Christian converts the United States will deport to Iran

On a Monday in mid-October, after a year of immigration detention in the United States, agents arrived unannounced at Majid’s cell in Texas.

He was simply told to “pack his bags” – that he was being transferred – even though an immigration judge had already granted him protection from removal five months ago. Chained at the wrists, waist and ankles, he was taken overnight to a military airfield in Louisiana.

Majid – not his real name – had fled Iran to the United States in October 2024, after repeated arrests and alleged torture, first for his involvement in the Mahsa Amini protests and later for his conversion to Christianity.

When U.S. officials forced him to board a plane carrying more than 150 deportees bound for Managua, Nicaragua, he remembers being the only non-Latin American on the plane. Hours later, the flight landed and officials handcuffed him, denied his asylum request and directed him on an itinerary that would take him through Venezuela and Turkey to Iran, a journey he understood as a forced return.

Majid was later able to hide in Istanbul, terrified of what awaited him in Iran. He is one of several Iranian Christian converts who spoke to the BBC – most anonymously for fear of their relatives back home – whose asylum applications were rejected last year. Their stories point to inconsistencies in how U.S. authorities assess the risks faced by Iranian returnees and how sensitive religious information is handled in asylum files.

Their experiences also contrast with other elements of American foreign policy, as President Trump publicly laments the plight of Christian persecutions abroad, threatening to send troops to Nigeria “with guns” if his government “continues to allow the murder of Christians.”

A White House official told the BBC that all deportees have had their asylum claims fully adjudicated before their removal. The official said recent deportations to Iran involved people with final expulsion orders or those who had requested voluntary departure. They added that strict confidentiality rules prevent officials from revealing whether someone has applied for asylum and been denied.

As the United States continues its crackdown on illegal immigration, it has made unprecedented changes to its policy toward Iranian asylum seekers. In late September, authorities organized a charter flight to Iran via Qatar, the first of its kind in decades, given Iran’s lack of diplomatic relations and human rights record. The flight represented a rare example of cooperation between Iran and the United States.

Dozens of Iranians were placed on the flight, reportedly in shackles. One deportee, Sina, later described armed guards escorting passengers on the Qatar-Tehran stretch. Upon arrival, they were questioned about their stay in the United States and their religious activities, but were not immediately arrested, he said in a video posted on a Farsi-language YouTube channel.

Among the passengers was the wife of Ali, an Iranian Christian convert who now lives in the United States. Iranian intelligence has since contacted her and summoned her.

“They deported my wife to Iran even though she is a Christian,” says Ali; The BBC has given him a pseudonym to protect his identity and that of his wife. “Now Iranian intelligence is after her and me.”

For Ali’s wife and others, the danger was compounded by what his lawyers say was a critical mistake.

Attorney Ali Herischi, who represents Ali, his wife and another deportee from the September flight, says several clients reported that sensitive information — including statements about religious conversion, political activity and the reasons they sought asylum — was not redacted before deportation.

Converts from Islam make up a significant proportion of Iran’s 800,000 Christian inhabitants, says Steve Dew-Jones of Article 18, a UK-based advocacy group that monitors violations against Christians in the country.

With officially recognized churches strictly restricted, house churches have begun to spring up across the country. But practitioners continue to face persecution, Dew-Jones says.

Conversion from Islam is treated as apostasy and converts face arrest, interrogation and prison terms.

Arrests have increased six-fold between 2023 and 2024, reports the Iranian Center for Human Rights. “Since the recent clashes between Iran and Israel, we have seen authorities use the term ‘Zionist Christianity’ even more aggressively. By labeling converts as agents of Israel, the state frames ordinary religious practice as a threat to national security,” adds Dew-Jones.

Some Iranians seeking asylum abroad cite conversion as part of their claim, while Iranian officials accuse them of exaggerating or fabricating conversions to strengthen their cases.

But it is unclear how many asylum cases in the United States may be exaggerated compared to the real fear of persecution.

“It’s impossible to judge the sincerity of someone’s faith; there’s no window into people’s souls,” Dew-Jones says. “Yes, the system can be abused, but we also see many legitimate converts whose testimonies and church records are not taken seriously by the asylum courts.”

Asylum outcomes can diverge sharply even within a single household, Iranian asylum seekers and legal experts say.

In late June, ICE agents arrived at Marjan and Reza’s home in Los Angeles. In a video filmed by her pastor, Marjan is seen slumped outside while officers take her husband into custody. Moments before she had called him asking for help. The couple, both Christian converts from Iran who had sought asylum in the United States, were taken to separate detention centers. Weeks later, their cases diverged: Marjan was granted asylum in California, while Reza, detained in New Mexico, was ordered deported to a third country.

After his arrest in June, the Department of Homeland Security said on its

Pastor Ara Torosian, who filmed their arrest, disputes the Department of Homeland Security’s claim that the couple was illegally present in the United States.

He says they entered legally through a humanitarian program and had work authorizations. “How can it be dangerous for the wife but not for the husband?” asks Pastor Ara Torosian, who fled Iran in 2010 after being detained for Bible smuggling.

Majid, who managed to sneak through the airport in Türkiye, has lived in limbo since then, while his lawyer continues his case. His wife, whose asylum case is still pending, now lives in Los Angeles with their 1½-year-old daughter, a girl who never knew her father.

In the United States, Ali lives with a friend from his church and hopes his own asylum application is more successful than that of his wife, who was deported to Iran this year.

“If I am granted asylum, how can I stay here when my wife is in Iran? If I am deported, I could go to prison the moment I land.”

Not being able to legally work or open a bank account. She was first kept with a distant relative “just until my wife’s case was resolved,” but she was never released and, after almost a year of detention, was deported. Later, a small church offered him temporary shelter.

“Every time they ask me to leave I have to sleep in the parks,” he says.

He is waiting for an immigration hearing but does not see a good outcome. His wife received another subpoena from Iranian intelligence.

“If they arrest her and demand that she return,” he says quietly, “I won’t have a choice.”