Fleeing IRGC Commander Meets Jesus On His Way To Saudi Arabia After Ali Khamenei’s Death

I met Jesus face-to-face on my way to Saudi Arabia as I was trying to escape death from the attacks in Iran.

On March 2nd, 2026, I was driving through the desert towards Saudi Arabia when a blinding light filled my car and everything stopped.

A figure in white stood before me and asked me why I had been persecuting his people.

His name was Jesus and in that moment I realized that 40 years of my life had been a complete lie.

My name is Brigadier General Farhad Rostami. I am 58 years old. I spent four decades hunting down Christians, torturing prisoners, and suppressing protests for the Iranian regime.

I was one of Ali Khamenei’s most trusted commanders and then Khamenei died on February 28th, 2026.

I fled Iran to save my life. But on that desert road, something happened that changed me forever.

I was struck blind. My sight was restored and I was born again in the presence of the risen Christ.

For the first time in my life, uh I’m about to tell you a story that cost me everything.

A story about the man I was and the man I have become. When the Islamic Revolution exploded in 1978 and 1979, my father was one of the first men in our neighborhood to join the protests.

He marched through the streets of Isfahan with thousands of others shouting for the Shah to leave and for Ayatollah Khomeini to return from exile and lead the country.

I was only 10 years old at the time, but I remember the excitement and the chaos and the fear that filled our city during those months.

I remember my father coming home late at night with his clothes torn and his face covered in sweat from hours of marching.

I remember my mother crying and begging him to stay home and not risk his life.

I I remember the sound of gunfire echoing through the streets and the smell of tear gas drifting through our windows.

And I remember the day when everything changed, the day in February 1979 when the Shah finally fled Iran and Khomeini returned to Tehran in triumph.

My father wept with joy that day. He fell to his knees in our living room and thanked Allah for answering his prayers.

He told me that a new era had begun for Iran. He told me that the Islamic Republic would bring justice and righteousness to our country.

He told me that Ayatollah Khomeini was the greatest leader the Muslim world had seen in centuries.

He told me that every good Muslim had a duty to serve this new government with everything they had.

His words planted something inside my young heart that day, a seed of loyalty and devotion that would grow larger and stronger with every passing year.

I did not know then that this seed would eventually turn me into a monster.

I did not know that the loyalty my father planted in me would lead me to do things that no human being should ever do to another human being.

The years that followed the revolution were difficult for Iran. The country was in chaos as the new government tried to establish control.

Different as political groups fought for power, the economy collapsed. And then in September 1980, the worst thing imaginable happened.

Saddam Hussein invaded Iran from across the border in Iraq. The Iran-Iraq War had begun.

This war would last for eight terrible years and kill nearly a million people on both sides.

It would destroy cities and families and an entire generation of young Iranian men. Uh I watched the war unfold on our television screen every night.

I saw images of soldiers fighting in trenches and tanks rolling through burning deserts. I saw wounded men being carried on stretchers with their faces twisted in agony.

I saw the coffins of martyrs being paraded through the streets of Isfahan draped in the Iranian flag while their mothers screamed and tore at their hair.

By the time I was 18 years old in 1986, the war was still raging with no end in sight.

The government was calling on every young man to join the fight and defend the Islamic Republic against the Iraqi invaders.

My father sat me down one evening and told me it was time. He said that serving in the military was not just a duty to the country, but a duty to Allah himself.

And he said that dying in defense of the Islamic Republic was the highest honor a Muslim could achieve.

He said that the martyrs who fell on the battlefield would go straight to paradise without being questioned about their sins.

I looked into my father’s eyes and I saw pride and expectation and something else that I could not refuse.

He wanted me to be a hero. He wanted me to fight for everything he believed in and I wanted to make him proud more than I wanted anything else in the world.

So I made the decision that would define the rest of my life. I walked into the local recruitment office of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and signed my name on the paper.

I was 18 years old and I had just given my life to the IRGC.

I had no idea what that decision would cost me and everyone around me. The first time I held a rifle in my hands, I felt like a man.

I was 19 years old and I had just completed my basic training at a military camp outside of Isfahan.

The rifle was heavier than I expected and colder than I thought it would be.

My drill sergeant told me that this rifle was now part of my body. He said I should love it more than I loved my own mother because it would keep me alive when nothing else could.

He taught me how to clean it and load it and fire it at targets until I could hit a bull’s-eye from 100 m away without even thinking about it.

He taught me how to march in formation with hundreds of other young men who are just like me.

He taught me how to obey orders without question. He taught me how to turn off the part of my mind that asks why and just do what I am told.

And these lessons would become the foundation of who I would become over the next 40 years.

In August 1986, I was deployed to the front lines near the city of Basra in southern Iraq.

The war had already been going on for six years and thousands of Iranian soldiers had already died.

The trenches where we were stationed were filled with mud and the stench of dead bodies of soldiers from previous battles were sometimes still lying in the ground where they had fallen.

We would step over them or remove them to make room for ourselves. The sound of artillery explosions was constant day and night.

The ground would shake beneath our feet from the bombs falling from the sky. Mortars and shells and machine gun fire killed men randomly with no pattern or logic.

Wha- One moment, your friend would be standing beside you and the next moment his body would be torn apart by shrapnel and he would fall to the ground bleeding.

I watched dozens of men die during my first month on the front lines. I watched friends I had made during training cry out in pain as their legs were blown off or their stomachs were ripped open and I learned very quickly to stop feeling anything about it.

The human mind is an amazing thing. It has the ability to shut down and protect itself when it experienced too much trauma and pain.

After a few months in the trenches, I stopped seeing the dead men as people.

I stopped hearing their screams as voices of humans in agony. I stopped thinking about their families waiting at home for them to return.

They became nothing more than obstacles in my way or meat lying on the ground.

Wha- I became very good at killing. I became very good at following orders to attack the enemy without hesitation or doubt.

My commanders noticed this about me. They saw that I did not hesitate or freeze up when they ordered me to go into battle.

They saw that I could kill without emotion or regret. They saw that I would do whatever they told me to do, no matter what it was.

And they began to give me more and more responsibility. By 1988, when the war finally ended, I had been promoted to the rank of sergeant.

I had been part of operation that killed hundreds of people. I had been involved in chemical weapons attacks that burned the skin off the bodies of Iraqi soldiers.

I had seen things that no human should ever have to see. And the worst part was that I did not feel bad about any of it.

I did not feel guilt or shame or remorse. That I felt proud. I felt like I had served my country and my religion with honor.

I felt like I had done everything my father had taught me to do. When I came home to Isfahan after the war ended, my entire family welcomed me as a hero.

My father embraced me and told me that he knew I would make him proud.

My mother kissed my forehead and wept with joy that I had survived. My younger brothers looked at me with admiration in their eyes.

They wanted to know stories about the battles I had fought in. They wanted to know what it was like to kill an enemy soldier.

I told them that it was an honor and a duty and that one day they too would have the chance to serve the Islamic Republic.

After the war ended, the IRGC did not demobilize me or send me home to live a peaceful life.

As instead I was kept on active duty because the government still needed loyal soldiers to maintain control of the country.

The war with Iraq may have ended, but a new kind of war was beginning inside Iran itself.

The new Islamic Republic was not what many people had hoped it would be. Instead of bringing justice and equality, it had corruption and oppression.

The government controlled every aspect of life. It told people what to wear and what to watch and what to think.

It executed anyone who spoke against the regime. It imprisoned people for reading the wrong books or listening to the wrong music.

And many Iranians began to realize that they had simply traded one dictator for another.

They began to protest and demand reforms. And that is where my role in the IRGC changed completely.

In 1989 and 1990, as I was assigned to internal security operations in Isfahan and other cities, my job was to help suppress any protests or demonstrations against the government.

I was given a group of soldiers to command and we would patrol the streets looking for people who were causing trouble.

We would beat anyone we found gathered in groups of more than three or four people.

We would arrest anyone who was wearing Western clothes or had forbidden music on their cassette cassette tapes.

We would interrogate suspects in detention centers trying to get them to confess to crimes against the Islamic Republic.

I did all of these things without question. The orders came from above and I obeyed them.

I did not think about whether what I was doing was right or wrong. I simply did my duty as a soldier of the Islamic Republic.

By 1995, I had been promoted to the rank of captain. By 2000, I was major.

By 2005, I was a colonel. I was rising through the ranks faster than many of my peers because I was willing to do the dirty work that other commanders were hesitant to do.

In 2009, when the Green Movement erupted after the presidential election that everyone knew was rigged, I was one of the commanders given the task of crushing the protests.

Hundreds of thousands of Iranians filled the streets of Tehran and other cities demanding that their votes it will be counted.

They were peaceful at first, just marching and chanting and waving green ribbons to show their support for reform.

But the government saw them as a threat to its power and ordered us to brutally crack down on them.

I remember the day we were sent into the streets with our riot gear and our weapons.

I remember the look of hope and fear in the eyes of the protesters when they saw us coming toward them.

I remember the sound of our batons hitting their bodies and the screams of the people as they ran trying to escape.

I remember the young woman named Neda Agha-Soltan who was shot in the chest and bled to death on the pavement.

Her image became famous around the world as the symbol of the brutality of the Iranian regime.

And I was part of the machine that had killed her. I tell you this not to justify what I did, but to help you understand how a man can become a monster step by step without even realizing it is happening.

I did not wake up one morning and decide to become a cruel and violent person.

It happened gradually through a thousand small decisions and compromises. Each time I obeyed an order to hurt someone, it became easier the next time.

Each time I convinced myself that what I was doing was for a good reason, my conscience grew quieter and quieter.

Each time I was promoted and given more power, I became more arrogant and more convinced that I was right.

And everyone who disagreed with me was wrong. By 2015, I was a brigadier general and I had been involved in suppressing dozens of major protests.

I had overseen the interrogation and torture of hundreds of people. I had helped maintain the grip of fear that kept the Iranian people from rising up against the government.

And I had become a man who could look into the eyes of a tortured prisoner and feel nothing but contempt.

In 2015, I was brought into the inner circle of supreme leader Ali Khamenei. One of his advisers had noticed my loyalty and my willingness to do whatever was asked of me without hesitation.

I was offered a position as one of Khamenei’s personal security advisers and as a liaison between the supreme leader and the IRGC commanders in the field.

This was the greatest honor that could be given to someone like me. It meant that I would have direct access to the most powerful man in Iran.

It meant that I would know state secrets that almost no one else knew. It meant that I would have even more power and influence than I had before.

I accepted the position immediately and moved to Tehran to begin my new duties. I became one of the men closest to Khamenei.

I traveled with him wherever he went. I sat in meetings where the highest levels of government policy were decided.

I helped coordinate military operations and intelligence activities. I became one of the most feared men in all of Iran because everyone knew that I had Khamenei’s trust and support.

During the years from 2015 to 2026, I was involved in some of the darkest operations that the Iranian government undertook.

I helped coordinate the suppression of the 2019 protests when the government raised gasoline prices and millions of Iranians took to the streets in an anger.

The government killed hundreds of protesters during those demonstrations and I was part of the chain of command that ordered the crackdowns.

I was involved in hunting down and arresting members of underground churches that were spreading throughout Iran.

I participated in interrogations where innocent people were tortured until they confessed to crimes they had not committed.

And I oversaw detention centers where political prisoners were held in inhumane conditions. I became a master at crushing dissent and eliminating anyone who posed a threat to the regime.

And with each atrocity I committed, I felt myself becoming darker and harder and more lost inside.

By 2022, when the Mahsa Amini protests erupted after a young woman was killed for not wearing her hijab properly, I was one of the senior commanders orchestrating the government response.

I remember watching the video of Mahsa being beaten by the morality police and then dying in the hospital.

I remember the anger and the grief that spread through Iran as her story became known.

I remember millions of people protesting in the streets and refusing to be silenced by fear.

And I remember being ordered to do everything in my power to crush these protests and restore order.

I did what I was told. I ordered mass arrests and brutal beatings. I authorized the use of live ammunition against unarmed civilians.

I created an atmosphere of terror that would make people think twice before speaking out against the government.

And somewhere deep inside me, beneath layers of hardness and cruelty, something small and weak was crying out in pain.

Something that remembered the boy I used to be before the IRGC had transformed me into a monster.

But I pushed that voice down. I ignored it. I did not want to hear it because if I listened to it, I would have to face the truth about what I had become.

By late 2025, something was happening in the world that even the highest levels of the Iranian government could not ignore.

The intelligence reports coming across my desk were alarming, and they kept getting worse with each passing week.

The United States and Israel were moving military assets into the Persian Gulf region at an unprecedented pace.

Aircraft carriers were being positioned. Bombers were being moved to bases in Qatar and the United Arab Emirates.

Satellite imagery showed that preparations were being made for a massive military strike against Iranian targets.

The reports made it clear that this was not just posturing or a show of force.

This was serious. This was real. And it was coming soon. I sat in classified meetings with other senior IRGC commanders and Khamenei’s advisers as we analyzed the intelligence and tried to figure out what to do about the threat that was looming over our heads.

The Khamenei called a special meeting in early January 2026 with his closest advisers, including myself.

He sat at the head of the table with his usual expression of calm confidence that never wavered no matter what crisis we were facing.

He told us that he had decided Iran would not back down in the face of American and Israeli threats.

He said that we would continue to support our allies in the region and that we would not allow ourselves to be intimidated by Western military power.

He said that if the Americans and Israelis attacked Iran, we would respond with overwhelming force.

We would strike back at their military bases in the region. We would target their energy facilities and their economic interests.

We would make them pay a price so high that they would regret ever thinking about attacking us.

His words were met with nods of agreement and expressions of support from everyone in the room.

But I could see fear in the eyes of some of these men. I could feel the tension in the air.

Everyone in that room understood that we were on the edge of something catastrophic. As the weeks of January and early February unfolded, the intelligence reports became even more specific.

Our sources told us that the Americans and Israelis were planning to launch their strikes sometime in late February.

They would target military installations, nuclear facilities, and key government buildings. They would try to decapitate the leadership of the Islamic Republic by targeting the places where our highest officials were known to spend their time.

This was not just a military attack. This was an attempt at regime change. This was an attempt at to overthrow the government that I had spent 40 years serving and defending.

When I received these reports, I felt a strange mixture of emotions. Fear for my own safety.

Anger at the arrogance of the Americans and Israelis. But also something else. Something that I did not want to acknowledge.

A small voice inside me that whispered that maybe this was a chance for change.

Maybe this was a chance for things to be different. I began to think about my family during those weeks of January and February.

My wife Nasrin and our two children were living in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I had sent them there 3 years earlier for their safety and to give them a better life away from the oppression and danger of Iran.

Nasrin was from a merchant family in Riyadh, and she had wanted to move back to her hometown for years.

Oh, I had finally agreed and used my connections to arrange for them to live there while I remained in Tehran as part of Khamenei’s inner circle.

We spoke on the phone every week, but it was not the same as being together.

My daughter Amir was 17 years old, and my son Hassan was 15. They were growing up without their father being there to guide them.

I had missed so much of their lives because of my work. And now, with the threat of American and Israeli attacks becoming more and more real, I began to wonder if I would ever see them again.

In the second week of February, I made a decision that would change the course of my entire life.

I began secretly making plans to escape Iran and flee to Saudi Arabia to rejoin my family.

I told no one about these plans. Not my colleagues in the IRGC. Not Khamenei.

Not even my closest friends. Uh I knew that if anyone found out what I was planning, I would be arrested for treason and executed.

But I also knew that something terrible was coming, and I did not want to be in Iran when it happened.

I used my access to classified information to make arrangements. I obtained travel documents through a contact in the intelligence services who owed me favors.

I gathered money and valuables that I could take with me. I made notes of the best routes out of Iran and then to Iraq and Kuwait.

I planned every detail carefully because I understood that any mistake would cost me my life.

By February 27th, everything was ready. I had packed a small bag with the essentials.

My travel documents were prepared. I had arranged for a car to be waiting for me at a safe location outside of Tehran.

I was planning to leave on March 1st, uh giving myself a few days to put my affairs in order and to make it look a like everything was normal.

I would tell my colleagues that I was going on a routine inspection of military facilities in the provinces.

I would make it look like I was still loyal and committed to the regime.

And then I would simply not come back. I would drive across the border into Iraq and then into Kuwait and finally into Saudi Arabia where my my family was waiting for me.

I had thought through the plan a hundred times, and I believed it would work.

I believed I could escape the trap that was closing around the Iranian leadership. But on February 28th, everything changed in an instant.

I was scheduled to be in Khamenei’s private compound that morning for a security briefing.

I had attended dozens of these briefings over the years. They were routine and mundane.

We would discuss the security arrangements around Khamenei’s various residences. We would review intelligence reports about threats to the supreme leader.

We would make sure that all the protocols were in place to protect him from assassination attempts.

I was on my way to the compound at 8:00 in the morning when my phone rang.

It was Colonel Davoud Mohammadi, one of my closest friends in the IRGC. Davoud was panicked, and his voice was shaking as he spoke.

He told me not to go to the compound. He told me that something terrible had happened.

He told me to get out of Tehran immediately and not to look back. I pulled my car to the side of the road and demanded to know what Davoud was talking about.

He told me in a rush of words that American and Israeli warplanes had just launched a massive strike against Iran.

The attack had come earlier than intelligence had predicted. The bombers had targeted military installations across the country, and they had also targeted key government buildings in Tehran.

Khamenei’s compound had been hit directly. Multiple buildings had been destroyed. Dozens of people had been killed.

Khamenei’s fate was unknown. The government was in chaos. The military was confused about what to do.

No one was giving clear orders. Everything was falling apart. Davoud told me that this was my chance.

This was my opportunity to disappear before the government collapsed completely and I became trapped in the middle of whatever was coming next.

He told me to go to the safe house we had talked about in the past.

He told me to get out of Iran tonight. He told me that I might never get another chance.

I felt my hands shaking as I gripped the steering wheel. I could already hear the sound of sirens in the distance.

I could already see smoke rising over the city from where the bombs had hit.

I turned my car around and drove away from the compound. I drove toward my apartment to pick up the bag I had already packed and prepared.

My mind was racing with a thousand different thoughts. Was Khamenei dead? Would the government survive this attack?

Would the military launch a counterattack? Would the Americans and Israelis come back for another round of strikes?

Was I making a terrible mistake by running away? Should I stay and try to help defend the country?

But no, I had made my decision weeks ago. I had planned my escape. And now fate had forced my hand and given me the opportunity I had been waiting for.

While I drove through the streets of Tehran as the city descended into chaos around me.

By that evening it was confirmed that Khamenei had been killed in the strike on his compound.

He was 87 years old and he had ruled Iran for 37 years. His death sent shockwaves through the entire government and military.

No one knew who would take over. No one knew what would happen next. And most importantly for me, no one was paying attention to whether I showed up to my duties or not.

The government was too busy trying to organize a response to the American and Israeli attacks.

In the middle of the night on February 28th, I received word that Iran was preparing a massive retaliation against the Gulf states.

The government had decided to launch missile and drone attacks against American military bases in Saudi Arabia, uh the United Arab Emirates, Qatar, and Kuwait.

They were also going to target energy facilities and other economic infrastructure in these countries.

The goal was to punish these nations for allowing the Americans and Israelis to use their territory for the strike against Iran.

This retaliation changed everything about my escape plan. I had been planning to fly out of Tehran on March 1st using commercial airlines.

But with the attacks about to happen, all the airports were being shut down and all civilian flights were being canceled.

The borders were being sealed. The military was mobilizing. It would be impossible to leave Iran by air now.

So I made the decision that would prove to be the most important decision of my life.

On March 1st, I would not fly out of Iran. Instead, I would drive. What I would take a car and drive overland through Iraq and Kuwait to reach Saudi Arabia.

It was a dangerous route, sorry, that would take me through war zones and past military checkpoints.

It would expose me to the chaos and violence of the regional conflict that was erupting around me, but it was the only way out that I could see.

I left Tehran on the evening of March 1st, 2026. I drove a simple gray sedan that I had borrowed from a colleague who did not know what I was planning to do.

I told no one where I was going. I left no note explaining my departure.

I simply put my packed bag in the trunk and drove out of the city heading west toward the Iraqi border.

My heart was pounding in my chest as I drove through the streets of Tehran.

Soldiers and military vehicles were everywhere. The government was mobilizing for war. The checkpoints had been set up throughout the city to check the identification of anyone who was traveling.

But I had my military credential and my official identification as a Brigadier General. The young soldiers who stopped me at the checkpoints saluted me and waved me through without asking questions.

They did not know that the man they were saluting was a deserter who had just abandoned his post in the middle of a national crisis.

The drive from Tehran to the Iraqi border took about 12 hours. I traveled through the night on highways that were nearly empty of civilian traffic.

Most normal people were sheltering in their homes waiting to see what would happen next.

The border regions were tense because everyone knew that Iran was about to attack Saudi Arabia and and the other Gulf states.

The military convoys passed me on the road heading toward the western part of the country where they would launch their missiles and drones.

I kept my speed steady and my attention focused on the road ahead. I knew that if I was stopped by a military patrol, my story about being on an inspection mission would not hold up to serious questioning.

They would check with headquarters and discover that I had not reported in. They would realize that I was running and they would arrest me or shoot me on the spot for treason.

When I finally crossed the border into Iraq in the early morning hours of March 2nd, I felt a moment of relief wash over me.

I was out of Iran. I was no longer in the country of my birth.

I was one step closer to freedom and to my family waiting in Saudi Arabia.

But the relief was short-lived because crossing into Iraq in the middle of a regional conflict was trading one danger for another.

The roads in Iraq were chaotic and unpredictable. There were military checkpoints controlled by various armed groups.

There were areas where the government did not have control and where lawlessness reigned. There were checkpoints manned by Kurdish militias and Shia militias and groups affiliated with the Americans.

I did not know which groups controlled which areas. I did not know which checkpoint would let me through and which would try to arrest me or rob me or worse.

I drove south through the Iraqi desert heading toward the Kuwaiti border. The landscape was barren and empty with nothing but sand and rock stretching in every direction.

The temperature was cold at night, but I knew it would become scorching hot during the day.

The roads were rough and full of potholes. My small sedan bounced and rattled as I drove.

I had a map and a general sense of direction, but I was not entirely sure of the safest route.

I had studied maps in my apartment in Tehran and memorized the general geography of the region.

But being there in person was completely different. The roads did not always go where the maps said they should go.

Some routes were blocked by military positions. Other roads simply disappeared into the desert with no clear destination.

I had to make decisions about which way to go at crossroads where there were no signs to guide me.

I did not stop to rest even though I was exhausted. I knew that if I stopped for too long in one place, I might draw attention from local people or military patrols who would wonder why a stranger was sitting alone in a car in the middle of the desert.

I drank coffee from from a thermos that I had filled before leaving Tehran. I ate some bread and cheese that I had packed.

I took small pills to keep myself awake and alert. The hours passed slowly as I drove through the night.

The road ahead of me was illuminated only by my headlights cutting through the darkness.

The sky above me was filled with stars that seemed to mock me with their beauty while I was running for my life.

I thought about my wife Nasreen and my children Amir and Hassan waiting for me in Riyadh.

I thought about how they would feel when I finally arrived and told them everything that had happened, everything.

I thought about the life I was leaving behind and the life that was a life that was waiting for me ahead.

As the sun began to rise on March 2nd, I could see the landscape starting to change.

The desert was becoming more populated with small villages and towns. I was getting close to the Kuwaiti border.

I knew that I would need to find a way to cross into Kuwait without being detected by border patrols.

The official border crossings would have records of everyone who crossed. They would have check my identification and discover that I was an Iranian military officer traveling without proper authorization.

They would arrest me immediately. So, I had to find another way. As I drove through a small town, I saw a man standing by the side of the road.

He looked like he was trying to hitch a ride. I pulled over and asked him where he was from.

But he told me he was a smuggler who helped people cross the border illegally into Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.

I made a decision in that moment that could have could have gotten me killed.

I told the smuggler who I was and what I was trying to do. I told him that I was an Iranian Brigadier General who had deserted and needed to get to Saudi Arabia.

I showed him money and offered to pay him to help me cross the border safely.

He looked at me with suspicion and fear. He could see that I was desperate.

He could see that I was willing to pay large amounts of money. But he could also see that I was dangerous.

A brigadier general and the IRGC who had deserted would be hunted by Iranian uh intelligence and by the military.

Helping me could get him killed or imprisoned. But he also saw an opportunity to make more money than he could make in a year of ordinary smuggling work.

So, he agreed. He told me to follow him to a camp where he worked with other smugglers.

He said they would arrange for me to be transported across the better the border at night when the patrols were less active.

The smuggler’s camp was located in a remote area of the desert about 50 km from the Kuwaiti border.

It was a small collection of tents and crude shelters where men lived who made their living helping people cross borders illegally.

Some of them were human traffickers who moved refugees and migrants. Some of them were drug smugglers.

Some of them were arms dealers. It was a dangerous place full of dangerous men but it was also the place where I could get the help I needed.

Uh the smuggler introduced me to the leader of the camp, a man named Rashid who was in his 50s and had a scarred face that suggested a life full of violence.

Rashid looked at me carefully and asked me why he should trust an Iranian military officer.

I told him that I had money and that I was willing to pay whatever price he asked.

I told him that I was running from the Iranian government and that I had no choice but to keep moving.

Rashid agreed to help me cross the border that night for a price that was outrageous but which I paid without complaint.

I spent the day hidden in one of the tents while the smugglers made preparations.

They obtained documents that would help me pass through the Kuwaiti border. They arranged for a truck that would carry me hidden in a compartment in the back.

They coordinated with other smugglers on the Kuwaiti side of the border to make sure I would be received safely on the other side.

As the sun was setting on the evening of March 2nd, I was loaded into the back of a truck along with several other people who were trying to escape from the chaos in Iraq and Iran.

None of us spoke to each other. We were all lost in our own fears and desperate hopes.

The truck began to move toward the border in the darkness. The border crossing was tense and dangerous.

I could hear voices outside the truck arguing in Arabic. I could hear the sound of weapons being cocked.

I thought at any moment that we would be discovered and that I would be dragged out of the truck and arrested or shot.

But the smugglers had paid off the border guards on both the Iraqi and Kuwaiti sides.

The soldiers waved the truck through without conducting a thorough search. After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes the truck began to move again and I knew that we had crossed into Kuwait.

I was one step closer to Saudi Arabia. I was one step closer to my family.

I was one step closer to freedom. But I did not know what was waiting for me on the road ahead.

I did not know that my entire life was about to be turned upside down.

By the afternoon of March 2nd I was on a road heading south from Kuwait City toward the Saudi Arabian border.

The truck had dropped me off at a small town where I found a taxi driver who was willing to take me toward Saudi Arabia for money.

The driver did not ask me any questions about who I was or why I was traveling.

He simply took my money and drove me south through the desert. The landscape was the same as what I had seen in Iraq but somehow it felt different now.

I was in a new country. I was closer to my family. I was making progress toward escape.

But as I watched the desert dust passing by outside the window of the taxi, I felt a strange uneasiness growing inside me.

It was as if something was waiting for me on this road. Something that I could not see or name but which I could feel approaching.

The taxi driver dropped me off at a small settlement near the border between Kuwait and Saudi Arabia in the late afternoon of March 2nd.

He said he could not take me any further because the roads ahead were dangerous and unpredictable due to the military conflict happening in the region.

I paid him extra money and thanked him for his help. Then I was alone again with nothing but my bag and my desperation to reach Saudi Arabia.

I could see military vehicles in the distance and smoke rising beyond the horizon. The Iranian attacks on Saudi Arabia had already begun.

Missiles and drones were raining down on the oil facilities and military bases throughout the country.

The entire region was erupting into chaos and violence but I had no choice but to continue moving forward.

I could not turn back. I could only go ahead into the uncertainty that was waiting for me.

I decided that I would try to walk across the border on foot rather than waiting for another vehicle that might never come.

The border between Kuwait and Saudi Arabia is not heavily militarized in all places. There are vast stretches of desert where the border is unmarked and unguarded.

Uh I had studied maps and I believed that if I walked south and slightly east, I would eventually cross into Saudi Arabia without having to pass through an official border checkpoint.

I began walking in the late afternoon as the sun was starting to move lower in the sky.

The desert was vast and empty and silent except for the sound of my own footsteps on the sand.

I walked for hours without seeing another human being. The temperature was dropping as the sun descended toward the horizon.

My leg were aching and my feet were starting to blister inside my shoes. But I kept walking because I could not afford to stop.

As the night fell completely and darkness covered the desert I found myself utterly lost.

I had no compass and no way to navigate by the stars because I did not know how to read them.

I was walking in a direction that I thought was south but I could not be certain.

For all I knew, I could have been walking in circles or walking back toward Kuwait instead of toward Saudi Arabia.

The darkness is was complete and total. There were no lights anywhere on the horizon.

There were no sounds except the sound of my own breathing and the sound of my footsteps on the sand.

I felt completely alone and abandoned in a way that I had never felt before in my entire life.

All the power and authority and status that I had possessed as a brigadier general in the IRGC meant nothing out here.

I was just a man walking alone in the desert in the middle of the night with nowhere to go and no one to help me.

I had been walking for what felt like hours when I decided that I could not continue any longer.

My body was exhausted and my mind was starting to break down from the fear and the desperation of my situation.

I found a small outcropping of rocks and I sat down behind them to try to protect myself from the cold wind that was blowing across the desert.

I sat there shivering and trying to figure out what I should do next. I had water in my bag and some food but I knew that if I could not find my way out of this desert soon, I would run out of supplies and I would die out here.

I thought about my wife and my children waiting for me in Riyadh. I thought about how they would never know what had happened to me.

I thought about how I had spent 40 years of my life serving the IRGC and the Islamic Republic and now I was going to die alone in the desert like a dog left to die by the side of the road.

So, at some point in the middle of the night I fell asleep sitting up against the rocks.

I was too exhausted to stay awake any longer. My mind and body simply shut down and I lost consciousness.

But my sleep was not peaceful. I dreamed terrible dreams. I dreamed about all the people I had helped torture and imprison and kill.

I saw their faces floating in the darkness. I heard their voices crying out in pain.

I felt the weight of their blood on my hands. I dreamed about the young woman Neda Agha Soltan who had been shot during the Green Movement protests.

I dreamed about the protesters during the Mahsa Amini demonstrations who had been beaten and arrested.

I dreamed about the Christians I had hunted down and the families I had destroyed.

All of them seemed to be standing around me in the darkness accusing me of the crimes I had committed against them.

I wanted to apologize to them. I wanted to beg for their forgiveness. But I could not speak.

My mouth would not open. My voice would not come out. I woke up suddenly in the darkness feeling like I could not breathe.

My heart was pounding in my chest so hard that I thought it would burst.

I was covered in sweat even though the desert air was cold. I looked around me in the darkness and I saw nothing but sand and rocks and the vast emptiness of the desert stretching in all directions.

And then I saw it. A light appearing in the distance. At first I thought it was a hallucination caused by my exhausted mind.

I thought it was my imagination playing tricks on me. But the light was real.

It was growing brighter and moving closer to me. It was like nothing I had ever seen before.

It was not the light of a vehicle or a flashlight. It was something else entirely.

It was a light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

It was a light that was so bright and so pure that it should have blinded me.

But instead it filled me with a strange sense of peace. I stood up from behind the rocks and walked toward the light without thinking about what I was doing.

I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I could not resist it even though some small part of my mind was telling me that this was strange and dangerous and wrong.

The light grew brighter as I approached it. The ground beneath my feet seemed to shake or perhaps it was just my imagination.

I felt the temperature around me beginning to change. This The cold desert air was being replaced by a warmth that seemed to come from the light itself.

And then I saw him. A figure standing at the center of the light. A man dressed in white robe that seemed to glow from within.

A man whose face was filled with more love and compassion than I had ever seen in any human expression.

And I knew immediately who he was. This was Jesus. The same Jesus that I had dismissed my entire life as a false god worshipped by infidels and enemies of Islam.

The same Jesus that I had persecuted through the Christians I had hunted down. The same Jesus who had suddenly appeared before me in the middle of the desert.

I fell to my knees immediately. I could not stand in his presence. The holiness radiating from him was too powerful and too overwhelming.

I felt like all my sins were suddenly visible to him. I felt like he could see everything I had done in my life.

Every person I had hurt. Every order I had given to torture or someone. Every protest I had helped suppress.

Every atrocity I had committed in the name of the Islamic Republic. I felt like I was drowning in the weight of my own guilt and shame.

I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. I tried to ask for forgiveness but I could not form the words.

How could I ask for forgiveness for what I had done? How could anyone forgive the things I had done?

I had spent 40 years building a legacy of cruelty and violence. I had helped maintain a government that had killed and imprisoned and tortured thousands of innocent people.

What right did I have to ask for forgiveness? Then Jesus spoke to me. His voice was like music and thunder combined into one sound.

He said my name. He said, “Farhad. Farhad, why have you been persecuting my people?”

His words hit me like a physical blow. I understood immediately that he was not just asking about the Christians I had hunted down.

He was asking about all the people I had hurt in my life. All the innocent people whose suffering I had caused.

All the people who had cried out to him for help while I was beating them or torturing them or ordering their arrest.

He was asking me why I had spent my entire life serving a government that had persecuted anyone who did not fit into its vision of what a perfect Islamic society should be.

And I had no answer. I could not defend myself. I could only weep. Then Jesus showed me visions.

He showed me images of every person I had helped to harm. The faces of protesters I had beaten.

The faces of prisoners I had interrogated. The faces of Christians I had helped arrest.

The faces of young people who had been killed during the suppressions of demonstrations. They were all standing before me.

They were all looking at me with eyes filled with a pain and suffering. And I understood that I had done this to them.

I had caused this pain. I was responsible for their suffering. The weight of it was crushing me.

I felt like I was being buried under an avalanche of guilt and shame and horror at what I had become.

I wanted to die. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me. I wanted to cease to exist because I could not bear the truth of what I had done.

But Jesus did not condemn me. He did not punish me. Instead he told me something that broke me into pieces and then put me back together in a completely different way.

He told me that he loved me. He told me that despite everything I had done, he loved me.

He told me that he had died on the cross to save people like me.

People who had done terrible things. People who had hurt innocent people. People who had persecuted his followers.

He told me that if I would turn away from my sin and follow him, he would forgive me completely.

He told me that my past would be wiped away. He told me that I could be born again and become a new person.

He told me that he had a mission for me. He said I had carried messages of death for 40 years.

Now I would carry his message of life. Then Jesus reached out and touched my forehead with his hand.

The moment he touched me, I felt something change inside my body. My vision began to blur.

The light around me became dim and distant. I tried to reach out to touch him again but I could not see where he was anymore.

I felt panic rising in my chest. I was afraid that he was leaving me.

I was afraid that this encounter was ending and I would be left alone again in the darkness.

I cried out his name. I begged him not to leave me but his voice came to me from somewhere far away saying words that I could barely hear.

He told me not to be afraid. He told me that I was not being abandoned.

He told me that I was being prepared for what was coming next. He told me that there were three days of darkness waiting for me.

But that at the end of those three days I would see again. And my life would be transformed forever.

When I woke up, I could not see anything. Absolute darkness surrounded me. I opened my eyes and blinked hard trying to understand what was happening.

But there was nothing but blackness in every direction. I reached up to touch my eyes to make sure they were actually open.

They were. But I could not see. The vision that had been so clear and so perfect for my entire life had been taken away from me.

At first I thought it was still night time and that the darkness was just the absence of light.

But as I lay there listening carefully, I could hear voices around me. I could hear the sound of movement and activity.

I could hear the sound of people breathing and talking. And I understood that something had happened.

I was no longer alone in the desert. I was somewhere else. I was in a place where other people were present.

But I still could not see anything. I tried to move but my body would not obey me.

I felt weak and helpless like a newborn baby. I I could barely lift my head off the pillow that was beneath it.

I could not sit up. I could not stand. I was completely paralyzed by weakness and by the terror of not being able to see.

I called out asking where I was and what had happened to me. An elderly voice answered me speaking in Arabic with an Iraqi accent.

The voice belonged to a man who told me that my name was Ibrahim Al-Yousefi and that I was in his home in a small village near the Kuwait Saudi Arabia border.

He told me that he and his sons had found me lying unconscious in the desert early that morning.

He told me that I had been talking in my sleep saying the name Jesus over and over again.

He told me that when I woke up I was blind and that I had been screaming about what I had seen.

And Ibrahim brought me water to drink and helped me sit up so that I could drink it without choking.

The water was cool and clean and it helped to ease the terrible dryness in my mouth and throat.

As I drank Ibrahim told me his story. He told me that he was a Christian living in a Muslim country.

He told me that he had converted to Christianity 50 years ago when he was a young man.

He told me that this conversion had cost him everything. His family had disowned him.

His community had rejected him. He had been arrested and imprisoned several times for his faith.

But he had never regretted his decision to follow Jesus. He told me that he and his family lived quietly in their village trying not to draw attention to their faith.

But they also tried to help anyone they encountered who was in need. He said that when he found me in the desert something in his spirit told him that I was important and that I needed his help.

I asked Ibrahim how long I had been unconscious. He told me that I had been sleeping for almost two full days.

He said that I had been brought to his home on the morning of March 3rd and now it was the evening of March 4th.

I had lost almost two days of my life without knowing it. I asked him about my blindness.

I asked him if the doctors said whether I would ever see again. Ibrahim told me that there were no doctors in his village.

He said that he and his wife had cared for me as best they could.

They had cleaned my wounds and given me water and let me rest. But they had not taken me to a hospital because they were afraid of what questions would be asked.

A stranger appearing out of the desert blind and traumatized and speaking in Persian would attract attention that they did not want.

They had decided to wait and see what what would happen. That night I lay awake in the darkness listening to the sounds of the house around me.

I could hear Ibrahim and his family moving about. I could hear them praying in a language that I did not understand.

I could hear them singing songs that I did not know. And I began to understand that I was in a Christian home.

These people were followers of Jesus. These people were the kind of people that I had spent years hunting down and persecuting.

These people were my enemies according to everything I had been taught. And yet they had found me in the desert and brought me into their home and cared for me.

They had given me food and water and shelter. They had treated me with kindness even though they had no reason to do so.

And I began to understand that everything I had believed about Christians was wrong. Everything I had been taught about them was a lie.

On the second day of my blindness Ibrahim came and sat beside my bed. He asked me what I had seen before I went blind.

I told him that I had seen Jesus. I told him about the light and the figure in white robes.

I told him about the visions of all the people I had hurt. I told him about the message that Jesus had given me.

Ibrahim listened to everything I said without interrupting. When I finished speaking he took my hand and he told me something that would change my life forever.

He told me that Jesus was real. He told me that Jesus was the son of God who had died for the sins of the world.

He told me that Jesus loved me more than I could possibly imagine. He told me that everything Jesus had shown me and told me was absolutely true.

And then he asked me if I wanted to give my life to Jesus. I hesitated.

Even though I had seen Jesus with my own eyes, even though I had heard his voice, even though I had felt his presence I was still afraid.

I had spent my entire life as a Muslim. I had prayed five times a day facing Mecca.

I had fasted during Ramadan. I had dedicated myself to serving the Islamic Republic. And now I was being asked to turn my back on all of that and follow a different God.

It felt like betrayal. It felt like I was abandoning everything my father had taught me.

It felt like I was rejecting the faith of my ancestors. But then I thought about what Jesus had shown me.

I I thought about the faces of the people I had hurt. I thought about the love I had felt in his presence.

And I understood that I had a choice to make. I could either continue serving the God of the Islamic Republic, the God of fear and violence and cruelty or I could follow Jesus, the God of love and forgiveness and redemption.

I told Ibrahim that I wanted to give my life to Jesus. I told him that I wanted to be forgiven for everything I had done.

I told him that I wanted to be born again and become a new person.

And Ibrahim did something that reminded me of the stories I had read in the Bible about a man named Ananias who prayed for a man named Saul to receive his sight.

Ibrahim placed his hands on my head and he prayed. He prayed in Arabic asking Jesus to forgive me for all my sins.

He prayed asking Jesus to heal my blindness and restore my sight. He prayed asking Jesus to transform me into a new person.

He prayed asking Jesus to use my life for his purposes. And as he prayed I felt something changing inside me.

I felt the weight of my guilt and shame being lifted away. I felt the presence of Jesus surrounding me with his love and his peace.

Then something miraculous happened. My vision began to return. At first it was just shadows and light.

I could see the outline of Ibrahim’s figure sitting beside my bed but I could not see his face clearly.

But slowly and gradually the world came into focus. I could see the room around me.

I could see the walls and the furniture and the window where light was coming through.

I could see Ibrahim’s face and the tears that were running down his cheeks as he continued to pray.

I could see my own hands lying on top of the blanket that was covering me and I began to weep.

I wept because I could see again. I wept because I had been forgiven. I wept because I had been transformed.

The old Farhad was dead. A new Farhad had been born in his place. Over the next few days while I recovered my strength Ibrahim and I spent long hours talking about Jesus and about the Bible.

He gave me a copy of the New Testament in Arabic and I began to read it with hunger and desperation.

Every word I read confirmed what Jesus had shown me. Every story I read about Jesus healing the sick and forgiving sinners and loving his enemies spoke to my soul.

I read about a man named Saul who had persecuted Christians just like I had.

I read about how Saul had met Jesus on the road to Damascus and had been completely transformed.

I read about how Saul had become Paul and had spent the rest of his life preaching the gospel of Jesus.

And I understood that my story was just like Paul’s story. I had been a persecutor of Christians.

I had met Jesus on a road in the desert. And now I had been given a new mission.

I had been given the opportunity to spend the rest of my life telling people about the love of Jesus.

By March 10th I had recovered enough strength to travel. Ibrahim helped me arrange transportation to Riyadh.

He introduced me to a man who was traveling south into Saudi Arabia and who was willing to let me ride with him in his truck.

Before I left Ibrahim embraced me and told me that he was proud of me.

He told me that my life would never be the same. He told me that I would face many challenges ahead because I was turning my back on everything I had known.

This but he told me that Jesus would be with me through all of it.

He told me that I would not be alone. And then he did something that I will never forget.

He gave me a gift. It was a Bible. Not a copy of just the New Testament like the one he had given me before But a complete Bible with both the Old Testament and the New Testament bound together.

I arrived in Riyadh on March 12th, 2026. My wife and children were shocked to see me.

They had been expecting me to arrive weeks ago by airplane. Instead, I showed up at their door having come overland through a war zone.

Having been blind and healed, having been transformed from a servant of the Islamic Republic into a follower of Jesus.

I sat down with them and told them everything that had happened. I told them about Khamenei’s death.

I told them about my escape from Tehran. As I told them about getting lost in the desert, I told them about meeting Jesus.

I told them about being blinded and healed. My wife Nasreen wept as I told my story.

My children looked at me with confusion and fear because they did not understand what was happening to their father.

But I told them that I had been given a new life and a new purpose.

I told them that I was no longer the man they had known. I told them that I had been reborn in the love of Jesus Christ.

Now I am recording this testimony on March 15th, 2026, just 15 days after the death of Ali Khamenei and my escape from Iran.

I am speaking to you from a safe location in Riyadh, where I am being sheltered by underground believers.

My family thinks I have lost my mind. The Iranian government is hunting for me as a deserter and a traitor.

I wish the IRGC would execute me if they found me, but I am not afraid anymore.

I have seen the face of Jesus. I have felt his love. I have been healed and transformed by his power.

And I know that whatever happens next, he will be with me. I want to speak directly to my brothers and sisters in Iran.

I want to tell you that the regime that I served for 40 years is falling apart.

The supreme leader is dead. The government is in chaos. This is your moment. This is your chance to break free from the chains of fear and oppression that have bound you for so long.

And I want to tell you about the only thing that can truly set you free.

His name is Jesus. He’s alive. He is real. He is reaching out to you right now with his hand of love and forgiveness.

To my fellow IRGC commanders and soldiers, I say this. While we have spent our lives serving a government that promised us glory and honor, we have done terrible things in the name of protecting the Islamic Republic.

We have hurt innocent people. We have persecuted believers. We have maintained a system of fear and cruelty.

But it is not too late to change. It is not too late to turn away from the darkness and turn toward the light.

Jesus is calling you right now. He is waiting for you. He will forgive you for everything you have done.

He will heal you. He will transform you. All you have to do is open your heart and say yes to him.

I am living proof that even a man who has done the terrible things I have done can be forgiven and can be made new.

If Jesus could transform me, he can transform anyone. And to everyone else watching this testimony, I say this.

The fire has already started in Iran. Yeah, thousands of people are coming to know Jesus.

The underground church is growing faster than any government can stop it. Jesus is coming.

His kingdom is at hand. And every knee will bow before him. My name is Brigadier General Farhad Rostami.

I am 58 years old and I am alive today because I met Jesus on a road in the desert.

That is my story. That is my testimony. And I pray that it will touch your heart and draw you closer to the one who loves you more than you can ever imagine.