In Thran, I was captured because I was an Israeli and they planned to publicly execute me.

 

 

Then I called on Jesus and he res.

That was me.

My name is Daniel Bruner, an Israeli man whose left hand was cut off in Isvahan, Iran after Israel attacked the country in 2025.

I was just sitting in my apartment in Tel Aviv on the morning of February the 28th, 2026 when the news broke across every channel.

Ali Kamina was dead.

The Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran had been killed in an Israeli American air strike that destroyed his compound in Thran.

The death of Kaman reminded me of another death that had changed my life forever.

In June 2025, Major General Hussein Salami, the commander-in-chief of Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps was killed in an Israeli air strike.

That death had triggered a chain of events that nearly ended my life.

That death had cost me my left hand.

Um, that death had put me in a prison cell where I thought I would breathe my last breath.

Now here I was almost a year later watching another powerful Iranian leader fall.

The regime that had tortured me was crumbling.

The men who had ordered my hand to be cut off were dying one by one.

God was moving in ways I could not have imagined when I’d lay bleeding on that cold prison floor.

I looked down at the stump where my left hand used to be.

The scars had healed, but the memories never would.

I had paid a price for my faith that few people would ever understand.

But I had also witnessed a miracle that proved to me beyond any doubt that Jesus Christ is alive and he saves.

This is my story.

I am telling it now because I believe the world needs to hear it.

I am telling it now because the God who rescued me deserves all the glory.

I was born in Hifur, Israel in 1979 to an Israeli father named Ysef Bruner and a Swiss mother named Margaret Bruner.

My father was a construction engineer who had met my mother while working on a project in Zurich in the mid 1970s.

They fell in love and got married in Switzerland before moving to Israel where I was born.

My childhood was split between two worlds.

We lived in Israel but visited Switzerland every summer to see my mother’s family in Lucern.

I grew up speaking Hebrew with my father and German with my mother.

I held two passports and two identities.

I was Israeli by blood, but Swiss by connection.

This dual identity would later become the key that opened doors no ordinary Israeli could ever walk through.

When I was 18 years old, my parents divorced and my mother returned to Switzerland.

I chose to go with her.

I lived in Zurich for the next 10 years, working various jobs and trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.

It was during those years in Switzerland that I encountered Jesus Christ for the first time.

A colleague at work invited me to a small church in the Vidicon district of Zurich.

I went out of curiosity and left with my life forever changed.

The pastor spoke about a God who loved me so much that he sent his son to die for my sins.

I had grown up in a secular Israeli household where religion was tradition but not relationship.

I had never heard anyone speak about God the way this pastor did.

That night I gave my life to Jesus and everything changed.

My faith grew rapidly in those early years.

I devoured the Bible like a hungry man eating bread.

I joined Bible studies and prayer groups.

Yet, I volunteered at the church helping with whatever was needed.

But as my faith deepened, I began to feel a stirring in my heart that I could not ignore.

I kept reading about persecuted Christians in the Middle East.

I read about underground churches in Iran where believers met in secret and risked their lives to worship Jesus.

I read about Christians in Syria and Iraq who were being killed for their faith.

I read about secret believers in Saudi Arabia who had no one to disciple them or encourage them.

These stories broke my heart and lit a fire inside me that would not go out.

I began to ask God what he wanted me to do.

The answer came slowly but clearly.

He wanted me to go to these places.

He wanted me to serve these people.

He wanted me to use whatever resources I had to bring hope and help to the persecuted church.

Uh at first I thought this was impossible.

How could I, an ordinary man, enter some of the most dangerous countries on earth and help underground Christians? But then I remembered something.

I had a Swiss passport.

Switzerland was one of the few western nations that maintained diplomatic relations with almost every country in the Middle East.

Switzerland was valued for its neutrality and often acted as a mediator between hostile nations.

Countries like Iran, Syria, and Saudi Arabia had a soft spot for Swiss nationals because Switzerland posed no political threat.

My Swiss passport was not just a travel document.

It was a key that could open doors that were locked to everyone else.

I began my work slowly and carefully.

I started by connecting with organizations that supported persecuted Christians around the world.

I learned how underground churches operated in hostile nations.

I learned about the networks of believers who risked everything to follow Jesus in places where Christianity was forbidden.

I began raising funds from churches in Switzerland and other European countries.

I collected relief materials like Bibles, medicine, food, and clothing.

And then I began making trips.

My first mission was to northern Iraq where Christian communities had been devastated by years of war and persecution.

I traveled to Eril and connected with local pastors who were caring for displaced families.

I delivered funds and supplies and prayed with believers who had lost everything except their faith.

That first trip confirmed my calling.

I knew this was what God had created me to do.

And over the next several years, I expanded my work to Syria where I visited underground churches in Damascus and Aleppo.

I traveled to Saudi Arabia using business cover to meet with secret believers in Riyad and Jedha.

And eventually I began making trips to the most dangerous destination of all, Iran.

The Islamic Republic was the crown jewel of my mission field.

Millions of Iranians were secretly turning to Jesus despite the regime’s brutal persecution of converts.

Underground churches were exploding across the country, and they desperately needed support.

My Swiss passport allowed me to enter Iran legally as a tourist or businessman.

Once inside, I would connect with the trusted contacts who would lead me to the hidden believers.

I would deliver funds and supplies and encouragement and then I would leave before anyone suspected what I was really doing.

For years, this system worked perfectly.

I made over a dozen trips to Iran without incident.

I became comfortable, perhaps too comfortable.

I forgot that I was dancing on the edge of a blade.

And in June 2025, that blade finally cut me.

Iran was unlike any other country I had ever worked in.

The spiritual hunger there was overwhelming.

Millions of Iranians were disillusioned with the Islamic regime that had controlled their lives for decades.

They had been promised paradise but received only oppression.

They had been promised righteousness but witnessed only corruption.

The young generation especially was searching for something real, something true, something that the moolas and Ayatollas could never give them.

And they were finding it in Jesus Christ.

The underground church in Iran was not a small persecuted remnant hiding in corners.

It was a mighty river flowing beneath the surface of society.

Some estimates said there were over 1 million secret believers in the country.

Others said the number was even higher.

House churches met in apartments and basement across Tehran, Isvahan, Shiraz Mashad, and dozens of other cities.

Believers gathered in groups of five or 10 or 20 to worship and pray and study the Bible.

They knew that if they were caught, they could be arrested, tortured, or executed.

But they gathered anyway because the love of Jesus was stronger than the fear of death.

These were the people I had been called to serve.

These were the people I risked my life to reach.

My first trip to Iran was in 2018.

I flew from Zurich to Thran on a Swiss International Airlines flight that landed at Imam Kini International Airport late in the evening.

My heart was pounding as I walked through passport control.

I handed my Swiss passport to the officer behind the glass.

He looked at my face and then at the photograph.

He flipped through the pages, checking for stamps from Israel.

I had been careful to use only my Swiss passport for this trip and my Israeli passport had never touched Iranian soil.

The officer asked me the purpose of my visit.

I told him I was a businessman exploring import opportunities in the carpet and textile industry.

He stamped my passport and waved me through.

I collected my luggage and walked out into the warm Thran night.

I had just entered the Islamic Republic of Iran.

the enemy territory that my Israeli father had warned me about my entire life.

The nation that had sworn to wipe Israel off the map.

And I was there to spread the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The weight of what I was doing pressed down on my chest.

But I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit even stronger.

I was exactly where God wanted me to be.

My contact in Thran was a man I will call brother Farid.

I cannot use his real name because he is still alive and still serving the underground church.

If the Iranian authorities ever discovered his identity, he would be arrested immediately and probably executed.

Brother Farid was a former Muslim who had encountered Jesus in a dream over 15 years ago.

In the dream, a man in white robes appeared to him and said, “Follow me.

” Uh he woke up not knowing what the dream meant but feeling an overwhelming desire to learn about this man in white.

He searched for answers and eventually connected with underground Christians who gave him a Bible.

He read the gospels and realized that the man in his dream was Jesus.

He surrendered his life to Christ and had been serving the underground church ever since.

When I arrived in Thran, Brother Farcid met me at a predetermined location near Tadrish Square in the northern part of the city.

He drove me through the crowded streets in an old Peugeot that blended in with thousands of other cars.

We did not speak much during the drive.

He was cautious and watchful, always checking the mirrors for anyone who might be following us.

Um, after nearly an hour of driving through the winding streets and narrow alleys, we arrived at a residential building in the Saddiera district.

This was where I would meet my first Iranian house church.

The apartment was small and modest with worn carpets on the floor and simple furniture pushed against the walls.

But when I walked through the door, I entered a place filled with the presence of God.

About 15 people were gathered in the living room sitting on cushions and chairs arranged in a circle.

There were young people and old people, men and women, students and professionals.

They looked at me with wide eyes full of curiosity and hope.

Brother Farid introduced me as a brother from Europe who had come to encourage them and bring gifts from the global church.

I opened my bag and distributed the items I had brought.

Small Bibles printed in Farsy, devotional booklets, cash that had been donated by churches in Switzerland and Germany, medicine for a sick elderly woman who could not afford treatment.

Each item was received with tears and gratitude.

One young woman held the Farsy Bible to her chest and wept.

She told me she had been sharing a single Bible with three other families because they could not obtain their own copies.

Now she had her own Bible for the first time in her life.

That moment alone made every risk worth taking.

We worshiped together that night in hushed voices.

They sang songs I did not understand, but the melody of praise was universal.

They raised their hands and closed their eyes and met with Jesus in that tiny apartment.

I watched them and my heart overflowed with emotion.

These people had everything to lose.

They could lose their jobs, their families, their freedom, their lives.

And yet they gathered to worship with joy that most Western Christians have never experienced.

After the worship, brother Farid asked me to share a word of encouragement.

I stood before them and opened my Bible to Hebrewsap 11.

I read about the heroes of faith who were tortured and imprisoned and killed for their belief in God.

I told them they were part of that same lineage.

I told them heaven was watching them and cheering them on.

I told them their faith was precious in the sight of God and that their sacrifices would never be forgotten.

When I finished speaking, the room was silent.

Then an old man in the corner began to clap.

Others joined him.

They were not applauding me.

They were applauding the God who had not forgotten them.

The God who had sent a stranger from across the world to remind them that they were not alone.

That first trip to Thran opened my eyes to the scale of what God was doing in Iran.

Over the following years, I returned again and again.

I developed a network of trusted contacts in multiple cities.

I traveled to Isvahan and connected with house churches in the Armenian quarter and beyond.

I visited Shiraz and met believers who gathered secretly near the ancient ruins of Persipolis.

I went to Mashad, the holiest city in Iran for Shia Muslims and found pockets of Christians worshshiping in the shadow of the Imam Resa shrine.

Every trip followed the same pattern.

I would enter Iran legally using my Swiss passport and a cover story about business or tourism.

When I would connect with local believers through predetermined meeting points and coded messages, I would deliver funds, supplies, and encouragement.

I would pray with them and worship with them and weep with them.

And then I would leave before anyone could suspect what I had really been doing.

The Iranian intelligence services were everywhere.

The IRGC had informants in every neighborhood.

The morality police watched for any sign of deviation from Islamic law.

But God protected me trip after trip.

I moved through the country like a ghost unseen by the authorities who would have arrested me in an instant if they knew who I really was.

Isvahan became my most frequent destination.

The city was ancient and beautiful with stunning mosques and bridges that spanned the Zion River.

But beneath its historic surface was a thriving underground church that had grown rapidly in recent years.

My main contact in Isan was a man I will call brother Cameron.

He was a former engineer who had lost his job after converting to Christianity.

His family had disowned him.

His wife had divorced him and taken their children.

He had lost everything for the sake of Jesus.

And yet he was one of the most joyful people I had ever met.

Brother Kamran coordinated the house churches in Isvahan and the surrounding region.

He knew which believers could be trusted and which ones were too new or too careless to be involved in sensitive operations.

He arranged safe houses where I could stay and planned the routes I would take through the city.

He was my guide, my protector, and my brother in Christ.

Over the years, we developed a deep bond built on shared faith and shared danger.

I trusted him with my life, and in June 2025, that trust would be put to the ultimate test.

By early 2025, I had made over a dozen trips to Iran without a single incident.

I had grown comfortable, perhaps too comfortable, with the rhythm of my missions.

I knew the risks intellectually, but I had never truly faced them.

Every trip had gone smoothly.

Every delivery had been successful.

Every departure had been uneventful.

I began to believe that God’s protection was guaranteed.

I began to believe that nothing could touch me.

But I had forgotten a fundamental truth of the Christian life.

Following Jesus does not mean you will be spared from suffering.

It means he will be with you through the suffering.

Um I was about to learn this lesson in the most painful way imaginable.

In May 2025, I received word from brother Cameron that the situation in Isvahan was becoming desperate.

The house churches were running low on Bibles and funds.

Several believers had been arrested in recent months and fear was spreading through the community.

They needed encouragement.

They needed supplies.

They needed to know that the global church had not forgotten them.

I began making plans for another trip to East Vahan.

I had no idea that this trip would be different from all the others.

I had no idea that war was about to erupt and that I would be caught in the middle of it.

I arrived in Thran on June 8th, 2025 on what I believed would be a routine mission.

The flight from Zurich landed at Imam Kmeni International Airport just before midnight.

I cleared passport control without any issues using the same cover story I had used many times before.

a Swiss businessman exploring trade opportunities in Persian carpets and handiccrafts.

The officer stamped my passport and welcomed me to the Islamic Republic.

I collected my luggage and walked through the arrivals hall into the humid night.

Everything seemed normal.

The streets were busy with taxes and cars.

The city hummed with its usual chaotic energy.

I had no idea that in less than a week this country would be plunged into war and my life would be changed forever.

I took a taxi to a small hotel in the central district where I had stayed on previous visits.

The room was simple but clean.

I locked the door and knelt beside the bed to pray.

I asked God to protect me and guide my steps.

Oh, I asked him to bless the believers I would be meeting.

I asked him to use me as his instrument to bring hope and encouragement.

Then I lay down and slept peacefully unaware of the storm that was gathering on the horizon.

The next morning I took a bus from Thran to Isvahan.

The journey took about 5 hours passing through dry landscapes and small towns along the way.

I watched the scenery through the dusty window and prayed silently for the people I would be meeting.

Brother Cameron had arranged for me to stay at a safe house in the Jula district which was the historic Armenian quarter of Isvahan.

This area had a long Christian history dating back centuries.

The Armenian churches were tolerated by the regime because they served ethnic Armenians who were considered a recognized religious minority.

Um but the underground house churches made up of Muslim converts were completely illegal.

These were the believers I had come to serve.

Brother Camran met me at the bus station and drove me to the safe house.

It was a modest apartment on the second floor of an old building near the Vank Cathedral.

The apartment belonged to a Christian widow named Sister Miam who had opened her home as a refuge for underground believers and visiting workers like myself.

She welcomed me with tea and fruit and a warm smile that reminded me of my own mother.

I felt safe in her home.

I had no idea that safety was about to become an illusion.

Over the next two days, I met with several house church groups in different parts of Isvahan.

I delivered the funds and supplies I had brought from Europe.

Um, I prayed with the believers and listened to their stories of faith and persecution.

I encouraged them with the scriptures and reminded them that Christians around the world were praying for them.

The meetings were emotional and powerful.

One young man told me he had been fired from his job at a factory after his employer discovered he had converted from Islam.

He had a wife and two small children and did not know how they would survive.

I gave him money from the donations I had collected and prayed over his family.

He wept and thanked me over and over again.

Another woman told me her teenage son had been arrested two months earlier for attending a house church.

She did not know where he was being held or if he was even alive.

I held her hands and prayed for her son’s protection and release.

These were the faces of the persecuted church and real people with real suffering and real faith that put my comfortable western Christianity to shame.

On June 12th, everything changed.

I was having breakfast at sister Mariam’s apartment when brother Cameron burst through the door with panic in his eyes.

He told me to turn on the television immediately.

I grabbed the remote and switched to an Iranian news channel.

The screen was filled with images of explosions and smoke and chaos.

The anchor was speaking rapidly in Farsy, but brother Camron translated for me.

Israel had launched a massive military operation against Iran.

Air strikes were hitting targets across the country.

Military bases were being destroyed.

Nuclear facilities were under attack.

And most significantly, the headquarters of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps had been struck in Tehran.

And I watched the footage in stunned silence as the anchor confirmed the news that would shake the entire nation.

Major General Hussein Salami, the commanderin-chief of the IRGC, had been killed in an Israeli air strike.

The 65-year-old hardliner who had led the revolutionary guards since 2019 was dead.

The man who had threatened to destroy Israel countless times, had been eliminated by the very enemy he had sworn to annihilate.

Iran was at war, and I was trapped inside its borders.

The next several hours were filled with confusion and fear.

Brother Kamran told me I needed to leave Iran immediately.

The borders might close at any moment.

Foreigners would be viewed with extreme suspicion.

If the authorities discovered that I had an Israeli father, I would be arrested as a spy or worse.

That he urged me to get to the airport in Thran and catch the first flight out of the country.

But the situation was already spiraling out of control.

Reports came in that several airports had been damaged in the strikes.

Flights were being cancelled across the country.

The roads were filled with military convoys heading toward unknown destinations.

Leaving Iran was no longer a simple matter.

I tried to book a flight online, but the airline websites were overwhelmed with traffic.

I called the Swiss embassy in Tehran, but the lines were jammed.

I was stuck in Isvahan with no clear way out and a war raging around me.

Brother Kamran told me to stay calm and trust God.

He said we would find a way, but I needed to be patient and careful.

I agreed, but inside I was terrified.

I had faced danger before on my missions, but nothing like this.

This was war.

in real war with missiles and bombs and death falling from the sky.

The 12-day conflict that followed was unlike anything the Middle East had seen in decades.

Israeli forces struck with precision and overwhelming power.

They targeted IRGC commanders, military installations, missile factories, and nuclear facilities.

The Iranian regime scrambled to respond, but their capabilities were degraded faster than they could react.

Salami’s death had decapitated the IRGC leadership, and chaos spread through the command structure.

I watched the war unfold on television from the safety of Sister Miam’s apartment.

Every day brought new reports of air strikes and casualties.

Every night the sky over Isvahan would light up with distant explosions and the sounds of air defense systems firing at unseen targets.

Mubai prayed constantly asking God to protect me and to protect the believers who had risked so much to host me.

I asked him to end the war and bring peace.

I asked him to show me a way out of this nightmare.

But the days kept passing and I remained trapped in a country that was tearing itself apart.

As the war continued, the Iranian regime became increasingly paranoid.

They knew they were losing and they needed someone to blame.

They began hunting for spies and saboturs and foreign agents.

The IRGC set up checkpoints throughout the cities, searching cars and demanding identification papers.

Foreigners were being detained and interrogated.

The atmosphere was thick with fear and suspicion.

Brother Camran told me I could not leave the apartment under any circumstances.

Uh if I was stopped at a checkpoint and they examined my background, they might discover my Israeli heritage.

Even though I had entered on a Swiss passport, the Iranian intelligence services had ways of digging deeper.

They had informants and databases and connections to other countries.

If they wanted to find out who I really was, they could do it.

I stayed hidden in the apartment, praying and waiting and hoping that the war would end soon.

But even as the bombs stopped falling, a different kind of danger was growing closer.

A danger that would come not from enemy missiles, but from a trusted brother who would betray me to my enemies.

The war officially ended on June 24th, 2025.

After 12 days of intense combat, a ceasefire was brokered by international powers and the guns fell silent.

But the aftermath was just beginning.

Iran was wounded and were humiliated.

Salami was dead along with dozens of other highranking commanders.

Key military installations had been destroyed.

The nuclear program had been set back by years.

The regime was furious and desperate to restore its authority.

They launched a massive crackdown on anyone suspected of collaborating with foreign powers.

Arrests swept through the country like a wave.

People disappeared from their homes in the middle of the night.

Prisons filled with accused spies and traitors.

The paranoia that had gripped the nation during the war now intensified into something even darker.

Anyone with foreign connections was a potential target, and I had more foreign connections than almost anyone in the country.

Ducky, I was an Israeli hiding behind a Swiss passport who had been secretly meeting with underground Christians throughout the war.

If the authorities ever discovered the truth about me, I would not simply be arrested.

I would be executed as an enemy spy.

Brother Cameron urged me to remain patient.

He said the situation was too dangerous for me to attempt an escape right now.

He said we needed to wait for things to calm down before we could plan my departure.

I trusted his judgment because he knew this country far better than I did.

So I waited in the apartment praying and hoping that the storm would pass.

But the storm was not passing.

It was coming directly for me.

It was during these tense days of waiting that I made a decision that would cost me dearly.

Brother Camran introduced me to another believer who had offered to help shelter me during this dangerous time.

His name was Ashkan and he lived in a different part of Isvahan near the Co St Paul Bridge.

Brother Cameron said Ashkan was a trusted member of the underground church who had helped other foreign workers in the past.

He said I could stay at Ashkan’s apartment for a few days while we finalized plans for my departure from Iran.

I agreed because I trusted brother Kaman completely.

If he vouched for Ashkan, then Ashkan must be trustworthy.

I packed my small bag and moved to Ashkan’s apartment on June 28th.

He welcomed me warmly and prepared a room for me to stay in.

We talked about faith and about the war and about the future of Iran.

He asked me many questions about my background and my work with persecuted Christians.

And and in a moment of foolishness that I will regret for the rest of my life, I told him the truth.

I told him that my father was Israeli.

I told him that I had dual citizenship.

I told him that I had been using my Swiss passport to enter Iran and serve the underground church.

I shared this information because I thought he was my brother in Christ.

I thought I could trust him the way I trusted brother Cameron.

But I was wrong.

I was terribly, terribly wrong.

I spent three days at Ashkan’s apartment near the Sioal Bridge.

He was hospitable and kind and made me feel welcome in his home.

We shared meals together and prayed together and discussed the scriptures like brothers in Christ.

He told me about his journey to faith and how he had encountered Jesus through a satellite television program beamed into Iran from outside the country.

He said he had been a a devout Muslim his entire life until he heard the gospel message and felt something stir inside him that he could not explain.

He said he had given his life to Jesus 3 years ago and had been serving the underground church ever since.

His story was similar to countless other Iranian believers I had met over the years.

I had no reason to doubt him.

I had no reason to suspect that behind his warm smile and gentle words was a heart capable of betrayal.

Looking back now, I can see the signs I missed.

The way he asked too many questions about my background and my work, the way his eyes flickered when I mentioned my Israeli father.

The way he excused himself to make phone calls in another room.

But at the time, I saw none of this.

I was tired and stressed and desperate for friendship in a hostile land.

And I let my guard down completely and it nearly cost me my life.

On the morning of July 1st, 2025, I woke up to the sound of loud banging on the apartment door.

Ashkan was already awake and standing in the hallway.

He looked at me with an expression I will never forget.

It was not fear or surprise.

It was guilt.

The banging grew louder and voices shouted in Farsy demanding that the door be opened immediately.

Ashkhan walked to the door and unlocked it without hesitation.

He did not try to warn me or help me escape.

He simply opened the door and stepped aside as a group of men in military uniforms rushed into the apartment.

There were six of them, all carrying weapons and wearing the insignia of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.

They grabbed me before I could even react and they threw me to the ground and pressed my face into the cold tile floor.

One of them put his boot on the back of my neck while another bound my hands behind my back with the plastic zip ties.

They were shouting questions at me in Farsy, but I could barely understand what they were saying.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would explode.

My mind was racing trying to comprehend what was happening.

And then I heard Ashkan’s voice speaking calmly to one of the officers.

He was pointing at me and nodding his head.

He was confirming something.

He was telling them who I was.

They dragged me out of the apartment and threw me into the back of a military vehicle.

A black hood was placed over my head so I could not see where they were taking me.

The vehicle drove for what felt like an hour through the streets I could not identify.

on.

I bounced around in the back as we hit bumps and made sharp turns.

I prayed silently asking God to protect me and give me strength.

I asked him to forgive Ashkan for what he had done.

I asked him to be with me in whatever dark place I was being taken to.

The vehicle finally stopped and I was pulled out roughly by my arms.

They marched me across what felt like a courtyard and then down a flight of stairs into what I could only assume was an underground facility.

The air grew cold and damp.

The sounds of the outside world disappeared completely.

I heard metal doors opening and closing.

I heard screams echoing from somewhere in the distance.

I knew I was in a prison.

I knew I was in the hands of people who had no mercy and no regard for human life.

Uh, the hood was finally removed and I found myself standing in a small concrete room with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Two men in plain clothes stood before me.

They were not wearing uniforms, but I knew they were intelligence officers.

Their eyes were cold and calculating.

They looked at me like I was an insect they were about to crush.

The interrogation began immediately, and it was brutal.

They asked me who I was working for.

They asked me how long I had been spying for Israel.

They asked me to identify other foreign agents operating in Iran.

They asked me to reveal the names of every Iranian Christian I had ever met.

I told them I was not a spy.

I told them I was a humanitarian worker helping persecuted people.

I told them I had no connection to any intelligence agency.

They did not believe me and they beat me with their fists and kicked me when I fell to the ground.

They slapped my face and pulled my hair and screamed insults into my ears.

They called me a Zionist dog and a Christian infidel and a traitor to humanity.

They said I would never leave this place alive unless I confessed to everything they accused me of.

I kept telling them the truth, but the truth was not what they wanted to hear.

They wanted me to confirm their suspicions.

They wanted me to give them names and information they could use to arrest more people.

They wanted me to be the spy they believed I was.

When I refused to cooperate, the beatings intensified.

Hours passed or maybe days.

I lost all sense of time in that windowless room.

There was only pain and fear and the endless cycle of questions and violence.

After what felt like an eternity, they threw me into a small cell with no windows and a single metal door.

The cell was barely large enough for me to lie down.

The walls were stained with things I did not want to identify.

There was a thin mattress on the floor that smelled of mold and human waste.

A bucket in the corner served as my toilet.

The only light came from a small gap under the door where the hallway lights seeped through.

I collapsed onto the mattress and wept.

My entire body was in pain.

My face was swollen from the beatings.

My ribs achd with every breath.

Blood dripped from cuts on my forehead and lips.

But the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional devastation I felt.

Ashkan had betrayed me.

A man I had trusted as a brother in Christ had handed me over to my enemies.

after he had looked me in the eyes and shared meals with me and prayed with me.

And then he had picked up the phone and called the IRGC to come arrest me.

I could not understand how someone who claimed to follow Jesus could do something so evil.

Had his faith been a lie from the beginning? Had he been an informant planted in the underground church to identify foreign workers? or had he simply been weak and afraid and decided to save himself by sacrificing me? I did not know the answers, and perhaps I never would.

The days that followed blurred together into a nightmare of interrogation and isolation.

They came for me at random hours, dragging me from my cell to the interrogation room, where the questions and beatings continued.

They wanted names.

They wanted locations.

They wanted proof that Israel had sent me to undermine the Islamic Republic.

Oh, I gave them nothing because I had nothing to give.

I was not a spy.

I was a missionary who had come to help suffering people.

But they did not care about the truth.

They had already decided I was guilty and they were determined to break me until I confirmed their narrative.

They used different techniques to try to make me talk.

They deprived me of sleep for days at a time.

They blasted loud noises into my cell throughout the night.

They withheld food and water until I was so weak I could barely stand.

They threatened to arrest my mother in Switzerland and bring her to Iran to face trial alongside me.

They showed me photographs of my contacts in the underground church and said they had already been arrested because of me.

I did not know if these photographs were real or fabricated to manipulate me.

Uh I did not know what was true and what was lies.

The only thing I knew for certain was that I was completely alone in the hands of men who wanted to destroy me.

One day they came for me with a different energy.

There were more guards than usual and they were carrying equipment I had not seen before.

They dragged me to a room that was larger than the interrogation room.

In the center of the room was a wooden table with straps attached to it.

Medical instruments were laid out on a tray beside the table.

My blood ran cold when I saw those instruments.

I knew something terrible was about to happen.

The guards threw me onto the table and strapped down my arms and legs so I could not move.

The man in a white coat entered the room and looked at me with complete indifference.

He was a doctor, or at least someone with medical training, but he was not there to heal me.

He was there to hurt me.

One of the interrogators leaned over me and spoke in English so I would understand every word.

He said I had been convicted of espionage against the Islamic Republic of Iran.

He said I had been sentenced to punishment according to Islamic law.

He said they were going to take my left hand as payment for my crimes against the nation.

I screamed and begged and pleaded for mercy.

I told them I was innocent.

I told them I was not a spy.

I told them to contact the Swiss embassy and verify my identity.

But my words meant nothing to them.

They had already made their decision.

They were going to mutilate me.

and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

The doctor picked up a surgical instrument from the tray.

It was a bone saw with a serrated blade that gleamed under the harsh lights.

Uh, and two guards held my left arm steady against the table while the doctor positioned the saw just above my wrist.

I was screaming so loud that my throat felt like it was tearing apart.

I was thrashing against the straps with every ounce of strength I had left, but I could not break free.

I was completely helpless.

The interrogator looked at me one final time and asked if I had anything to confess.

I looked into his eyes and said the only words that came to my mind.

I said, “Jesus is Lord.

” The interrogator’s face twisted with rage.

He nodded to the doctor and the blade began to cut.

The pain was beyond anything I had ever imagined.

It was not just physical pain.

It was a searing fire that consumed my entire being.

I felt the teeth of the saw grinding through my flesh and then through my bone.

I I heard the sound of my own arm being severed from my body.

And then everything went black.

The last thing I remember before losing consciousness was the face of Jesus.

He was looking at me with eyes full of love and sorrow.

He was telling me that he was with me.

He was telling me that this was not the end.

I woke up in my cell with no memory of how I got there.

The first thing I felt was the pain.

It radiated from my left arm like fire spreading through my entire body.

I tried to move, but every motion sent shock waves of agony through my nerves.

I looked down at my arm and saw what they had done to me.

My left hand was gone.

In its place was a bloody stump wrapped in dirty rags that were already soaked through with dark red blood.

The sight of it made me vomit, and I turned my head to the side and emptied my stomach onto the cold concrete floor.

My body was shaking uncontrollably.

My teeth were chattering even though I was burning with fever.

I was going into shock and I knew that without proper medical treatment, I would die in this cell.

The wound was not properly bandaged.

The bleeding had not been stopped correctly.

Infection would set in within hours if it had not already begun.

They had taken my hand, and now they were leaving me to rot.

This was their plan.

They did not need to execute me officially.

They would simply let nature take its course and claimed that I had died of natural causes.

No one would ever know the truth.

The hours that followed were the darkest of my entire life.

I lay on that filthy mattress, drifting in and out of consciousness.

The pain was constant and overwhelming.

It never stopped, not even for a moment.

Every heartbeat sent a pulse of agony through my severed arm.

The fever grew worse, and I began to hallucinate.

I saw faces floating above me, faces of people I had known throughout my life.

My mother appeared and she was crying.

My father appeared and he was shaking his head in disappointment.

Brother Camran appeared and he was reaching out to help me.

Ashkan appeared and he was laughing at my suffering.

The visions blended together in a chaotic swirl of images and sounds that made no sense.

I could not tell what was real and what was imagined.

I could not tell if I was awake or dreaming.

The only constant was the pain anchoring me to my broken body.

I tried to pray, but the words would not form in my mind.

I tried to call out to Jesus, but my voice was too weak to make a sound.

I was slipping away.

I I could feel death approaching like a shadow creeping across the floor of my cell.

It would not be long now, a few more hours perhaps, maybe a day at most, and then it would all be over.

But even in my weakest moment, I refused to give up on God.

I had spent my entire adult life serving him and trusting him.

I had walked into danger zones believing that he would protect me.

He had not protected me from losing my hand.

He had not protected me from this prison cell.

But I still believed he was with me.

I still believed he had a purpose for my suffering, even if I could not understand it.

With the last reserves of strength I had left, I began to pray.

Not out loud because I could not speak, but silently in my heart where only God could hear.

I said, “Lord, I do not understand why this is happening to me.

I do not understand why you allowed them to take my hand.

I do not understand why I am dying alone in this cell.

But I trust you.

I trust that you are still God.

I trust that you still love me.

I trust that you have not abandoned me.

If it is your will for me to die here, then I accept it.

But if you want to save me, then I am asking for a miracle.

I am asking you to do what only you can do.

I am asking you to rescue me the way you rescued Peter from prison.

Send your angels, Lord.

Open these doors.

Set me free.

In Jesus’ name I pray.

Amen.

After I finished praying, I closed my eyes and waited for death.

I had made my peace with God.

I had surrendered my fate into his hands.

Whatever happened next was up to him.

The fever continued to burn through my body.

The pain continued to pulse through my arm.

The darkness continued to press in on all sides.

I do not know how much time passed.

It could have been minutes or hours.

But at some point I fell into a deep sleep that was different from the feverish unconsciousness I had been experiencing.

This sleep was peaceful and calm.

It felt like sinking into warm water that washed away all the pain and fear.

And in that sleep I had a dream.

It was not like my hallucinations.

It was vivid and clear and more real than anything I had ever experienced.

In the dream, I saw a prison cell much like my own.

But this cell was in ancient times with stone walls and iron chains.

A man was sleeping on the floor between two soldiers.

His hands were bound with chains and gods stood at the door watching over him.

I recognized the scene immediately.

It was the story of Peter from the book of Acts 12.

And I had read this passage many times and taught it to believers around the world.

But now I was seeing it unfold before my eyes as if I was actually there.

An angel appeared in the cell, shining with brilliant light.

The angel touched Peter on the side and woke him up.

The chains fell off Peter’s hands by themselves.

The angel told Peter to get up and put on his sandals and follow him.

Peter obeyed thinking he was seeing a vision.

They walked past the first guard post and the guards did not see them.

They walked past the second guard post and again they were invisible to the soldiers.

They came to the iron gate that led fant into the city and the gate opened by itself.

No one touched it.

No one unlocked it.

It simply swung open on its own.

Peter and the angel walked through the gate and into the streets of the city.

Then the angel disappeared and Peter realized that everything was real.

God had sent his angel to rescue him from prison on the very night before he was scheduled to be executed.

I watched this scene unfold in my dream with tears streaming down my face.

And then Jesus himself appeared before me.

He was dressed in white robes and his face radiated love and compassion.

He looked at me and spoke words that I will never forget.

He said, “Daniel, what I did for Peter, I will do for you.

Do not be afraid.

Your story is not over.

I am opening doors that no man can shut.

Trust me, and you will see my glory.

” I woke up from the dream with a gasp.

I was back in my cell, lying on the same filthy mattress.

My arm was still throbbing with pain.

My body was still burning with fever.

Nothing had changed in the physical realm, but something had changed inside me.

The despair that had been crushing my spirit was gone.

In its place was a tiny spark of hope that grew brighter with every passing second.

Jesus had spoken to me.

He had shown me the story of Peter’s rescue for a reason.

He was telling me that he was going to do the same thing for me.

I did not know how.

I did not know when, but I believed it with every fiber of my being.

God was going to open these prison doors.

God was going to set me free.

I just had to trust him and wait for his timing.

I lay on that mattress and began to praise God.

Not for my circumstances, which were still terrible, but for who he was.

I praised him for his faithfulness.

I praised him for his love.

I praised him for never abandoning his children even when they walked through the valley of the shadow of death.

On I praised him with what little strength I had left.

And somehow in the midst of that praise, I felt peace flood my soul.

The pain was still there, but it no longer controlled me.

The fear was still there, but it no longer paralyzed me.

I was ready for whatever came next.

The next morning, I heard footsteps approaching my cell.

The metal door creaked open and two guards entered.

I expected them to drag me to another interrogation session.

I expected more beatings and more questions and more demands for confessions, but instead they stepped aside and a third person entered the cell.

It was a man wearing a white coat, a doctor.

He was carrying a medical bag filled with supplies.

He knelt beside me and began examining my wounded arm without saying a word.

Wong, his face showed no emotion as he unwrapped the bloody rags and inspected the stump where my hand had been.

He cleaned the wound with antiseptic solution that stung like fire.

He applied fresh bandages and gave me an injection that he said would fight the infection.

He put a needle into my other arm and connected it to a bag of fluid that would rehydrate my body.

He worked efficiently and professionally as if he had done this many times before.

When he finished, he stood up and looked at the gods.

He said something in Farsy that I did not understand, and then he left the cell.

The gods followed him and locked the door behind them.

I lay there in stunned silence trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Yesterday they had left me to die.

Today they had sent a doctor to save my life.

Nothing made sense.

But then I remembered the dream and I remembered the words of Jesus.

I am opening doors that no man can shut.

The first door had just opened.

Over the next two days, my condition improved dramatically.

The fever began to subside.

The infection in my arm was brought under control.

I was given food and water regularly.

The gods no longer beat me or dragged me to interrogation.

Something had changed, but I did not know what.

I spent my time praying and thanking God for his mercy.

I recited scriptures from memory to strengthen my faith.

I thought about the believers I had served throughout the Middle East and prayed for their safety.

I thought about brother Camran and wondered if he knew what had happened to me.

I thought about Ashkan and struggled to forgive him for his betrayal.

On the third day after the doctor’s visit, the cell door opened again.

A god motioned for me to stand up and follow him.

My legs were weak, but I managed to walk.

He led me through the corridors of the prison, past other cells where I could hear prisoners crying and moaning.

We climbed a flight of stairs and emerged into a courtyard where a military vehicle was waiting.

The guard pointed at the vehicle and told me to get in.

I obeyed without question.

I had no idea where they were taking me, but I knew that God was in control.

Whatever happened next was part of his plan.

The military vehicle drove through the night for hours without stopping.

I sat in the back with a hood over my head, unable to see where we were going.

Two guards sat on either side of me, but they did not speak a single word throughout the entire journey.

My mind was racing with the questions and fears.

Were they taking me to another prison? Um, were they taking me to be executed in some remote location where no one would find my body? Were they transferring me to Thran to face a public trial and hanging? I had no answers.

I had only the promise Jesus had given me in my dream.

He had said he was opening doors that no man could shut.

He had said my story was not over.

I clung to those words like a drowning man clinging to a rope.

Whatever was happening, I had to believe that God was still in control.

I had to believe that this journey was leading somewhere other than death.

I prayed silently beneath the hood, asking God to guide me and protect me.

I asked him to give me courage for whatever lay ahead.

I asked him to complete the miracle he had started when he sent that doctor to my cell.

The vehicle finally stopped and the guards pulled me out roughly.

Um, I stumbled on weak legs and nearly fell to the ground.

They grabbed my arms and steadied me.

Then one of them removed the hood from my head.

I blinked in the darkness, trying to adjust my eyes.

We were standing on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

There were no buildings or lights visible in any direction.

The stars above were bright and countless.

The air was cold and carried the smell of dust and dry grass.

I looked around in confusion, trying to understand where I was and why they had brought me here.

One of the guards pointed toward the horizon where I could barely make out the silhouette of mountains against the night sky.

He spoke to me in broken English.

He said, “Turkey is that way.

” He said, “Walk and do not look back.

” He said, “If I ever returned to Iran, I would be killed on site, though.

” Then he climbed back into the vehicle and the other god followed.

The engine roared to life, and the vehicle turned around and drove away.

Within minutes, the sound of the engine faded into silence.

I was alone standing on a dirt road in the middle of the night somewhere near the border of Turkey.

I stood there for a long time, unable to move.

My brain could not process what had just happened.

3 days ago, I was dying in a prison cell with my hand cut off, an infection spreading through my body.

Now, I was standing free on a road pointing toward Turkey.

No explanation had been given.

No documents had been signed.

No negotiations had been announced.

They had simply taken me from my cell and driven me to the border and released me into the night.

It made no sense from a human perspective.

The Iranian regime did not release prisoners, especially foreign prisoners accused of espionage.

They held them for years and used them as bargaining chips in international negotiations.

They put them on trial and paraded them before cameras to humiliate their home countries.

They did not drive them to the border in the middle of the night and let them walk free.

But that is exactly what had happened to me.

The only explanation was the one Jesus had given me in my dream.

He had opened doors that no man could shut.

He had done for me what he had done for Peter 2,000 years ago.

He had sent his angels to set me free.

I began walking toward the mountains that the god had pointed to.

My body was weak and every step was painful.

My left arm throbbed constantly, reminding me of what I had lost.

But I was alive and I was free and that was all that mattered.

I walked through the night using the stars to guide my direction.

I prayed as I walked, thanking God for his miraculous deliverance.

I sang worship songs under my breath to keep my spirits up.

I recited scriptures that spoke of God’s faithfulness to his people.

The hours passed slowly, and the terrain grew more rugged as I approached the mountains.

Several times I stumbled and fell, scraping my knees and elbows on the rocky ground, but I got up each time and kept moving forward.

I could not stop.

I could not rest.

I had to reach Turkey before the sun rose, and Iranian patrols spotted me near the border.

I pushed my body beyond its limits, fueled by adrenaline and faith.

And sometime in the early hours of the morning, I crossed an invisible line on the ground and entered Turkish territory.

I collapsed onto the dirt and wept with relief.

I was out of Iran.

I was safe.

God had rescued me.

The next few hours were a blur of exhaustion and confusion.

I wandered through the Turkish countryside until I reached a small village near the border town of Van.

The villagers looked at me with suspicion and concern.

I was a foreigner with their torn clothes and a bloody bandage on my arms, stumbling into their community at dawn.

But when they saw my condition, they took pity on me.

They gave me water and bread and let me rest in one of their homes.

One of them spoke enough English to understand that I needed medical help.

He drove me to a hospital in Van where doctors examined my arm and treated my wounds properly for the first time.

They were shocked at the crude amputation and the infection that had nearly killed me.

They said I was lucky to be alive.

I told them luck had nothing to do with it.

I told them God had saved me.

From then I contacted the Swiss embassy in Anara.

They arranged for me to be transported to the capital where I could receive better medical care and begin the process of returning home.

The embassy officials asked me many questions about what had happened, but I was too exhausted to give detailed answers.

I told them I had been arrested in Iran and tortured and released without explanation.

They looked at me with disbelief, but they did not press further.

They simply helped me get on a plane to Sururik where I would begin my long journey of recovery.

The months that followed were difficult in ways I had not anticipated.

The physical wounds healed slowly, but they did heal.

Doctors in Switzerland fitted me with a prosthetic hand that allowed me to perform basic tasks.

I underwent physical therapy to learn how to live with my new limitations.

But the emotional and spiritual wounds were harder to address.

I suffered from nightmares that woke me up screaming in the middle of the night.

I experienced flashbacks that transported me back to that interrogation room where they had cut off my hand.

I struggled with anger and bitterness toward Ashkan and toward the men who had tortured me.

I questioned why God had allowed this to happen even though he had ultimately rescued me.

and I wrestled with doubts that I had never faced before in my faith journey.

Why had God not prevented the torture? Why had he let them take my hand? Why had he waited until I was near death before sending help? These questions haunted me for months as I tried to rebuild my shattered life.

But slowly through prayer and counseling and the support of fellow believers, I began to find answers.

I began to understand that God’s ways are not our ways.

He does not always prevent suffering, but he always redeems it.

My scars would become my testimony.

My pain would become my platform.

My story would bring glory to his name in ways I could never have imagined.

I returned to Israel in early 2026 to reconnect with my father’s side of the family and to find a new home base for my life.

One, I settled in Tel Aviv in a small apartment overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

I spent my days praying and recovering and slowly rebuilding my strength.

I stayed in contact with the underground church networks I had served for so many years.

I continued to raise funds and support for persecuted believers.

Even though I could no longer travel to dangerous countries myself, I mentored younger missionaries who were willing to take the risks I could no longer take.

I shared my testimony with the churches and Christian organizations who wanted to hear what God had done.

My story spread through the global Christian community and I received messages from believers around the world who said my experience had strengthened their faith.

I was humbled and amazed at how God was using my suffering for his purposes.

Uh the hand that had been taken from me had become a symbol of sacrifice and faith that inspired others to stand firm in their own trials.

What the enemy meant for evil God was turning to good.

On February 28th, 2026, I sat in my apartment watching the news of Ali Kam’s death.

The Supreme Leader who had ruled Iran with an iron fist for nearly four decades was gone.

The regime that had tortured me and taken my hand was crumbling before my eyes.

I watched the footage of the destroyed compound in Thran and I felt no joy or satisfaction.

I felt only a deep sadness for the Iranian people who had suffered so much under his rule.

And I felt an overwhelming urge to share my story with the world.

The time had come.

The door had opened.

I could no longer remain silent about what God had done for me.

And I picked up my phone and began recording a video testimony.

I held up the stump of my left arm and showed the world what the Iranian regime had done to me.

I told them about my arrest and torture and miraculous release.

I told them about the dream where Jesus showed me Peter’s escape from prison.

I told them that the same God who rescued Peter and rescued me was ready to rescue anyone who called on his name.

I told them that Jesus is alive and he saves.

I want to speak now to everyone watching this testimony.

I do not know what prison you are trapped in right now.

It may not be a physical prison with bars and chains.

It may be a prison of addiction or depression or fear or shame.

It may be a prison of past trauma that you cannot escape.

It may be a prison of religious legalism that has stolen your joy and freedom.

Whatever prison you are in, I want you to know that Jesus can set you free.

He is still in the business of opening doors that no man can shut.

He is still sending his angels to rescue his children from the darkest dungeons.

He did it for Peter.

He did it for me.

and he will do it for you if you call on his name.

I also want to speak to my Iranian brothers and sisters who may be watching this in secret.

I know the risks you are taking just by viewing this video.

I know the persecution you face every day for following Jesus.

I want you to know that you are not alone.

The global church is praying for you.

Heaven is watching you.

Your faith is precious in the sight of God.

Do not give up.

Do not lose hope.

The regime that has oppressed you is falling apart.

The kingdom of Jesus is advancing and nothing can stop it.

And one day soon, you will worship openly in the streets of Thran and Isvahan and Shiraz.

One day soon, the name of Jesus will be proclaimed from every rooftop in Iran.

Hold on to that promise.

It is coming.

I have one final thing to say before I end this testimony.

I want to talk about forgiveness.

For many months, I struggled to forgive Ashkan for betraying me.

Every time I looked at my missing hand, I thought of him.

Every time the nightmares came, I saw his face.

I wanted him to suffer the way I had suffered.

I wanted justice for what he had done.

But God kept speaking to my heart about forgiveness.

He reminded me that I was once his enemy and he forgave me through the blood of Jesus.

He reminded me that unforgiveness was a prison of its own that would keep me trapped long after I had been released from Iran.

So, I made a choice.

I chose to forgive Ashkan.

I do not know why he betrayed me.

Maybe he was threatened.

Maybe he was tortured.

Maybe he was weak.

Maybe he was never a true believer at all.

But whatever his reasons, I have released him into God’s hands.

I have let go of my anger and bitterness.

I have chosen freedom over revenge.

And I pray that one day Ashan will encounter the true Jesus and experience the forgiveness that I have experienced.

If you are watching this testimony and you have been betrayed by someone you trusted, I want to encourage you to forgive.

Not because they deserve it, but because you deserve to be free.

Forgiveness is not a feeling.

It is a choice.

Choose freedom today.

Now, I want to ask everyone watching to do something for me.

Y if this testimony has touched your heart in any way, I want you to write in the comments, Jesus is alive and he saves.

Let it be a declaration of faith.

Let it be a statement of hope.

Let it be a testimony that reaches people who are searching for truth.

Share this video with someone who needs to hear it.

Share it with someone who is trapped in their own prison.

Share it with someone who has given up on God.

Together we can spread the message that no prison can hold those whom Jesus sets free.

Thank you for listening to my story.

May God bless you and keep you and make his face shine upon you.

And may you experience the same miraculous rescue that I experienced when I cried out to Jesus in my darkest hour.

He heard me.

He will hear you, too.

Amen.