My name is Gabriel Ali. I am 53 years old and I should not be alive right now.
My wife, my children, and I should have been burned to death inside our home, trapped in a fire set by men we had known for years, men who had eaten at our table, men whose children had played with our children in the streets outside our house.
But we are alive. We are breathing. We are safe. And the only reason I can give you, the only explanation that makes any sense when I look back at everything that happened is that Yeshua saved us.
Jesus Christ, the Messiah, appeared to me in a dream and warned me with enough time to grab my family and run.
And everything he showed me in that dream came true the very same night. That is where this story ends, but it is not where it begins.
To understand what happened to us, you need to understand who we are and the world we were living in when everything collapsed around us.
I was born in 1973 in Beirut, Lebanon, into a Lebanese Christian family with roots that go back generations in this land.
Lebanon has always been a complicated country, a place where many religions and communities have lived side by side, sometimes in peace and sometimes in terrible conflict.
My family belonged to the Maronite Christian community, one of the oldest Christian communities in the entire Middle East.
Our faith was not something we chose the way you might choose a political party or a hobby.
It was in our blood, in our history, in the prayers our grandparents whispered before they slept and the hymns our mothers sang while they cooked.
We were Christians before Islam existed as a religion. We were Christians when the Crusaders came and when the Ottoman Empire ruled this land.
We had survived everything this region had thrown at us for centuries and we believed, perhaps naively, that we would continue to survive whatever came next.
But nothing could have fully prepared us for what came in 2025 and 2026 when the tensions between Iran and Israel finally exploded into open war and set the entire Middle East on fire.
My father’s name was Elias Ali. He was a school teacher who loved books and believed deeply that education was the only real path forward for Lebanon.
My mother’s name was Maryam Ali, a woman of extraordinary patience and quiet strength who held our family together through the civil war years when I was a young child.
I grew up watching my parents navigate life in a country that was always on the edge of some new crisis, always recovering from the last war, always bracing for the next one.
Despite everything, they raised me and my siblings with warmth, faith, and a deep sense of identity.
I attended a Maronite school in Beirut where we learned about our history, our liturgy, and our connection to the ancient church of the East.
I married my wife Myrna when I was 26 years old. She came from another Christian family in Beirut, a woman of deep faith and remarkable courage.
Though neither of us knew just how much courage she would need in the days that were coming.
We had three children together. Our oldest daughter Carla was born in 1999. Our second daughter Joelle was born in 2001.
And our youngest, our son Elias, named after my father, was born in 2004. He was 22 years old when everything happened, strong and full of life and completely unaware that within weeks his entire world would be turned upside down.
For most of my adult life, I had lived in the Achrafieh district of Beirut, a predominantly Christian area of the city that had always been our community’s anchor.
We had our church, our neighbors, our routines, our small sense of normalcy in a country that rarely offered it.
I worked in construction and property management and while life was never easy in Lebanon, we managed.
We kept our faith. We raised our children. We prayed and hoped that the political storm swirling around us would pass without destroying everything we had built.
But the storm that came in late 2025 was unlike anything Lebanon had ever seen before.
For years, the conflict between Iran and Israel had been building like pressure inside a sealed container.
Iran had been funding Hezbollah in southern Lebanon, supplying weapons, training fighters, and using Lebanese territory as a launching pad for attacks against Israel.
Israel, for its part, had been conducting strikes inside Lebanon, Syria, and even inside Iran itself, targeting weapon shipments and military infrastructure.
The entire region had been holding its breath, waiting for the moment when this cold war would turn fully hot.
That moment came on February 28th, 2026. I remember that morning as clearly as if it happened yesterday.
I was sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the news on my phone when the alerts started coming in one after another, faster than I could process them.
Israeli jets, supported by American forces, had launched a massive coordinated strike across Iran. The targets included military bases, Revolutionary Guard compounds, nuclear facilities, and leadership compounds in Tehran.
The strikes were devastatingly precise and overwhelmingly powerful. Iran’s air defenses had been neutralized within the first hours.
Key military infrastructure had been destroyed. And then came the news that stopped the entire region cold.
Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei had been killed in the strikes. The man who had ruled Iran with absolute authority for decades, the man who had called for the destruction of Israel more times than anyone could count, was dead.
The announcement came officially on March 1st, 2026, delivered by a shaken Iranian state television anchor dressed in black.
His voice trembling as he read the statement confirming the Supreme Leader’s death and calling for jihad against the Zionist aggressors and their American allies.
The region erupted instantly. In Iran, mourning turned to rage within hours. But it was not just Iran that exploded.
Here in Lebanon, the reaction was just as dangerous and for families like ours, just as deadly.
Hezbollah, which had always positioned itself as Iran’s military arm in Lebanon, went into immediate crisis mode following Khamenei’s death.
Their leadership was furious, grieving, and looking for someone to blame and punish. Within hours of the official confirmation of the Supreme Leader’s death, the tone on the streets of Beirut changed dramatically.
Hezbollah-controlled neighborhoods erupted with protests and angry marches. State media aligned with the group began broadcasting incendiary rhetoric about Zionist collaborators and traitors living among the Lebanese people.
And in that rhetoric, Lebanese Christians who had any perceived connection to Israel or to the West became targets.
Our community had always walked a careful line in Lebanon, trying to stay out of Hezbollah’s crosshairs while maintaining our identity and our faith.
But now that line had disappeared. The anger pouring out of Hezbollah-aligned communities was looking for a target and Lebanese Christians in areas like Achrafieh were suddenly visible in a very dangerous way.
The threats started almost immediately on March 1st, the same day Khamenei’s death was confirmed.
We began receiving anonymous phone calls, voices filled with hatred telling us that we would pay for what Israel had done, that Christians who supported the Zionists would burn, that our neighborhood would be made to suffer.
I told Myrna not to answer the phone anymore, but the calls kept coming. Then the messages started arriving on our phones, threatening texts filled with violent language and images of burning buildings.
Our neighbors were receiving the same messages. Word spread quickly through the Christian community in Achrafieh that something serious was coming, that the threats were not just empty words, but organized and intentional.
Reports began coming in from other parts of Beirut about vandalism against Christian properties, churches with broken windows, cars set on fire, walls spray-painted with threatening slogans.
The security forces were doing nothing visible to stop it and some reports suggested that certain Hezbollah-aligned elements within the security apparatus were actively encouraging the chaos as a way to punish the Christian community for what they called collaboration with Israel.
We locked our doors, closed our curtains, and began the terrifying process of waiting and praying inside our own home, trapped by hatred in the city where I had spent my entire life.
The week that followed was the longest and most suffocating of my entire life. We could not leave the house.
We could not go to the shops, could not visit our church, could not even step outside to breathe fresh air without the risk of being seen and attacked.
Elias, my son, was going mad with the confinement. He was 22 years old, physically strong, full of restless energy, and being locked inside a small apartment while the city outside descended into violence was torture for him.
He kept saying, “Father, we should leave Beirut. We should go somewhere, anywhere. We cannot just sit here and wait to be attacked.”
But I told him that moving through the city was too dangerous right now. Hezbollah checkpoints had appeared on major roads.
Armed men were patrolling neighborhoods. Any Christian family seen trying to flee would be stopped and questioned and we could not predict what would happen after that.
So we stayed. We rationed our food. We kept the lights low at night so the apartment would look empty from the street.
We prayed together every morning and every evening, holding hands in our small living room, asking Yeshua to protect us, to show us what to do, to make a way where there seemed to be no way.
But the days passed and no answer came, only silence and the distant sounds of shouting and sirens from the streets below.
By the night of March 7th, one full week after the strikes that killed Khamenei, I was exhausted in every way a human being can be exhausted and I went to bed with no idea that everything was about to change.
I drifted off sometime after midnight, my mind finally too tired to keep racing through worst-case scenarios.
Myrna was beside me, restless but quiet. Elias was in his room down the hall.
The apartment was dark and still. And then the dream came, and from the very first second, I knew it was not an ordinary dream.
Everything was too vivid, too sharp, too real. I was fully conscious inside it, aware that I was seeing something I was meant to see, something I was meant to act on.
In the dream, I was hovering above our street in Ashrafieh, looking down at our building from above, as if I were suspended in the air.
It was nighttime in the dream, dark except for the dim orange glow of streetlights.
The street looked quiet at first, and then I saw them coming. A group of men, at least 15 of them, moving down the street toward our building with purpose and anger in every step.
As they got closer, I could see their faces clearly, and what I saw made my blood run cold even inside the dream.
I recognized them. These were not strangers. These were men from nearby neighborhoods, men I had seen at the local market, men whose faces I knew from years of living in this city.
They were carrying jerrycans of gasoline and bottles stuffed with rags, homemade fire bombs, and metal pipes.
I could hear them shouting as they approached, their voices filled with a kind of hatred that has burned out every trace of reason.
They were shouting about Christians, about traitors, about burning out the collaborators. And they were heading straight for our building.
I watched in helpless horror as they spread out around the building, pouring gasoline along the base of the walls, soaking the entrance door, splashing fuel against the windows.
Inside the dream, I could somehow see through the walls. I could see Myrna asleep in our bed.
I could see Elias in his room, completely unaware. I tried to scream, tried to warn them, but no sound came out of my mouth.
I was frozen, powerless, forced to watch as the men outside prepared to light the fire that would kill my entire family.
One man stepped forward holding a lighter. He flicked it open, and the small flame appeared in the darkness.
He raised it toward the gasoline-soaked door, and then everything stopped. A figure appeared in the street, standing directly between the mob and the entrance to our building.
He had not walked up or approached from any direction. He was simply there, suddenly and completely, as if he had stepped out of the very fabric of the night itself.
He was dressed in white robes that seemed to glow faintly in the darkness, and his presence filled the entire street with a weight and a power that was impossible to describe.
Every single man in that mob froze instantly. The man with the lighter stood completely still, his hand raised but unable to move forward.
The others were locked in place, their faces shifting from rage to confusion to terror.
And I knew, without any doubt, exactly who this figure was. It was Yeshua. I recognized him not because I had seen his face before in any image or painting, but because I recognized his presence, the same presence I had first felt years ago when I had cried out to him alone in my room and felt him answer.
There was no mistaking it. This was the Messiah standing in my street, protecting my family with nothing but his presence and his authority.
He raised his hands toward the frozen mob, and in the dim light of the dream, I could see the scars on his palms, the marks left by the nails of the crucifixion, unmistakable and eternal.
When he spoke, his voice was not loud, but it carried an authority that shook the air around him.
He said, “You will not touch this building tonight. These are mine. You have no power here.”
The men tried to move and could not. They tried to speak and no sound came.
Some of them tried to step backward, but even that was denied to them. They were completely and utterly powerless before him.
And then Yeshua turned and looked directly at me, even though I was hovering above the street in some formless state inside the dream.
His eyes found mine with absolute precision, and in those eyes I saw love and urgency and a command that left no room for hesitation.
He said my name. He said, “Gabriel.” And the way he said it told me everything.
He knew me. He had always known me. And then he said, “Wake up. Take your family and leave now.
Go to your brother’s house. Do not pack. Do not delay. If you stay in this building, they will come.
I am warning you. Go now.” His voice carried the full weight of heaven behind it, and before I could respond, he stepped toward me and pressed his hand against my chest.
The warmth of his touch was unlike anything I have ever felt, solid and real and overwhelming.
And then the dream shattered, and my eyes flew open in the darkness of our bedroom.
I sat up gasping, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
For a moment, I just sat there in the dark, trying to breathe, trying to process what had just happened.
Myrna stirred beside me and opened her eyes, looking at me with immediate concern. She reached out and touched my arm and said, “Gabriel, what is wrong?
You are shaking.” I turned to her and took her hand and said as clearly and calmly as I could manage, “Myrna, we have to leave right now.
We have to get Elias and leave this building tonight.” She sat up fully, her eyes wide.
“What are you talking about? It is the middle of the night. Where would we go?”
I said, “I had a dream. Yeshua showed me. There is a mob coming to burn this building with us inside.
He told me to take you and Elias and go to my brother Ramy’s house right now.
We cannot wait. We cannot question it. We have to go.” Myrna looked at me for a long moment, searching my face.
She knew me. She knew the difference between panic and certainty, and what she saw on my face was certainty.
She nodded and said, “All right. Let us go.” We woke Elias, who was confused and irritated at being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night.
I told him the same thing I told Myrna, that Yeshua had warned me and we were leaving now.
He looked at me like I had lost my mind, but he saw the look on my face and Myrna’s face, and he got dressed without arguing.
Within 15 minutes, the three of us were out of the apartment with nothing but a bag of documents, a little money, and the clothes on our backs, moving quickly and quietly through the dark streets of Ashrafieh toward my brother’s home on the other side of the neighborhood.
The streets were mostly empty at that hour, which was a mercy. We moved quickly, staying close to the walls of buildings, avoiding open spaces.
Every shadow made my heart jump. Every distant sound of a car made me pull Myrna and Elias into a doorway until it passed.
But Yeshua was covering us. I could feel it. The same presence from the dream was with us in those dark streets, surrounding us, hiding us, making a way.
We reached my brother Ramy’s apartment building without incident, and I rang his buzzer repeatedly until a light came on.
Ramy Ali is 4 years younger than me, 49 years old, married to his wife Nadia with two grown sons of his own.
Ramy and I had always been close growing up, but in recent years there had been a tension between us rooted in faith.
Ramy was a traditional Maronite Christian in name, but in practice he had drifted far from any real personal faith.
He went to church at Christmas and Easter and considered himself a cultural Christian, but he had little patience for what he called excessive religious devotion.
When I had begun speaking more seriously about Yeshua as a living and present Lord years ago, Ramy had rolled his eyes and told me I was becoming a fanatic.
He respected me as his brother, but thought my faith was an embarrassment. And now, at 3:00 in the morning, I was about to knock on his door and tell him Yeshua had warned me in a dream to bring my family here.
I knew exactly how this was going to go. Ramy opened the door squinting against the hallway light, looking at me with pure irritation.
“Gabriel, what on earth? It is the middle of the night.” I said, “Ramy, please let us in.
I will explain everything inside.” He looked at Myrna and Elias standing behind me with bags in their hands, and his irritation shifted to concern.
He stepped aside and let us in. Nadia appeared from the bedroom wrapped in a robe, looking just as confused.
Once we were inside with the door closed, Ramy crossed his arms and said, “All right, Gabriel.
Tell me what is happening.” I told him everything. I told him about the week of threats and hiding, about going to bed exhausted, about the dream, about the mob and the gasoline and the figure in white who stopped them, about Yeshua’s voice commanding me to leave and come here.
Ramy listened to all of it without interrupting. When I finished, he was quiet for a moment.
Then he shook his head slowly and said, “Gabriel, you left your apartment in the middle of the night and dragged your family across Ashrafieh because of a dream.
Because of a dream about Jesus. You understand how that sounds, right?” I said, “I know how it sounds, Ramy, but I know what I saw.
I know whose voice I heard. Please, just let us stay here tonight. If I am wrong, if nothing happens, I will accept whatever you want to say about me.
But please, just tonight.” He looked at Nadia. She gave him a small nod. He sighed heavily and said, “Fine.
You can stay, but only because you are my brother.” We were grateful for even that much.
We found places to sleep in his living room, and I lay there in the dark staring at the ceiling, praying quietly.
“Yeshua, if this was truly you, please confirm it. Show Ramy that you are real.”
And then I closed my eyes and waited for morning. I woke to the sound of Ramy’s voice, tense and urgent, coming from the living room.
Sunlight was filtering through the curtains. I sat up immediately and saw him standing with his phone in his hand, his face completely drained of color.
Nadia was beside him with her hand pressed over her mouth. Myrna was already awake, sitting up and watching Ramy with wide eyes.
I stood up quickly and said, “Ramy, what is it?” He did not answer right away.
He just stared at the phone screen with an expression I had never seen on his face before.
Something between shock and devastation and something else, something that looked like the beginning of awe.
Then he slowly turned the phone around and held it out to me. It was a news report from a local Beirut news site.
The headline read, “Arson attack on Christian homes in Ashrafieh overnight. Multiple buildings burned.” There was a video attached.
My hands were shaking as I pressed play. The video showed our street. I recognized it immediately.
Every building, every lamp post, every detail of the place I had lived for years.
And there in the center of the frame was our building, blackened and partially collapsed.
Smoke was still rising from the ruins. The entrance was completely burned away. The windows were shattered and scorched.
Everything inside was destroyed. The reporter’s voice described a group of unidentified men who had arrived in the early hours of the morning with gasoline and firebombs and set fire to multiple buildings in the area.
At least one family was confirmed to have evacuated before the attack. Authorities were investigating, but no arrests had been made.
I lowered the phone slowly. My legs felt weak. I sat back down on the couch and stared at the floor, trying to breathe, trying to absorb the full reality of what I was looking at.
That was our home. That was the exact scene Yeshua had shown me in the dream.
The mob, the gasoline, the fire, everything precisely as he had warned. If we had stayed, we would be dead.
Myrna, Elias, and I would have burned to death in our beds. I felt tears running down my face before I even realized I was crying.
Myrna came and sat beside me and held my hand tightly, whispering, “Thank you, Yeshua.
Thank you.” Over and over. Elias stood by the window staring at the phone screen that Ramy was still holding, his face pale and shaken.
And Ramy, my skeptical, eye-rolling, dream-dismissing brother, was standing in the middle of his living room with tears streaming openly down his face.
He looked at me and his voice cracked when he spoke. He said, “Gabriel, it was real.
The dream was real. He warned you. He actually warned you and saved you. Jesus saved you.”
I nodded and said, “Yes, Ramy. Yeshua saved us. He showed it to me before it happened and he told me to come here.
If we had stayed in that building, we would be dead right now. He is real.
He is alive. And he loves us.” Ramy sat down heavily in his chair and was silent for a long time.
The room was completely quiet except for the sound of Myrna’s soft weeping and the distant noise of the city outside.
Then Ramy looked up at me with an expression on his face that I had never seen in all the years I had known him, open, broken, hungry for something he had never allowed himself to want before.
He said, “Gabriel, I have spent my whole life going to church without actually believing.
I have said the prayers without meaning them. I have called myself a Christian while living like Yeshua was nothing more than a figure in an old painting.
But what I am looking at right now, what I saw happen last night, I cannot explain it any other way.
If Yeshua showed you that in a dream and it came true exactly as he said, then he is not just a historical figure.
He is real. He is alive. And I need to know him.” I sat across from my brother and for the first time in years, there was no wall between us.
No tension, no eye-rolling, no dismissal. There was just Ramy, 49 years old, finally ready to truly meet the Yeshua he had nominally believed in his entire life.
I told him about the gospel, not the religious rituals or the cultural traditions, but the real gospel.
That Yeshua was God who came in human flesh. That he died on the cross to take the punishment for our sins.
That he rose from the dead on the third day and is alive today. That salvation is not earned through church attendance or good behavior, but received through faith in him alone.
Ramy listened to every word. And then Nadia stepped forward and said she wanted to hear it, too.
So I started from the beginning and told them both everything. When I finished, Ramy looked at me with tears still wet on his face and said, “I want to surrender my life to Yeshua right now.
Not the cultural version. Not the Christmas and Easter version. I want the real thing.
I want what you have. That peace, that certainty, the kind of faith that makes a man wake up his family at 3:00 in the morning because he trusts a dream from God more than he fears looking foolish.
I want that.” Right there in that living room, with the news of our burned building still on the phone screen, Ramy prayed.
He prayed out loud with his eyes closed and his voice breaking. He said, “Yeshua, I have been a Christian in name only my whole life and I am sorry.
I have ignored you and dismissed you and treated your name like it was nothing.
Forgive me. I believe you died for my sins. I believe you rose from the dead.
I believe you are alive right now and that you saved my brother’s family last night.
Save me, too. I give you my life, all of it. Be my lord.” The moment Ramy finished praying, the atmosphere in the room changed in a way that was palpable and undeniable.
Nadia looked around with wide eyes and said, “I feel something. Something has changed in this room.
I can feel it.” She began to weep and asked me to pray with her, too.
And I did. And she also gave her life to Yeshua. In the space of one morning, starting with the burned ruins of our home and ending in that small living room, two more souls entered the kingdom of God.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed. But even in the midst of that joy, we all knew the danger had not passed.
Our home was gone. The violence against Christians in Beirut was not stopping. Ramy’s apartment was in the same city and could easily become the next target.
The journey was terrifying in ways I do not have enough words to fully describe.
We traveled through small roads and mountain passes, avoiding major highways. Every time we saw headlights behind us, every time we approached a checkpoint, my stomach clenched with fear.
But at every single checkpoint, Yeshua made a way. Guards were distracted or bribed or simply waved us through without a second look.
It was as if we were invisible to them. Hidden under the same covering that had protected us the night we fled our apartment.
At one point, we had to leave the cars and walk on foot through rough terrain in complete darkness to cross a border point where there were no official guards.
Myrna stumbled and I caught her. Nadia was struggling but kept going. Elias stayed close, helping wherever he could.
We crawled through narrow passes, held our breath when distant lights swept across the hillside, and kept moving, kept praying, kept trusting.
And then our guide stopped and whispered, “You are across. You are safe.” We collapsed on the ground, gasping and weeping and laughing all at once.
We had made it. Yeshua had brought us out. We were taken to a safe house run by a Christian refugee organization where we were given food, clean clothes, and medical care.
For the first time in weeks, we felt genuinely safe. We stayed there for several days while the organization worked on our next steps.
During that time, I felt a strong and undeniable pull in my spirit to record my testimony.
Yeshua had not just saved us for our own benefit. He had saved us so we could tell the world what he had done.
I recorded everything, the background, the war, the threats, the dream, the escape, the confirmation, Ramy’s conversion, the border crossing, all of it.
I sent the recording to trusted contacts who uploaded it online. Within days, it began to spread rapidly through Lebanese diaspora communities, through Christian networks in the Middle East, through social media platforms around the world.
People were sharing it in Arabic and English and French. Lebanese families in exile were watching it and weeping.
Iranian believers were sharing it alongside their own testimonies of Yeshua appearing in dreams. The story went viral in a way that none of us could have engineered or planned, and that told me clearly that Yeshua was behind its spread because only he could move a story that fast across that many borders.
Since our testimony began circulating, I have been contacted by dozens of other Lebanese Christian families and also by former Muslims from Lebanon, Iran, and Syria who have had their own encounters with Yeshua in dreams and visions.
They are asking the same questions. Is Yeshua real? Is he truly alive? Can he truly save and protect?
And the answer coming back from every testimony is yes, yes, and yes. What is happening across the Middle East right now is not random.
It is not simply the chaos of political conflict and regional war. It is a spiritual movement of historic proportions.
Yeshua is appearing to people across a region that has largely rejected him, calling them by name, warning them, protecting them, and drawing them into his kingdom.
The death of Khamenei on February 28th, 2026 shook the entire structure of the Islamic Republic and sent shockwaves through every Hezbollah-aligned community in Lebanon.
But Yeshua is using even that chaos to advance his purposes. Where the regime crumbles, the gospel advances.
Where persecution increases, faith spreads faster. This is the pattern of the kingdom of God, and it has never failed.
I want to speak directly to several groups of people who may be watching or reading this testimony.
To my fellow Lebanese Christians, I say this: Being a Christian by culture or by birth certificate is not enough anymore.
The days ahead will require a faith that is real, personal, and alive. Yeshua is not a figure in a church painting or a name you invoke at Christmas.
He is the living Lord who steps between his people and the mob that wants to destroy them.
He is the one who speaks in dreams and warns and protects and saves. Get to know him personally.
Pray to him directly. Open your Bible and read it not as a religious duty, but as a letter from the one who loves you.
The Middle East is being shaken to its foundations, and only those who are rooted in a real relationship with Yeshua will be able to stand in what is coming.
To Muslims watching this, whether Lebanese or Iranian or from anywhere else in this region, I want you to know that Yeshua is appearing to your brothers and sisters in dreams right now across Iran and Lebanon and Syria.
He is revealing himself as more than a prophet. He is revealing himself as Lord and Savior.
Ask him to show you the truth. Pray sincerely and say, “Yeshua, if you are truly the Son of God, if you truly died for my sins and rose from the dead, reveal yourself to me.
I want to know the truth.” He will answer that prayer. He answered it for me.
He answered it for Ramy. He is answering it for thousands across this region right now.
To Christians around the world watching this from a safe distance, I urge you not to look away from what is happening in the Middle East.
Pray for Lebanon. Pray for Iran. Pray for every believer who is risking their life to follow Yeshua in a region where that choice can cost you everything.
Support the organizations that are helping refugees and smuggling Bibles into closed countries. Use your voice to tell the story because the world needs to know that Yeshua is moving in the most unlikely places on Earth.
And the harvest being gathered in Lebanon and Iran right now is one of the greatest in history.
To anyone who has persecuted believers, who has burned homes and threatened families and driven people from their communities because of their faith in Yeshua, I say this with love and with warning: You are fighting against God himself.
You cannot win that battle. Every act of persecution has only accelerated the spread of the gospel.
But there is still time to stop, to repent, to turn to Yeshua yourself. He offers forgiveness even to those who have burned his people’s homes.
His grace is that wide and that deep. But if you continue, you will face his judgment, and that is not a fate anyone should choose.
My name is Gabriel Ali. I am a Lebanese Christian who belongs to Yeshua the Messiah.
I was nearly burned to death in my home in Beirut, and Yeshua appeared in a dream and saved my life.
He is real. He is alive. He is moving across the Middle East with power that no government and no militia and no amount of violence can stop.
If you have not yet surrendered your life to him, I am asking you to do it right now.
Pray with me. Say, “Yeshua, I am a sinner who needs you. I believe you are the Son of God.
I believe you died for my sins and rose from the dead. Forgive me. Save me.
I give you my life. Be my Lord and my Savior.” If you prayed that prayer and meant it, you are saved.
You belong to Yeshua. Now find other believers, read the Bible, and trust him with everything you have.
He is coming back. And when he does, every knee will bow and every tongue will confess that he is Lord.
That day is closer than it has ever been. Are you ready? I want to be very clear about something before I close this testimony.
What happened to my family is not an isolated miracle. It is not a single extraordinary event that stands alone in history.
It is one story among thousands that are emerging from across the Middle East right now.
Stories of Yeshua appearing in dreams, protecting families, warning people before danger arrives, and calling both Muslims and Christians into a deeper and more real relationship with him.
Since our testimony went viral online, I have personally been in contact with families from Beirut, from Tehran, from Damascus, and from other cities across this region who have experienced things remarkably similar to what my family went through.
A Lebanese Shia Muslim woman in southern Beirut told me that Yeshua appeared to her in a dream three nights after Khomeini’s death and told her that he was the way, the truth, and the life.
She woke up and immediately began searching online for information about him. She found a Lebanese Christian ministry online and reached out.
Within 2 weeks, she had surrendered her life to Yeshua. She told me she had never felt anything like the peace that came over her the moment she prayed.
She said it was as if a weight she had carried her entire life was suddenly lifted off her shoulders, and she could breathe freely for the first time.
An Iranian Jewish man living in Tehran contacted me after seeing my testimony online. He told me that his family had also received death threats following Khomeini’s death, and that they had been hiding in their home for days.
He said that after watching my video, he and his wife prayed together and asked Yeshua to reveal himself to them if he was truly the Messiah.
That same night, his wife had a dream in which Yeshua appeared and spoke her name and told her that he had died for her sins and that she was forgiven and loved.
She woke up weeping and told her husband, and together they surrendered their lives to Yeshua before sunrise.
They have since managed to escape Iran through an underground network and are now safe in a neighboring country.
They are hungry for the word of God and are reading the New Testament for the first time in their lives with wonder and joy.
These are not fabricated stories. These are real people whose lives have been turned upside down by an encounter with the living Yeshua, and their testimonies are multiplying faster than anyone can keep track of.
What I am witnessing from my place of safety is nothing less than the beginning of the greatest spiritual awakening this region has ever seen.
For centuries, the Middle East has been dominated by religious systems that have kept people in fear, in bondage, and in darkness.
The Islamic Republic of Iran used religion as a tool of political control for nearly 50 years.
Hezbollah used religious identity as a weapon to divide and manipulate the Lebanese people. These systems have produced poverty, oppression, violence, and despair wherever they have taken root.
But Yeshua is dismantling these systems not through political force or military power, but through the simplest and most unstoppable force in the universe, his love.
He is appearing to ordinary people in their sleep. He is speaking their names. He is showing them that he is real, that he died for them, that he rose again, and that he is calling them to follow him.
And people are responding by the thousands despite the enormous cost. What I am witnessing from my place of safety is nothing less than the beginning of the greatest spiritual awakening this region has ever seen.
For centuries, the Middle East has been dominated by religious systems that have kept people in fear, in bondage, and in darkness.
The Islamic Republic of Iran used religion as a tool of political control for nearly 50 years.
Hezbollah used religious identity as a weapon to divide and manipulate the Lebanese people. These systems have produced poverty, oppression, violence, and despair wherever they have taken root.
But Yeshua is dismantling these systems not through political force or military power, but through the simplest and most unstoppable force in the universe, his love.
He is appearing to ordinary people in their sleep. He is speaking their names. He is showing them that he is real, that he died for them, that he rose again, and that he is calling them to follow him.
And people are responding by the thousands despite the enormous cost. I have been told by contacts still inside Lebanon and Iran that underground house churches are growing at a pace that is genuinely house churches that had 10 or 15 members a year ago now have 50 or 60.
New believers are being baptized in private homes and in rivers at night. Bibles are being passed hand to hand and read in secret by people who are risking their lives just to hold the word of God.
In Lebanon, Christian communities that have become cold and institutional and culturally hollow are being set on fire again by the reality of Yeshua’s presence and power.
Young people who grew up going through the motions of religion are encountering the living Lord and being transformed from the inside out.
This is not a human movement. No human strategy or marketing campaign could produce what is happening right now.
This is Yeshua himself moving across the Middle East with sovereign power, gathering his harvest before the end.
I also want to address something that many people watching this testimony may be wondering about.
They may be asking why Yeshua saved my family and not the families who were burned alive or killed in those same attacks.
It is a question I have wrestled with deeply and honestly. I do not have a complete answer.
I do not fully understand the ways of God, and I will not pretend that I do.
What I know is that Yeshua is sovereign, and his purposes are higher than our understanding.
What I know is that every believer who died in those attacks went directly into his presence and is more alive now than they ever were on Earth.
What I know is that their deaths were not meaningless, but are part of a story that Yeshua is writing across this entire region, a story of redemption and resurrection and ultimate victory.
Their blood, like the blood of martyrs throughout history, is seed that will produce a harvest far greater than anything we can currently see.
I grieve for every family that lost someone. I carry their pain with me. And I pray that their sacrifice will not be forgotten but will be honored by the testimony of every believer who survives and continues to proclaim the name of Yeshua in the face of every threat and every danger.
I want to speak one final time to anyone who is still on the fence, anyone who has listened to this entire testimony and still feels uncertain or afraid to take the step of surrendering their life to Yeshua.
I understand that hesitation. I lived with it myself for years before I finally came to him.
The cost of following Yeshua in this region is real and it is high. It can mean losing your family, your community, your home and in some cases your life.
I will not pretend otherwise but I want you to consider what the alternative costs.
Living without him means living without the peace that surpasses understanding. It means navigating the terror and the uncertainty of these days without the anchor of his presence.
It means facing death which all of us will face eventually without the certainty of resurrection and eternal life on the other side.
Yeshua said that whoever loses their life for his sake will find it. He was not speaking metaphorically.
He was speaking the deepest truth in the universe. The life you gain in him is worth infinitely more than anything you surrender to follow him.
I know this not just as a theological statement but as a lived reality. I lost my home, my possessions, my country and my sense of security and I gained Yeshua and Yeshua is enough.
He is more than enough. He is everything. My family and I are rebuilding our lives in a new place.
We do not know exactly what the future holds. We do not know when or whether we will ever return to Lebanon.
We do not know how the war between Iran and Israel will ultimately unfold or what the political map of the Middle East will look like in 5 years but we know Yeshua.
We know his voice. We know his protection. We know his love and that knowledge is a foundation that no war, no militia, no mob, no government and no amount of loss can ever shake.
We will continue to share this testimony everywhere we can. We will continue to tell everyone who will listen that Yeshua is real, that he is alive, that he is moving across the Middle East with power and love and that he is coming back to complete what he has already begun.
The day of his return is drawing closer with every passing hour. The signs are visible for anyone who has eyes to see.
The shaking of nations, the wars and rumors of wars, the persecution of believers, the mass turning to Yeshua across formerly closed regions, all of it points to one conclusion.
He is coming and when he comes every knee will bow and every tongue will confess that Yeshua the Messiah is Lord to the glory of God the Father.
That day is coming. Make sure you are ready for it. Make sure you know him.
My name is Gabriel Ali and Yeshua saved my life. He can save yours, too.
