. Later that day, I found myself near the bazaar again.
I hadn’t planned to go there. My feet just took me. The alley where we had gathered was empty now.
No voices. No tension. Just quiet walls and scattered debris. I stood there remembering how certain we had been, how united, and how quickly it all fell apart.
Farhad. I turned at the sound of my name. It was Hamid. He approached slowly, his usual confidence replaced with something uncertain.
“You’re here, too.” He said. I nodded. “Seems like it.” We stood in silence for a moment before he spoke again.
“What happened last night?” He began, then hesitated. I waited. He lowered his voice. “We don’t talk about it.”
I frowned slightly. “Why not?” “Because it doesn’t make sense.” He said quickly. “And things that don’t make sense, they cause problems.”
I studied his face. He wasn’t just confused. He was afraid. “So we pretend it didn’t happen?”
I asked. “Yes.” He replied firmly. “That’s exactly what we do.” I looked away, my gaze drifting down the empty alley.
Pretend. Ignore. Move on. It sounded simple, but something inside me resisted. Because no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that what we experienced wasn’t just an event.
It was a message. And the more I ignored it, the louder it became. That night, as I sat alone in my room, the silence returned, but it felt different now.
Heavier. Expectant. I closed my eyes, not to sleep, but to think. And for the first time in my life, I allowed myself to ask the question I had always avoided.
What if I was wrong? The moment that thought settled in my mind, a strange stillness filled the room.
Not empty. Not cold. But present. I opened my eyes slowly, my heart beginning to beat faster.
Because deep down I knew the light we saw that night hadn’t just stayed in that church.
It had followed me home. For 3 days, I tried to return to man I used to be.
I woke up early, prayed as I always had, followed routine with careful precision, as if discipline alone could erase what I had seen.
Outwardly, nothing had changed. But inside, something refused to go back into place. It was like a door had opened in my mind, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not close it again.
On the fourth night, everything shifted. The house was quiet. My parents had gone to sleep, and the city outside had softened into distant murmurs.
I sat on the edge of my bed staring at my hands, replaying the moment again.
The light, the presence, the way my certainty had collapsed without warning. “Enough.” I said aloud.
My voice sounded unfamiliar in the silence. I thought about this too much. I stood up and began pacing the room, trying to shake off the weight pressing against my chest.
“It was fear.” I continued, as if arguing with someone unseen. “That’s all it was.
Fear can make people imagine things.” But even as I spoke, something inside me resisted.
Because fear doesn’t feel like peace. And what I felt in that moment was not chaos.
It was not confusion. It was clarity. That realization stopped me in my tracks. I stood still, my breath slowing, my thoughts narrowing into a single point.
And then, I felt it again. Not as strong as before. Not overwhelming like the light in the church, but present.
Subtle. Like a quiet awareness pressing gently against my mind. I turned toward the corner of the room, my eyes searching the shadows.
“Who’s there?” I asked. There was no answer. But the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt attentive.
My heart began to beat faster. “This is not real.” I whispered. “I’m just tired.”
I sat back down, running my hands over my face. “You need to sleep, Farhad.
That’s all.” But the moment I closed my eyes, I heard it. Not with my ears, but clearly.
“Why are you afraid of the truth?” My eyes snapped open. I looked around the room again, this time more urgently.
“Who said that?” No one stood before me. No movement. No sound. Yet the question remained, clear, steady, undeniable.
I stood up again, my chest tightening. “This is not possible.” I said louder now.
“I’m not I’m not hearing things.” But deep down, I knew I wasn’t imagining it.
Because the voice didn’t feel foreign. It felt known. “You saw the light.” The words came again, calm and unwavering.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “Stop.” I said, my voice trembling despite my effort to control it.
“Just stop.” “You know what you saw.” I shook my head, backing away slightly, as if distance could silence what was happening.
“No.” I said firmly. “I don’t know anything.” But even as I denied it, my mind returned to that moment.
The figure in the light, the presence that had stripped away every ounce of anger and replaced it with something I didn’t understand.
Something that felt higher than anything I had ever known. “Why me?” I asked suddenly.
The question slipped out before I could stop it. “Why would I see something like that?”
The room fell still again. For a moment, I thought it had ended. That maybe I had imagined everything after all.
“But then, because you were willing to look.” The answer came, simple and direct. I felt a chill run through me.
“Willing? No.” That wasn’t true. I hadn’t gone there to see anything. I had gone there to destroy, to silence, to prove a point.
“I wasn’t willing.” I argued. “I went there to stop them.” “And yet you saw.”
I clenched my fists. “Anyone could have seen that.” “Not everyone stayed long enough to question it.”
That struck deeper than I expected. Because it was true. Even as we ran, even as fear took over, a part of me had remained aware.
Watching. Holding onto the moment instead of burying it. I sat down slowly, my strength fading under the weight of what I was experiencing.
“What do you want from me?” I asked quietly. This time, the silence lingered longer.
Not empty, but deliberate. Then finally, “I want you to understand.” I let out a shaky breath.
“Understand what?” No answer came immediately. Instead, my mind filled with images. Not dreams, not imagination, but memories.
The priest’s face. His calm. The way he looked at us not with anger, but with something deeper.
Compassion. “Why didn’t he fight back?” I asked almost to myself. “Because he knew what you did not.”
“And what is that?” I pressed. The response came slowly, as if each word carried weight beyond its sound.
“That truth does not need violence to defend it.” I felt something inside me break at that moment.
All my life, I had believed strength meant control. That conviction required force. That defending belief justified aggression.
But standing in that room, hearing those words, I saw the contradiction. We had come with weapons.
He had stood with nothing. And yet, we were the ones who ran. I covered my face with my hands, my thoughts unraveling faster than I could contain them.
“This doesn’t make sense.” I whispered. “Everything I know, everything I’ve been taught.” “Truth does not fear questions, Farhad.”
My name. The way it was spoken, clear, personal, undeniable, sent a wave of realization through me.
This was not my mind. This was not imagination. I lowered my hands slowly, my eyes fixed on the empty space before me.
“Who are you?” I asked. The question hung in the air, heavier than any I had ever asked in my life.
For a moment, there was nothing. And then, the presence shifted. Not closer, but clearer.
“You already know.” My breath caught. I didn’t want to answer. Because answering meant crossing a line I could never uncross.
But the truth had already formed within me, uninvited and undeniable. The light. The peace.
The authority without force. There was only one name my mind could attach to it.
I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “O Jesus.” The moment I said it, the room fell into a deep, unshakable stillness.
Not empty. Not distant. But full. And in that silence, I realized something that both terrified and humbled me.
The man I thought I was was no longer the man I was becoming. The moment I said his name, something in me shifted in a way I cannot fully explain.
It was not like the fear I had known before. It was deeper than that.
Like staring at the edge of something vast. Something that could either consume me or remake me entirely.
And for the first time in my life, I realized that belief was not just something you inherit.
It is something you choose. And that terrified me. I did not sleep that night.
I sat with my back against the wall, my knees drawn close, staring into the dim light of my room as if I expected something or someone to appear again.
But the voice did not return. The presence I had felt grew quiet, not gone, but no longer speaking.
And somehow, that silence was louder than anything I had heard before. Because now the question was mine to answer.
Morning came with a heaviness I could not shake. My reflection in the mirror looked the same, but my eyes betrayed me.
There was something unsettled in them, something searching. “Farhad.” My mother called from the other room.
“You’ll be late.” “I’m coming.” I replied, my voice distant even to myself. I went through the motions again, washing, dressing, stepping outside, but everything felt different now.
The streets of Tehran, once so familiar, now felt like a place I was seeing for the first time.
Every face I passed, every voice I heard, felt temporary, like I was no longer fully part of it.
That thought disturbed me. I found Hamid later that day near the same corner where we often met.
He was leaning against a wall, arms crossed, his expression tense. When he saw me, he straightened slightly.
“You look worse than I feel,” he said, attempting a half smile. I didn’t return it.
“We need to talk,” I said. His smile faded. “About what?” “You know what.” He glanced around quickly, then lowered his voice.
“I told you we’re not talking about that.” “I am,” I said firmly. Something in my tone made him pause.
He studied me carefully before speaking again. “Fine,” he said quietly, “but not here.” We walked in silence until we reached a quieter street, far from the noise of the bazaar.
There, he turned to face me fully. “Say what you need to say,” he muttered.
I hesitated for a moment, not because I didn’t know what to say, but because saying it would make it real.
“I heard something,” I finally said. His expression changed immediately. “What do you mean?” “After that night, I couldn’t sleep,” I continued.
“And then, I heard a voice.” He stepped back slightly. “A voice?” I nodded. “It spoke to me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Farhad, listen to yourself.” “It knew things,” I interrupted. “Things I didn’t say out loud.
Things I was thinking.” “That doesn’t mean anything,” he snapped, though his voice lacked conviction.
“People imagine things when they’re shaken.” “It said I saw the truth,” I pressed. That made him fall silent.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then he exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face.
“We shouldn’t have gone there,” he muttered. That was the first honest thing he had said.
“I think it was him,” I said quietly. Hamid froze. “Don’t say that,” he warned.
“I think it was Jesus.” “Stop.” His voice was firmer now. “Don’t say that name like that.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Because you don’t understand what you’re saying,” he shot back, his eyes flashing with something between anger and fear.
“Do you know what happens if people hear you talking like this?” “Yes,” I said.
“And you’re still saying it.” I held his gaze. “Yes.” That answer unsettled him more than anything else.
He looked away, pacing a few steps before turning back to me. “This is dangerous,” he said, lowering his voice again.
“Not just for you, for all of us.” “I know,” I replied. “Then why are you doing this?”
The question lingered between us. “Why?” I could have said many things. I could have tried to explain the voice, the presence, the way everything I thought I knew had been shaken.
But none of those answers would have been complete. So I told him the truth.
“Because I can’t pretend anymore.” He stared at me, searching my face as if trying to find the version of me he used to know.
“That man in the church,” I continued, my voice steady now, “we dragged him, shouted at him, pointed guns at him, and he still looked at us with peace.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Hamid muttered. “It proves everything,” I said. “We had power. He had none.
And yet, we were the ones who lost control.” Hamid shook his head, but I could see the doubt creeping in.
“You’re confused,” he said. “That’s all this is. Confusion.” “No,” I replied softly. “This is clarity.”
The word hung in the air, heavier than I expected. He let out a frustrated breath.
“So what now?” He asked. “What are you going to do? Go back there? Walk into that church like nothing happened?”
I didn’t answer immediately, because the truth was that thought had already crossed my mind.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “And what if someone sees you?” He pressed. “What if they find out what you’re thinking?”
I met his gaze again. “Then they find out.” His expression hardened. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Maybe for the first time in my life,” I said, “I am.” That was the moment I felt it, the distance between us.
Not physical distance, something deeper. We had stood side by side just days ago, united in purpose, certain of our path.
Now, we stood on opposite sides of something neither of us could fully define. “You need to stop this,” Hamid said finally, his voice quieter now, “before it’s too late.”
I considered his words carefully. Too late. That phrase echoed in my mind, because part of me wondered, was it already too late?
Had something already begun that I cannot undo? “I don’t think I can,” I said honestly.
He looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. “I don’t recognize you anymore,” he said.
I felt a strange calm settle over me as I responded. “I’m starting not to recognize myself, either.”
We stood there in silence, two men who had once shared the same certainty, now divided by a single moment that refused to be forgotten.
As I walked away from him, I felt the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on me.
I didn’t know where this path would lead. I didn’t know what it would cost me.
But one thing had become clear. I could no longer go back to who I was.
And somewhere deep within me, beneath the fear and the uncertainty, there was a quiet conviction growing.
The light I had seen in that church was not just something I witnessed. It was something calling me forward.
And whether I was ready or not, I was already on the path to answering it.
There are moments in a man’s life when the path ahead becomes impossible to ignore.
For me, that moment came 3 days after my conversation with Hamid. I had tried, truly tried, to bury everything again.
I avoided the streets near the church. I kept my head down. I spoke less.
Even my prayers became shorter, more mechanical, as if I could hide from the questions rising inside me by refusing to give them words.
But truth has a way of waiting, and then returning. That morning, I woke up with a strange certainty I cannot explain.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t forceful. It was quiet, but it was firm. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor, already knowing what I was about to do.
“No,” I said under my breath. “This is not wise.” But the thought didn’t leave.
It remained steady. I stood up, paced the room, tried to distract myself. I even stepped outside, hoping the noise of the city would drown it out.
But as my feet touched the street, I realized something unsettling. I was already walking in that direction, back to the church.
Each step felt heavier than the last, not because of distance, but because of what it meant.
I wasn’t just returning to a place. I was stepping toward a truth I had spent my life avoiding.
The streets grew quieter as I approached. The same buildings, the same narrow road, the same small cross at the top of the structure.
But everything felt different now. The church stood as it had before, modest, still, almost hidden.
There were no crowds, no shouting, no wreaths, just only silence. I stopped a few meters away, my heart beating harder than it had the night we attacked the place.
“This is your chance to leave,” I whispered to myself. “Turn around. No one will know.”
But I didn’t move, because deep down I knew this wasn’t about being seen by others anymore.
It was about being honest with myself. I walked forward. Each step felt like crossing a line I could never uncross.
When I reached the door, I hesitated. My hand hovered for a moment before finally pushing it open.
The inside was peaceful. Sunlight through the stained glass windows, casting soft colors across the floor.
A few people sat quietly, their heads bowed. No one shouted. No one argued. It was the complete opposite of what I had believed it would be.
I stepped inside slowly, almost expecting something to happen the moment I crossed the threshold, but nothing dramatic occurred.
No sudden light, no voice, just stillness. And somehow, that stillness felt heavier than anything else.
“Can I help you?” The voice came from behind me. I turned quickly. It was him, the priest.
He stood a few steps away, dressed in the same white robe, his expression calm as before.
There was no sign of anger, no trace of fear, no recognition of what I had done.
Or perhaps there was recognition, but he chose something else. For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
This was the man we had dragged, the man we had threatened. And yet, here he was, standing before me as if none of it had happened.
“I I began, but the words caught in my throat. He waited patiently, not demanding, not suspicious, just present.
“I was there,” I finally said. His eyes softened slightly. “I know.” That answer surprised me.
“You know?” I asked. He nodded gently. “I remember your face.” I felt a wave of shame rise within me.
I looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “We came to destroy this place,” I admitted.
“We shouted, we fired guns, we “You were afraid,” he said quietly. I looked up at him, confused.
“Afraid?” “Yes,” he replied. “People often become loud when they are afraid.” His words disarmed me in a way I didn’t expect.
“I wasn’t afraid,” I said instinctively. He tilted his head slightly. “Are you sure?” I opened my mouth to respond, then stopped, because now I wasn’t sure anymore.
Silence settled between us. “I saw something,” I said finally, my voice lower now, “that night.”
The priest nodded slowly, as if he had been expecting those words. “Light,” I continued, “and a presence.”
His expression didn’t change, but there was a quiet understanding in his eyes. “I thought I imagined it,” I added, “but I couldn’t forget it.
And then, I heard a voice.” The moment I said that, my chest tightened again.
“And what did the voice say?” He asked gently. I hesitated, then answered. “It asked me why I was afraid of the truth.”
The priest was silent for a moment. Then he said something that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
And what do you think the truth is? The question settled deeply within me. For the first time, I didn’t rush to answer.
I didn’t repeat what I had been taught. I didn’t hide behind certainty. I simply stood there and allowed myself to be honest.
I think, I began slowly, I don’t know anymore. The admission felt like both a loss and a release.
The priest nodded, not disappointed, but encouraged. That is where our understanding begins, he said.
We stood there in quiet stillness. No pressure, no argument, just space. I said his name, I added softly.
The priest’s eyes held mine. Whose name? I swallowed. Jesus. The moment I said it, I felt that same stillness again.
Not around me this time, but within me. The priest didn’t react with surprise. He simply smiled.
Not a triumphant smile, not a knowing one, but a gentle, patient one. Asking is the first step, he said.
I looked around the church again. The light, the peace, the quiet presence that seemed to fill the space without force.
I don’t understand everything, I admitted. You don’t have to, he replied. That answer stayed with me because all my life I had believed I needed certainty before I could move forward.
But now, I was learning something different. Sometimes the first step is not certainty. It is willingness.
I took a slow breath, feeling the weight in my chest begin to lift just slightly.
I don’t know where this leads, I said. The priest nodded. Neither did I, he replied.
I looked at him surprised. You? He smiled again, softer this time. Faith is not the absence of questions, Farhad.
It’s the courage to keep walking despite them. His words settled deeply within me. For the first time since that night, I felt something other than fear.
Not complete peace, not full understanding, but something real, something steady. Hope. As I stood there in the place I once came to destroy, I realized something that changed everything.
The light I saw that night did not come to condemn me. It came to call me.
And for the first time in my life, I did not run.
