Interview
Creed
Freedom of Belief
Middle East
S&U interviews
10 min read

‘They constantly follow us…’

Iran’s spies infiltrated my friends and family. Dabrina reports the grim consequences.
A woman wearing a headscarf sits, looking pensive, amid a grid of concrete seats.
An Iranian women sits in a park.
Kambiz Alaei on Unsplash.

Dabrina is a Christian, she’s also Iranian, and the intersection of those two identities mean that she is in danger. After hearing her speech at an Open Doors event in Parliament, Belle Tindall caught up with her and learnt more about what it’s like to be a Christian in a country that regards it as a threat.  

So, to start things off - could you paint a picture of what it's like to be a Christian in Iran? 

Sure. Being a Christian today is not easy. Christians are the group, the minority, who are being most persecuted in the whole world - more than any other minority. In fact, we are experiencing the worst persecution of Christians in history, 365 million Christians are being persecuted, one in every seven. And in you’re right, we don't talk about it. Most people don't know about it. 

I'm from Iran, which is ninth on the World Watch List [a ranking of ranking of the 50 countries where Christians face the most extreme persecution]. I've grown up in an Islamic country, where just being a Christian - you're second-class citizen. You'll face discrimination. You have certain things that you are not allowed to do, just because you're of a different faith. 

What are some of those things? Are there certain professions that you'll know you can never get into? 

Yes, so for example, I was talking to an old colleague of mine who wants to start a bakery, but he's a Christian. And as a Christian, you're not allowed to touch food. You're not allowed to sell food that you've touched because you are an unclean person. So, you can't have a restaurant. You can't have a bakery. We were thinking, how can he start a cafe? How can he have a business? 

I can't be a lawyer. 

I can’t be a teacher.  

You can't have public jobs. 

You can't be a in a hospital, you can’t be a doctor.  

So, every public job that I applied to be back then (I was very young, very studious), they said no because I’m a Christian. It also means that I can't serve people because I’m an unclean person.  

So, I'm talking about me as a recognised Christian. I was born into a Christian family and my parents were pastors. I am Assyrian Protestant and they are recognized. For us it’s difficult, but if you convert, then everything becomes ten times harder. You’re in real danger if they figure out you are Christian. If you’re in the military and you’re found out, if they find out you're Christian at work, within your family even, you are in immediate danger. 

In your speech, you mentioned home raids - could you tell me a little bit about those? And explain to me the way that surveillance is a part of your life?  

Normally they have cars follow you, I’ve had cars following me and taking my picture. I had a boyfriend and the government would take my picture on the streets and then send it to my dad. You have no privacy. Also going to my friend's houses, those who were known Christians, I would be photographed there too. And then during the interrogations, they would put my pictures in front of me and say ‘look - you went to this house, you went to that place. Explain what were you doing?’ 

They constantly follow us. 

There were always cars in front of the church too. We actually got to know a few of them, we would sometimes take them out tea and snacks. I mean, they were there for hours, pretending they're reading a newspaper or something. They were always there, so of course, we got to know some of them. They had a camera installed in front of the church, a camera installed in front of our house, a camera installed at the end of our street. They were not hiding it. 

And so there was open surveillance. And there was also monitoring through spies. We constantly had spies in the church, in our homes, with our friends. We had to be very careful. Some of my best friends were spies. My brother's best friend was a spy and he eventually admitted it, he told my brother – ‘I'm sorry, I'm the spy. This is their plan: They're gonna raid your church… they’re gonna do this, they’re gonna do that’. 

My dad was in prison, he was arrested after they raided our home because one of our small group was a spy. My brother went to prison because his friend was the spy and he could tell the government where the church were about to meet.  

I understand you went to prison for a while. What was that for? In particular, what kind of charges did they put against you? 

There was nothing. There was no charge. What they were trying to do was to put so much pressure on me that I would sign papers, agreeing that we had conducted illegal gatherings. Admitting that we were training people against the Islamic regime. 

They were trying to get me a sign papers with the names of people in ministry, people who were ex-Muslims working in the church, saying that they've been baptized, things like that. 

I didn't do any of that, so they kept me in prison.  

Now, when I went to prison, when I was first arrested, it was 2009. Most charges against Christians came in two years later. Back then, you didn't have these official charges - You didn't have sentences like that. It was technically legal. It was made illegal in 2011. So, my church was the first Church they legally closed down. They shut it down, and then I think they didn't know what they were doing. They tried to figure out, OK, what's the next step? It took them a few years to figure it out. 

My father's charges were ‘acting against national security’ by organising small groups and illegal gatherings. My mum's charges, they were for ‘training spies and organising terrorism’. She was a teacher. And my brother was also charged with organising illegal gatherings. 

So we all have been in prison.  

Are any of your family in prison right now? 

No, my brother was the last one. He just came out. He came out during Corona because prisons were crowded, and he only had a few months left to do.  

Can you tell me a little bit, only as much as you're comfortable with, about your experience in prison? 
 
I was 23, so I was very young and naive, and it was terrifying. 

I wasn't sure what that what they were telling me was true, because they told me I would be in prison for five years, and we didn't have experience. My parents didn't know what was happening. Even lawyers didn't know – they didn’t know how to deal with it. 

Because the charges they were putting against you didn't exist yet? 

That’s right, And everything was very new. So even lawyers didn't know. 

I don't talk a lot about it. 

They would take videos of me and then they would threaten to destroy my reputation. They would do that often. Once I was released, I also had a car accident multiple times, and then the day after my car accidents, they would either call me or come visit me or come to the university and I say ‘oh, how's your car? Did you get it to the garage? We hope nothing bad happened’ and once they said, ‘hey, next time it's gonna be on the driver’s side, so just be careful.’ 

I saw people being tortured, I heard a lot of screams. Usually when they brought in new prisoners, they had blindfolds on until they would go to their rooms - the reason was just mental games, because you hear the torture. 

Where I was staying - it was one huge room with 15 men and I had one small side room for myself, so that was OK. I would hear a lot. They didn't torture me. They, they, hit me a few times but there was no torture. 

So just hours and hours of interrogations.  

How long were you in prison for? 

One year.  

You've mentioned that being a woman being particularly dangerous. Obviously, that is something that has brought Iran to people's attention recently - how dangerous it can be to be a woman there. Can you tell me a little bit about that? Does the fact that you're a woman and a Christian change your experience of being a Christian in Iran? Does it make it more dangerous, or a different kind of danger? 

It’s definitely a different kind of danger. I mean, we think that the sexual abuse is only happening to the women - and in fact, most men are being sexually abused. I think that the sexual intimidation for men is actually worse. And all men that I've heard from have fought through that experience. I think they do it just to break them down, break down all the pride that they have. 

It's horrible for everyone. 

But it's not that Christian women have it worse than men, it's just different. Interestingly, Iran has more women coming to Christian faith than men. Women are more vulnerable: A father can kill his daughter or a husband can kill his wife and claim she was a Christian and get away with it Or, you can divorce your wife if you find out that she’s a Christian, and not have to pay her. So, women are more vulnerable than men are. They can lose all of their support. Very fast, faster than men. 

I think one of the first questions that hearers of your story would ask is: what is it about your faith that makes you willing to be in such danger? 

Absolutely, I understand that. 

It’s like – why would you even believe in this religion if you know it can have such consequences, you could lose everything, why pay such a high price? 
My answer would be, when you encounter God, when you encounter Christ, when you are healed, when you witness signs and wonders, supernaturally, when you encounter the love of God as a father, as your saviour, as your provider.  

How? How can you walk away? When you live in a country that make you desperate, when you have no hope. There is no reason for life. There is no purpose of living. You're suffering. Maybe you're sick and you don't have insurance and can't pay - You turn to God. I read recently an interesting statement that says ‘I've never met an atheist on a lifeboat.’  

When you need to be rescued, you will shout out to God. 
When you're in that position you will cry out to God, and you know what? God is there to meet you, to encounter you and to love you, to help you, to provide for you, to support you. That's all. 

God is faithful and these people are all on the lifeboat and whether they believe in religion or not, they need God. 
 
When you say that God meets you, have you got stories of how? In what ways has God met you when you've needed him most desperately? 

Me personally? 

Yes. Or stories of others that you know of? 

We've had people come to the church and saying – my cancer's gone. I’m healed. I saw Jesus in prison. I saw Jesus in hospital. I saw Jesus on the streets. There's a saying among Muslims and ex Muslims when they meet each other, they ask each other - Have you seen the man in white? And so they’ll talk about the time when ‘the man in white’ came, or ‘the white man’ was there. Many, many Muslim converts have seen ‘the white man’. They’re encountering him like that all the time. 

That's incredible to hear. I'll make this my final question. I'm just really curious about what is your hope for the future of the church? What is your hope for your home, your country, your family, your church in Iran? 

I hope is that we will see freedom in my country, we will see churches free. 

But then, on the other hand, persecution has also brought church growth. 

Persecution has brought a lot of Muslims to Christ. So another hope, I would say, is that even in in the midst of persecution, in the mess of what is going on now, God will encounter more people. That Iran will turn into a Christian country. 

That millions and millions of people know him and worship him. 

Yeah, I think that's my biggest hope for now. 

 

Read Belle's further thoughts and reflections on her meeting with Dabrina.

Essay
Awe and wonder
Creed
Easter
7 min read

At the tilting points of the year, we ask what kind of world we want to build

Equinox is still a threshold between darkness and light.

Elizabeth Wainwright is a writer, coach and walking guide. She's a former district councillor and has a background in international development.

Sun rise casts a shadow over Stonehenge.
Nik, via Unsplash.

At the spring equinox, we appreciate and talk about the arrival of light in the northern hemisphere. For a brief moment, the Earth’s axis is tilted neither away from or toward the sun, and day and night are roughly equal length – ‘equinox’ is Latin for ‘equal night’. From here, we enter astronomical spring.  

But it is not entirely accurate to talk about this being the moment when the darkness is finally diminished. That moment is the ‘equilux’ – equal light – and it happens a few days before the equinox, its date varying with latitude. Because the sun appears as a disc in the sky, the top half rises above the horizon before its centre does, which – when coupled with light being refracted by the Earth’s atmosphere – gives extra daylight. By the time of the equinox, and depending on your latitude, we already have 12 hours and 10 minutes of daylight. It is not much, but it is enough perhaps to read a few pages of a book without an artificial light, or to have “just one more” kick of a ball outside, as my daughter has learned to say.  

There is beauty in the idea that for a brief moment during the equinox, we are all experiencing the same light and dark. But it is not true. At any particular moment, some of us experience more darkness than others, and some of us receive more light than we think.  

Whenever its moment of arrival, though, the light will arrive. It always has, since the world was set spinning and tilting in space. We have always found ourselves poised at the threshold between the long dark of winter and the gathering light of summer. It is a threshold that is embedded in creation itself; all of life must in one way or another face the work, the inevitability, the challenge of transformation. This threshold is echoed through our own lives too – in the in-between spaces where one thing is ending, but the next has not yet fully begun. There are personal thresholds: a change in career, a birth, a loss. And there are collective ones: times in history when the old ways no longer work and we strain toward something new, unsure of how to get there.  

Ancient people marked the equinox with purpose and care, watching for the moment the sun rose in the east and set in the west. At places like Stonehenge, huge stones were arranged to capture the exact angle of equinoctial light, as if the builders knew this threshold was something worth marking. Recently, archaeologists have suggested that Stonehenge was built not just for religious reasons, but for unification too: its stones come from Cornwall and Wales and Scotland – from all parts of the land. Their slow journey to their resting site on Salisbury plain would have been a chance for celebration and feasting, with thousands of people joining in along the way. It was a journey that would have brought together different people, including groups that had migrated from modern day Europe. Gathering light was a shared effort, and one worth celebrating.  

For the early Celtic world, the equinox was a hinge between Imbolc, the season of early stirrings, and Beltane, the riot of summer. It was a time for reckoning and renewal – counting what food remained after winter, deciding what animals to keep or cull, what seeds to plant. To live well meant paying attention to the balance between what had been and what was to come. Lately, I have realised that it is not change itself that feels hard so much as not knowing the nature of the change that I, that we, will be called to. My young daughter has brought this into sharp focus. On the days when the dark feels relentless and the light seems distant, I find myself fearing for her future. I think of those Celtic people; the way they did not know the future but prepared for it anyway, perhaps in their rituals asking, how do the past and the future speak to each other at this moment, who are we, who might we become?  

Even if we long to cling to what is familiar, the familiar will eventually change. Easter, and the equinox, are not just about light triumphing over darkness, but about transformation.

In a world where crisis seems to be following crisis, it is easy to feel that everything is tipping off balance. The equinox suggests though that equilibrium has never been static, and balance has only ever been fleeting, a transition between states of being. It is a moment of poised readiness, a preparation for movement. The world will keep tilting and tipping as it always has, and we will keep changing as we always have.  

In the Jewish calendar, the equinox often falls near Passover, the great festival of liberation. The story of the Exodus is a story of transition – of leaving behind what enslaves us even when the road ahead is unknown. The Israelites did not step from captivity into freedom overnight. They wandered, and wrestled with doubt, and longed for the certainty of their old lives even as they were being offered something new. Thresholds are rarely comfortable.  

I find myself at a threshold now: I am trying to shape a life that has reformed around motherhood, with past roles and jobs behind me, and the new identities yet to fully clarify. I have been feeling the truth of farmer-author Wendell Berry’s idea that "it may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work." This real work has been stimulating but also confronting, as thresholds often are.  

If we are, as many believe, living through a threshold moment in history – where old systems are failing, where climate and conflict threaten the future – how do we walk forward? How do we resist the temptation to cling to what is familiar, even when it no longer serves us? Easter falls just after the equinox. Shoots push through soil, lambs stumble into life, a chorus of birdsong swells, and we remember that nature is all resurrection. Even if we long to cling to what is familiar, the familiar will eventually change. Easter, and the equinox, are not just about light triumphing over darkness, but about transformation. Jesus did not return from the tomb unchanged; he was made new, unrecognisable at first, even to his closest friends.  

The balance of light and dark is fleeting; it does not last; a threshold is not a place to linger. The world is always moving towards light, or toward dark, but always through change, and so are we. Balance is not an end in itself; it is a preparation for change. Perhaps these tilting points of the year are good moments to ask who we are becoming, and what kind of world we want to build, and how we will bear witness to the light, but also to the dark, as we do so.  

This equinox, then, we will turn and face the coming light, but perhaps too we might turn and notice the faces that the light shines on – or doesn’t. Virginia Woolf reminds us that "A light here required a shadow there." When the light comes, darkness will too. These turning points of the year are an opportunity to sit in the truth of that, to appreciate the hope and the beauty of this spring threshold, but also to get to work. We can reach out to those who are experiencing more darkness than us, help build the world in such a way that draws attention to the light like the makers of Stonehenge did, take stock of what has been and who we are becoming, step away from what enslaves us even if we are not yet sure of the shape of freedom.  

We cannot know what will happen next, but we can choose how to move forward. I wonder about those ancient people who somehow moved huge stones weighing up to 30 tons to Stonehenge; I wonder what they saw as they moved through the land, when they looked to the horizon, when they stood in the tension of their own now. They carried not just the weight of stone, but of their own unknowable future. Those ancient people persisted and celebrated and became us, passing on their burden, passing on their particular stone-bound, collectively built way of focusing the light. This equinox, I am thinking about how I can do the same – despite and because of the darkness, despite and because of the unknown path ahead. 

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