“My name is Ahmed and I need to tell you what happened to me. I’m sitting here today because of a miracle. 5 years ago, I was set on fire and left to die in the desert outside Riyadh. The men who did it were certain I would burn to death. They were certain Allah would judge me for my betrayal. They were certain my story would end that night.

But I’m still here and I need to tell you why.

I was born in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia into a family that loved Allah more than anything in this world. My father was a respected imam at our local mosque. From the time I could walk, I walked to prayer. From the time I could speak, I spoke the words of the Quran. This wasn’t forced on me. This was my life, and I loved it.

I remember being 7 years old, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in our home, rocking back and forth as I memorized verses from the Quran. My father sat across from me, his eyes closed, listening to make sure I got every word exactly right. When I finished the surah perfectly, he would smile and touch his hand to his heart. That smile meant everything to me. It meant I was making him proud. It meant I was pleasing Allah.

By the time I was 12, I had memorized significant portions of the Quran. By 15, I could lead prayers. By 20, I was teaching other young men. This was my path, and I never questioned it. Why would I? I had purpose. I had respect. I had Allah.

My mother would prepare our meals and we would eat together as a family. But always there was talk of faith, of the prophet, peace be upon him, of how to live righteously. My younger brothers looked up to me. I was the eldest son of an imam. I had a responsibility to set an example.

When I was 23, I married Ila. She was beautiful and devout from a good family. Our marriage was arranged, but I grew to care for her deeply. She gave me two sons and a daughter. I watched them grow, teaching them the same verses my father had taught me. I watched my oldest son, Khaled, memorize his first surah, and I felt my father’s pride flowing through me to him.

This was how it was supposed to be. Generation after generation, faithful to Allah.

I became a preacher and teacher at our mosque. Young men would come to me with questions about faith, about marriage, about how to live according to Islamic law. I had answers for everything. The Quran had answers for everything. I was certain of this.

My days had a rhythm that felt like peace. I woke before dawn for Fajr prayer. I went to the mosque. I taught classes. I counseled men. I led prayers. I came home to my family. I studied late into the night. Every day was devoted to Allah. And I thought this made me close to him.

But something was wrong, though I didn’t want to admit it.

It started small. A feeling during prayer that I was speaking into emptiness. A question from a student that I answered with memorized responses. But later, alone, the question would come back to me and my answer would feel hollow. A restlessness in my spirit that I tried to pray away.

I was doing everything right. I prayed five times a day, every day. I fasted during Ramadan. I gave to the poor. I studied the Quran and the hadith constantly. I followed every rule, every teaching. But there was no peace inside me. Only duty, only effort, only the constant work of being righteous enough.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. My wife was breathing softly beside me. My children were asleep in their rooms. The house was quiet. I got up and went to pray, thinking this would help. I knelt on my prayer mat in the darkness and pressed my forehead to the ground. But the words felt like stones in my mouth. I was saying them, but was anyone listening?

I pushed the thought away. This was dangerous thinking. This was doubt. And doubt was from shaitan. I prayed harder. I made myself focus. But the emptiness remained.

The next day, I taught my class as usual. A young man asked me how we could be certain Allah loved us. I gave him the answer I had been taught. Allah loves those who follow his commands, who submit to his will, who pray and fast and give alms. Do these things and you earn his favor. But as I said it, I wondered, was Allah’s love something we had to earn? And if we earned it, could we lose it? Was I doing enough? Would I ever do enough?

These questions frightened me. So I buried them. I threw myself into my work at the mosque. I memorized more hadith. I became stricter in my observance. I thought if I could just be devout enough, the emptiness would go away.

It didn’t.

Then came the day that changed everything, though I didn’t know it at the time. I had taken my car to be repaired and while I waited I walked to a nearby shop to buy tea. The man working there was a foreigner, probably from the Philippines or maybe India. We have many foreign workers in Saudi Arabia. Usually I didn’t pay much attention to them. They were there to work, not to socialize.

But this man had something different about him. When he gave me my tea, he smiled and there was a peace in his face that I noticed. I don’t know why I noticed it. Maybe because I had been searching for peace myself and had not found it.

As I paid him, he thanked me, and there was kindness in his voice. Not the subservience that foreign workers usually show to Saudis, but genuine kindness, as if he truly wished me well.

I left the shop thinking about that smile, that peace. What did this poor foreign worker have that I, an imam’s son and a religious teacher, did not have?

The thought bothered me for days.

A few weeks later, I was on my computer late at night. I had been researching something for a class I was teaching, but I got distracted and started browsing. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but I found myself reading about Christianity.

My first reaction was anger. Christianity was false. Everyone knew this. The Christians had corrupted their scriptures. They worshiped three gods. They believed God had a son, which was blasphemy. I had been taught all of this my entire life.

But I kept reading. I told myself I was only reading so I could better refute Christianity when I taught about other religions. I told myself I was being a better teacher by knowing what the enemy believed.

But the truth was I was curious.

I read about Jesus, who Christians called Isa. I knew about Isa from the Quran. He was a prophet, a good man, but only a man, nothing more. But Christians believed something different. They believed he was God who became human. They believed he died for the sins of all people. They believed that salvation was a gift, not something you earned.

This last part caught my attention. A gift, not earned, just given.

I thought about my whole life of trying to earn Allah’s favor. I thought about the uncertainty, the fear that I might not be good enough. I thought about the rules and the rituals and the constant effort. What if it was all a gift instead?

I shook my head. This was foolish. I closed my computer and went to pray. But the question stayed with me.

Over the next few months, I found myself returning to that computer late at night when everyone was asleep. I would read about Christianity for an hour, sometimes two, always careful to clear my browser history afterward. I knew what I was doing was dangerous. If anyone found out I was reading about Christianity with interest rather than to refute it, there would be consequences.

But I couldn’t stop.

I read the Gospel of John. I don’t know why I chose that one first. Maybe because it was recommended on one of the websites I found. As I read, something strange happened inside me. The words felt alive. They felt true.

I read about Jesus saying he was the way, the truth, and the life. I read about him saying he came to give abundant life. I read about him touching lepers and eating with sinners and forgiving people their sins.

In Islam, I had learned that Allah was distant, transcendent, unknowable. We submitted to him, but we did not know him. We could not know him. But Jesus spoke about God as a father. He taught people to pray, calling God their father. He spoke about God’s love as if it was personal, as if it was for each individual person, not just for those who earned it.

I wanted that. I wanted to know God, not just submit to him. I wanted to be loved, not just approved of if I followed all the rules correctly.

But wanting these things felt like betrayal.

I began having dreams. In one dream, I was in a desert dying of thirst and someone came and offered me water. I was so thirsty, but I was afraid to drink because I didn’t know if the water was permitted. I woke up with my heart pounding.

During the day, I continued my life as usual. I led prayers at the mosque. I taught my classes. I came home to my family. But inside I was two different people. One was Ahmed the preacher, the Imam’s son, the faithful Muslim. The other was Ahmed the seeker who was reading the Bible in secret and wondering if everything he had been taught was wrong.

The internal war was exhausting. I tried to ignore what I was feeling and thinking. I tried to be more devout. I prayed longer. I was stricter with my students. I gave more money to the poor. But nothing helped. The questions only grew louder.

One night, I was reading about the crucifixion of Jesus. I had always been taught that Jesus was not really crucified, that Allah would not allow his prophet to die in such a shameful way, that someone else died in his place. But as I read the gospel accounts, I believed them. I don’t know why, but I did. I believed that Jesus really died on a cross. And I understood for the first time why Christians said he died for sins. He took the punishment we deserved. He paid the price we could not pay. He did for us what we could never do for ourselves.

I sat there in the darkness staring at my computer screen and I felt something break open inside me. It was like a dam bursting. All the years of trying to be good enough, all the fear of not measuring up, all the exhaustion of earning my way to paradise. It all came flooding out.

I started to cry. I, a grown man, a teacher, an imam’s son, sat at my computer in the middle of the night and wept because I realized I believed it. I believed Jesus was the Son of God. I believed he died for me. I believed he rose from the dead. I believed he was the way to God. Not just a way, but the only way.

And I knew what this meant. I knew I could never say this out loud. I knew if I confessed this faith, I would lose everything. My position at the mosque, my reputation, my family’s honor, possibly my life. In Saudi Arabia, leaving Islam is apostasy. The punishment for apostasy is death.

I sat there crying and shaking. And I didn’t know what to do. But I also knew I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t unknow what I now knew. I couldn’t unbelieve what I now believed.

So I prayed. But this time I didn’t pray the ritual prayers I had prayed all my life. I prayed like the Christians I had been reading about prayed. I prayed to Jesus. I didn’t have special words. I didn’t know the right way to do it. I just spoke from my heart. I told Jesus I believed in him. I told him I was sorry for my sins. I told him I wanted to follow him. I told him I was afraid. I told him I didn’t know what to do. I told him I needed help.

And I felt peace. For the first time in months, maybe years, I felt real peace. It was like that emptiness inside me was filled. It was like I had been searching for something my entire life and I’d finally found it.

I sat there in the quiet of my home with my family sleeping nearby and I knew my life would never be the same. I had become a follower of Jesus Christ and no one could know.

The next morning I woke up and everything looked the same but felt different. I could hear the call to prayer from the mosque. I could hear my wife in the kitchen preparing breakfast. I could hear my children getting ready for school. I went through my morning routine. I washed. I went to the mosque for Fajr prayer. I stood with the other men, my father beside me. And I went through the motions of prayer. But inside I was praying to Jesus. I was asking him to forgive me for this deception. I was asking him what to do.

I didn’t know how to be a Christian in Saudi Arabia. I didn’t know any other Christians, or at least I didn’t know anyone who would admit it. I couldn’t go to a church because there are no churches in Saudi Arabia. I couldn’t tell anyone what I had done.

So, I lived two lives. In public, I was Ahmed the preacher. I led prayers. I taught classes about Islam. I even taught against Christianity, explaining why Christians were wrong, why their beliefs were corrupted, why Islam was the truth. Every time I did this, I felt sick inside. I felt like Peter denying Jesus to save myself.

But in private, late at night when everyone slept, I was Ahmed the Christian. I read the Bible on my phone hidden under Islamic apps so no one would see if they looked at my screen. I prayed to Jesus. I studied about Christianity. I watched videos of preachers and teachers from other countries. I hungered for more.

I was so lonely. I wanted to talk to other believers. I wanted to worship with other Christians. I wanted to be baptized. I wanted to openly confess my faith, but I couldn’t. Not here. Not yet.

I started looking into leaving Saudi Arabia. Maybe I could go to another country, somewhere I could practice my faith openly. But how? I had a wife, children. How could I ask them to leave everything? How could I tell them why? And what about my parents? What about my brothers? What about the community that had raised me? If I left and they found out why, it would destroy my family’s honor. They would be shamed. They might even be punished for my apostasy.

The weight of it was crushing.

I decided I had to tell my wife. She deserved to know. Maybe she would understand. Maybe she would even believe, too.

One night after the children were asleep, I tried to talk to her. I didn’t tell her everything. Not at first. I just started asking her questions. Did she ever wonder if there was more to faith than just rules? Did she ever feel close to Allah or did it feel like she was just going through motions? Did she ever question?

She looked at me with concern in her eyes. She asked me if I was feeling well. She reminded me that questioning was dangerous. She said I was probably just tired, working too hard at the mosque. I saw fear in her face. Not fear for me, but fear of me. Fear of what I might be thinking.

I stopped. I couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So I continued living this double life. Weeks became months. The strain was enormous. I felt like I was constantly acting, constantly hiding, constantly afraid of being discovered.

There were close calls. One day, my son Khaled picked up my phone to play a game. I had forgotten to close my Bible app. He looked at the screen, confused, and asked me what it was. My heart nearly stopped. I told him quickly that I had been researching to answer a question from a student. He accepted this and went back to his game, but my hands were shaking for an hour afterward.

Another time, a colleague at the mosque noticed I seemed distracted during prayers. He asked if everything was all right. I told him I was worried about one of my students who was struggling. But I could tell he was watching me more carefully.

After that, I became paranoid. I started wondering if people could see the change in me. I started wondering if my wife suspected. I started wondering if I was being too careful. And that very carefulness was making me look suspicious.

The psychological toll was heavy. I wasn’t sleeping well. I was having nightmares about being discovered. I was snapping at my children when I didn’t mean to. I was distant with my wife.

But I also felt more alive than I had ever felt. When I read the Bible in secret, I felt like I was breathing after being underwater. When I prayed to Jesus, I felt heard. When I thought about my faith, even though it had to be hidden, I felt joy. It was the strangest combination of fear and joy I had ever experienced.

I knew I couldn’t live like this forever. Something would have to change. Either I would have to deny my faith in Jesus and return fully to Islam, or I would have to confess my faith and face the consequences.

I prayed constantly for wisdom. I prayed for courage. I prayed for a way out.

I started to understand what Jesus meant when he said following him meant taking up a cross. I started to understand what it meant to count the cost. I was living that cost every single day.

But I also knew, deep in my heart, that Jesus was worth it. Even if it cost me everything, he was worth it. I just didn’t know—not yet—how much *everything* would actually mean.

The months of living this double life changed me in ways I didn’t expect. I became more sensitive to the suffering of others. I noticed the foreign workers in a new way, wondering if any of them were Christians, wondering if they were praying for me without knowing it. I saw the strictness of our religious system differently now. The rules that I had once enforced with pride now felt like chains.

I watched my daughter, only 5 years old, learning her prayers, and my heart ached. What future awaited her in this system? What if she one day had questions like I did? Would she have to hide them too?

But even more than the changes in how I saw the world around me, I felt changes in my relationship with God. When I prayed to Jesus, it felt like conversation, not ritual. I could tell him about my fears. I could confess my failures. I could ask for help and I felt heard. I had never felt that in all my years of Islamic prayer. Those prayers had been about me proving my devotion to Allah. These prayers were about Jesus loving me despite my weakness. It was completely different.

I started to understand grace, not as a concept, but as a reality. I was living every day as a hypocrite, teaching Islam while believing in Jesus. And yet, I knew Jesus had not abandoned me. He had not rejected me for my cowardice. He was patient with me, waiting for me to find the courage I needed.

This grace both comforted me and convicted me. If Jesus could forgive me for denying him daily, how could I keep doing it?

I had been a secret believer for almost a year when things started to fall apart.

It began with my teaching. I found it harder and harder to teach against Christianity with the passion I had once had. I found myself being softer in my language, more fair in my representation. Some of the other teachers noticed. One of them mentioned it to me, saying I was being too sympathetic to the Christians.

I tried to correct course, to be harder in my teaching, but my heart wasn’t in it.

Then I made a mistake.

I was teaching a class about the nature of God, and a student asked about the trinity. I explained what Christians believed, and I did it *too* well. I explained it in a way that made sense, not in a way that made it sound ridiculous. Another teacher was visiting that day. He heard my explanation. After class, he pulled me aside and asked me why I had defended the Christian position so eloquently.

I told him I was simply trying to help students understand what Christians actually believed so they could better refute it. But I could see doubt in his eyes.

From that day on, I felt watched. I became more careful. I stopped teaching with as much passion. I tried to blend in, to be unremarkable. But this also drew attention because I had always been passionate before.

The paranoia grew worse. Every glance felt like suspicion. Every conversation felt like a test. I started second-guessing everything I said, analyzing it afterward, wondering if I had revealed too much.

At home, my wife asked me more than once what was wrong. She said I seemed distant. She said the children missed the father I used to be, the one who played with them and told them stories. She was right. I had withdrawn from them, partly because I was so exhausted from pretending, and partly because I felt guilty. I was living a lie and they didn’t know it.

The guilt was crushing sometimes. These were good people, my family, my community. They loved Allah sincerely. They thought they were following truth. And here I was, lying to them every day, pretending to be one of them while secretly believing they were wrong.

But I also knew that if I told them the truth, they would feel duty-bound to report me. In our society, loyalty to Allah came before loyalty to family. They would see turning me in as an act of love, saving others from my influence and possibly giving me a chance to recant and return to Islam.

I was trapped.

My father called me one evening and asked to talk. We sat in his study and he asked me directly if my faith was strong. He said some people had concerns. He said I seemed troubled. He asked me to reassure him that I was still faithful to Islam.

I looked into my father’s eyes. The man who had taught me everything I knew about faith. The man whose approval I had always sought. I saw love there. But I also saw something else. I saw a man who would choose Islam over his own son if he had to. I saw a man who had dedicated his entire life to serving Allah, who would see my conversion not as finding truth, but as the worst kind of betrayal.

And I lied. I told him my faith was strong. I told him I was just stressed and tired. I told him he had nothing to worry about.

He seemed relieved. He put his hand on my shoulder and prayed for me, asking Allah to strengthen me.

I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to tell him about Jesus. I wanted him to know the peace I had found. But I knew he would never understand. I knew it would break his heart and destroy our relationship.

So I said nothing.

But the walls were closing in. I knew it was only a matter of time before someone discovered my secret. I knew I needed to make a plan. I needed to decide what I was going to do.

I thought about running. I thought about taking my family and fleeing the country. But where would we go? And how would I explain it to them?

I thought about continuing to hide my faith indefinitely. But I knew I couldn’t. The burden was too heavy, and I was beginning to feel convicted. I was denying Jesus every day by pretending to be Muslim. How long could I do that?

I felt like I was standing at a crossroads and every path led to loss.

But one night as I was reading the Bible, I came across the words of Jesus: “Whoever acknowledges me before others, I will acknowledge before my Father in heaven. But whoever denies me before others, I will deny before my Father in heaven.”

I sat there staring at those words. I had been denying Jesus every single day. I had been choosing my safety, my reputation, my family’s honor over him.

And I knew what I had to do. I didn’t know when or how. But I knew that eventually, I would have to confess my faith openly. I would have to tell the truth, even if it cost me everything.

I prayed that night with tears streaming down my face. I asked Jesus for strength. I asked him to prepare me for what was coming. I asked him to protect my family when the truth came out.

And I felt a peace, even in the midst of my fear.

I didn’t know that the moment of truth would come sooner than I expected. I didn’t know that in a few short weeks, everything would explode. I didn’t know that I would soon be fighting for my life.

But Jesus knew. And he was already preparing a way through the fire.

Living as a secret believer was like carrying a weight that grew heavier every day. I continued going to the mosque. I continued teaching. I continued leading prayers. But every word I spoke in public felt like a betrayal of the faith I held in my heart. Every time I taught against Christianity, every time I explained why Islam was the only truth, every time I corrected someone who showed sympathy toward Christians or Jews, I felt like I was denying Jesus all over again.

But I was afraid. I was so afraid.

I had read stories online about what happened to converts in Saudi Arabia. Some disappeared, some were imprisoned, some were killed by their own families in what they called honor killings. The government might be involved, or they might not. Sometimes the family handled it themselves, believing they were doing Allah’s will.

I had a wife and three children. I had parents and brothers. I had a community that had known me my entire life. What would happen to them if I was exposed as an apostate?

So I kept silent, and the silence was eating me alive.

I developed a routine for my secret faith. Every night after my family was asleep, I would lock myself in my study, claiming I needed to prepare lessons or do research. I would put on my headphones and watch sermons from preachers in America and Europe. I would read the Bible. I would pray to Jesus. These hours were the only time I felt like myself. The only time I didn’t have to pretend.

I found websites where secret believers in Muslim countries could communicate safely. I learned I wasn’t alone. There were others scattered across the Middle East living the same double life I was living. We couldn’t meet. We couldn’t use our real names, but we could encourage each other.

One man, somewhere in Iran, told me he had been a secret believer for 7 years. *7 years.* I couldn’t imagine enduring this for 7 years. Another woman, I think she was in Pakistan, said she prayed every day that God would make a way for her to leave the country. She had been waiting for 3 years.

Their stories both comforted and terrified me. Comforted because I wasn’t alone. Terrified because I saw my future in their present. Years of hiding. Years of fear. Years of waiting for a freedom that might never come.

I started researching how to leave Saudi Arabia. It wasn’t simple. Men had more freedom than women, but I still couldn’t just leave without reasons and permissions. And even if I could get out, where would I go? How would I support my family? What would I tell them?

I fantasized about it. Sometimes I imagined taking my wife and children to another country, telling them the truth once we were safe, hoping they would understand or at least not report me. But it was just a fantasy. My wife was as devout as I had been. She would never leave Saudi Arabia by choice, and she would never understand my conversion.

The only way forward I could see was to leave alone—to abandon my family, to become the kind of man who deserts his wife and children. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t become that person.

So I stayed, and the pressure continued to build.

At the mosque, I became quieter. I used to be one of the more outspoken teachers, passionate in my lectures, forceful in my arguments. But now, I tried to blend into the background. I taught when I had to, but without enthusiasm. I participated in discussions, but minimally.

The other teachers noticed. Of course they noticed.

One afternoon after a meeting of the teaching staff, one of my colleagues, a man named Ibrahim, who had known me since we were young, asked to speak with me privately. We went to a small room in the mosque and he closed the door.

He looked at me with concern and asked what was happening with me. He said I had changed. He said I used to be on fire for Allah but now I seemed cold. He asked if I was struggling with doubt.

My heart started racing. This was the question I had been dreading.

I forced a laugh and told him I was just tired. My children were demanding. My wife needed attention. I was working too hard. All the usual excuses.

He didn’t look convinced. He studied my face for a long moment, then said something that sent ice through my veins. He said doubt was like a disease, that it could spread if not treated quickly. He said if I was struggling, I needed to seek help from the senior imams. He said they could guide me back to certainty.

I nodded. I thanked him for his concern. I promised I would seek guidance if I needed it.

But we both knew what he was really saying. He was warning me. He was telling me that people were watching. He was telling me to be careful.

I went home that day, shaking. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed next to my wife, listening to her breathing, and I knew the walls were closing in. It was only a matter of time before someone’s suspicion turned into investigation. Only a matter of time before someone looked too closely at my behavior, my teaching, my life.

I got up and went to my study. I knelt on the floor and prayed to Jesus. I told him I was afraid. I told him I didn’t know what to do. I told him I felt trapped.

And as I prayed, I felt a conviction growing in my heart. I couldn’t keep living this lie. I couldn’t keep denying Jesus to save myself. I had to tell the truth, whatever the cost.

But when? How? Who would I tell first?

I didn’t have answers, but I knew the day was coming when I would have to choose. Deny Jesus and live, or confess him and face the consequences. The decision was becoming clearer. Even though I didn’t want to face it.

In the meantime, I tried to be more careful. I stopped participating in online forums for secret believers, afraid someone might trace my internet activity. I deleted my Bible app and started using a website instead, always in private browsing mode. I was more guarded in my teaching, making sure never to say anything that could be interpreted as sympathetic to Christianity.

But the more careful I became, the more exhausted I felt. I was constantly calculating, constantly monitoring my words and actions, constantly afraid of slipping up.

My wife noticed my stress. She suggested I take time off from teaching. She said maybe I was burning out. She was trying to be helpful, but her suggestion filled me with dread. If I took time off, I would have more time at home, more time under her watchful eye, less excuse to lock myself in my study at night.

I told her I couldn’t take time off. The mosque needed me. The students depended on me. She looked at me with frustration and said the children needed me too. She said our oldest son Khaled had been asking why I didn’t spend time with him anymore. She said, “Our daughter cried the other day because you had forgotten to kiss her good night.”

Her words cut deep because they were true. I had become so consumed with hiding my faith and managing my fear that I had neglected the people I loved most.

I tried to do better. I started making time to play with my children in the evenings. I took Khaled to the park on Fridays. I helped my daughter with her homework. I talked with my wife more, asked about her day, listened to her concerns. It helped a little. My family seemed happier, but I felt like an actor playing a role. Everything I did felt false because the biggest truth about me was hidden from them.

One Friday evening after we had eaten dinner together as a family, Khaled asked me to teach him more about the Quran. He was 9 years old, eager and bright, and he looked up to me the way I had once looked up to my father. I felt sick. How could I teach him something I no longer believed? How could I guide him down a path I had left?

But what choice did I have? I couldn’t tell him the truth. So I sat with him and taught him the verses he wanted to learn. And the whole time I felt like I was betraying both him and Jesus.

That night after everyone was asleep, I wept. I told Jesus I couldn’t keep doing this. I told him I was breaking under the weight of it all. And I felt, as clearly as I had ever felt anything, that he was telling me to wait just a little longer, that his timing was coming, that he would show me what to do.

I tried to trust that. I tried to be patient. But patience was running out.

Then came the day that everything changed.

It was a Thursday morning. I was teaching a class at the mosque about the prophets in Islam. We were discussing Isa (Jesus) and how Islam honored him as a prophet while rejecting the Christian claims about him. A young man in the class, maybe 20 years old, raised his hand and asked a question. He wanted to know why Christians believed Jesus had to die if Allah could simply forgive sins without sacrifice.

It was a fair question, one I had asked myself many times before my conversion. I should have given the standard Islamic answer: that Christians had corrupted the truth, that Allah did not need blood sacrifice, that Jesus did not actually die on the cross.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I found myself explaining the Christian perspective honestly. I talked about how sin created a debt that had to be paid. I talked about how justice required punishment, but mercy desired forgiveness. I talked about how Jesus’ death on the cross satisfied both justice and mercy, paying the debt while offering free forgiveness.

I explained it well. *Too* well.

As I spoke, I realized what I was doing, but I couldn’t seem to stop. The truth was pouring out of me after months of being suppressed.

When I finished, the room was silent. The students were looking at me strangely. And then I noticed that someone else had entered the room during my explanation.

Sheikh Hassan, one of the senior imams at our mosque, was standing at the back of the room. He had been listening, and the expression on his face was dark.

After class ended and the students left, he approached me. He asked me to come with him to his office. It wasn’t a request.

We walked through the mosque in silence. My mouth was dry. My hands were trembling. I knew what was coming.

In his office, he closed the door and turned to face me. He asked me what I had been teaching. He asked me why I had explained Christian theology with such clarity and sympathy. He asked me if I was trying to lead students astray.

I tried to defend myself. I said I was only helping students understand what Christians believed so they could better refute it. I said I was being thorough in my teaching.

He didn’t accept my explanation. He said others had come to him with concerns about me. He said my teaching had changed. He said I no longer spoke with the certainty of a true believer.

Then he asked me directly. Had I been reading Christian materials? Had I been in contact with Christians? Was I doubting Islam?

I stood there, facing this man who had authority over me, who could destroy my life with a word. And I had to make a choice.

I could lie. I could deny everything. I could probably convince him to give me another chance. I could go back to hiding, go back to pretending, go back to the double life.

Or I could tell the truth.

I thought about Jesus’ words: “Whoever denies me before men, I will also deny before my Father who is in heaven.” I thought about all the months of cowardice, all the times I had denied Jesus to save myself. I thought about the peace I had felt when I first believed, and how that peace had been slowly crushed under the weight of deception.

And I decided.

I looked Sheikh Hassan in the eyes and I told him the truth.

I told him I had been reading the Bible. I told him I had studied Christian theology. And I told him I had come to believe that Jesus was more than a prophet.

His face changed. The concern turned to shock, then to anger, then to something like horror. He asked me if I understood what I was saying. He asked me if I was confessing apostasy. He asked me if I knew the consequences.

I nodded. I knew.

He told me to sit down. He said he needed to make some calls. He left the room, locking the door behind him.

I sat in that office alone and I knew my life as I had known it was over. I prayed. I thanked Jesus for giving me the courage to finally tell the truth. I asked him to protect my family. I asked him to give me strength for whatever was coming.

And I felt that peace again. The peace that had been missing during all those months of hiding. I had finally stopped running.

About an hour later, Sheikh Hassan returned with two other senior leaders from the mosque and my father.

When I saw my father’s face, my heart broke. He looked like he had aged 10 years in the past hour. His eyes were full of pain and disbelief.

They all sat down and they tried to reason with me. They said I had been deceived. They said I was confused. They said I needed time to think clearly. They offered to help me, to guide me back to truth. They spoke of my family, of my children, of what this would do to them. They spoke of my reputation, of the respect I had earned. They spoke of my father’s position, of the shame this would bring on him.

All of their arguments hit their mark. I felt the weight of what I was doing to the people I loved.

But I also knew I couldn’t go back. I had found truth, and I couldn’t abandon it, even to spare them pain.

I told them I understood their concerns. I told them I loved my family. But I also told them I believed Jesus was the Son of God, that he died for my sins and rose from the dead, and that I could not deny him.

The room fell silent.

My father stood up. He looked at me with an expression I had never seen before. It was not anger. It was something worse. It was grief mixed with disgust. He said I was no longer his son. He said he would have been better off if I had died as a child than to live to see me become an apostate.

Then he walked out of the room.

I wanted to run after him. I wanted to take back everything I had said. I wanted to fix this, to make him understand, to make him see that I was still his son, that I still loved him.

But I couldn’t move. I just sat there as the other men talked around me, trying to decide what to do with me.

They told me I would be held at the mosque while they contacted the religious police. They said I would be given a chance to recant. They said if I returned to Islam, I might be spared serious punishment. But if I refused, they said, there would be consequences.

I was taken to a small room in the mosque, a storage room that they locked from the outside. There was no window, just boxes of supplies and cleaning equipment. I sat on the floor in the dark and waited.

Hours passed. I didn’t know what time it was. I didn’t know what was happening outside that room. I prayed. I recited verses from the Bible that I had memorized. I sang worship songs quietly to myself, songs I had heard online from churches in other countries.

And I felt Jesus with me in that dark room. I wasn’t alone.

Eventually, the door opened. Two men from the religious police came in. They were not unkind, but they were serious. They told me I was being taken for questioning.

They put me in a vehicle and drove me to a facility I didn’t recognize. I was put in another room, this one with a table and chairs. They asked me questions for hours, the same questions over and over. Why had I left Islam? Who had influenced me? Had I tried to convert others? What did I believe about Muhammad? What did I believe about the Quran?

I answered honestly. I told them about my journey, about the questions I had, about reading the Bible, about coming to faith in Jesus. I told them I had not tried to convert anyone, that I had kept my faith hidden until today.

They wanted names. They wanted to know if there were other secret believers. I told them I had only communicated with people online and didn’t know their real identities. They didn’t believe me. They thought I was part of a network. They pressed harder.

Finally, they told me I would be held until I agreed to recant. They said my family was being informed. They said I should think carefully about what I was throwing away.

I was taken to a detention area. It was not quite a jail, but it was secure. There were a few other men there, but we were kept separate. I didn’t know what they had done. I didn’t know if any of them were like me.

I spent two days in that place. They brought me food, but I barely ate. They questioned me again and again, always trying to get me to recant, always warning me of the consequences if I didn’t.

I slept on a thin mat on a concrete floor. The sounds of other detainees echoed through the halls at night. Some were praying, some were crying, some were silent in a way that was worse than any sound. I wondered if any of them were like me. I wondered how many secret believers were scattered across our country, living in fear, hiding their faith. I wondered how many had been caught and had recanted to save themselves.

I wondered if I would have the strength to hold on.

During those two days, I thought a lot about my family. My wife would have been told something by now. Maybe that I was sick. Maybe that I was being questioned about something. Maybe that I had done something shameful. She would be worried. She would be confused. She wouldn’t understand.

I thought about my children. Khaled would be asking where I was. My daughter would be waiting for me to come home. My youngest son was still so small. He probably didn’t fully understand I was gone.

The pain of knowing I might never see them again was almost unbearable.

But I also knew that if I recanted now, if I denied Jesus to save my life, I would be teaching my children that truth could be compromised when it became inconvenient. I would be showing them that faith was only valuable when it was safe. And I couldn’t do that. Even if they never knew, I would know.

On the third day, they brought in a delegation to speak with me. Religious scholars, leaders from my mosque, and my father. My father wouldn’t look at me.

The scholars tried one more time to convince me to return to Islam. They were eloquent. They were passionate. They showed me verses from the Quran. They explained the beauties of Islam. They talked about paradise and hellfire.

I listened respectfully. But when they finished, I told them my answer was unchanged. I believed in Jesus Christ. I could not deny him.

One of the scholars said I was choosing hell over paradise. He said I was throwing away eternal life for a lie. I told him I was choosing eternal life, just not the one he was offering.

The meeting ended. My father left without saying a word to me. The scholars looked at me with pity and something like anger.

That evening, two guards came to my cell. They said I was being moved. They wouldn’t tell me where.

They put me in a vehicle again and drove for a long time. It was night. I looked out the window and saw the lights of the city disappearing behind us. We were going into the desert.

The desert at night is beautiful in a harsh way. The stars are so bright when there are no city lights. I had grown up in Saudi Arabia. I knew the desert. I knew how vast it was, how empty, how easy it would be to make something—or someone—disappear out there.

Fear started to grip me. Where were they taking me? What were they going to do?

The guards were silent. They didn’t speak to me or to each other. The only sound was the engine and the tires on the road.

I tried to pray, but fear kept interrupting my thoughts. My mind kept imagining what might happen. Would they just leave me out here to die of thirst? Would they shoot me? Would they bury me alive?

I forced myself to focus. I quoted scripture to myself, verses I had memorized. “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” The words helped a little, but my body was still shaking.

After maybe an hour of driving, we stopped. We were in the middle of nowhere, just empty desert, illuminated by the vehicle’s headlights. There was nothing around us but sand and darkness.

The guards told me to get out. I got out of the vehicle and I saw that there were other vehicles there, other men. Some I recognized from the mosque, others I didn’t know. And I saw materials on the ground. Rope. A container of what I realized was gasoline.

In that moment, I understood what was going to happen. They were going to kill me. Not in a courtroom, not officially. They were going to kill me out here in the desert where no one would see and my body would never be found. This was how apostates disappeared.

I started to shake. My body understood what my mind was trying not to accept. I was about to die.

One of the men stepped forward. I didn’t recognize him, but he spoke with authority. He gave me one final chance. He asked me if I would recant, if I would return to Islam, if I would declare that Muhammad was the prophet of Allah and that Jesus was only a man.

My throat was so dry I could barely speak. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to say yes, to save myself, to live. But I knew if I denied Jesus now, after all of this, I would lose more than my physical life. I would lose my soul.

I looked at the man and, with a voice that shook but didn’t break, I said no. I said I was a follower of Jesus Christ. And nothing, not even death, would make me deny him.

The man’s face hardened. He nodded to the others.

They grabbed me. They bound my hands behind my back. They threw me to the ground. And then they poured gasoline over me.

The smell was overwhelming. It soaked through my clothes, my hair, my skin. I was coughing, choking on the fumes.

I heard one of them say something about making an example, about showing what happens to apostates, about purifying the land from this corruption.

I closed my eyes. I prayed. I told Jesus I was coming to meet him. I told him I was sorry for all the months I had denied him. I told him, “Thank you for saving me.”

I thought of my wife and children. I wondered if they would ever know what happened to me. I wondered if they would be told I had run away, or if they would just be told I had died. I wanted to see them one more time. I wanted to hold them. I wanted to tell them I love them.

But I couldn’t. This was where my journey ended.

I heard the sound of a match being struck. And then I heard someone say, “For Allah.”

The world exploded into fire and pain.

I have tried many times to describe what happened next. I have tried to find words that capture what I experienced. But human language feels inadequate for what I went through that night. Still, I will try, because this is my testimony. This is what Jesus did for me.

When they pulled me out of the vehicle, my legs almost gave way. The fear was so intense it was physical. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest. My breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. My hands, tied behind my back, were numb.

There were maybe six or seven men standing in the desert. Some of them I recognized. One was from my mosque, a man I had prayed beside for years. Another was someone I had seen at community gatherings. These were not strangers. These were men from my world, and they were here to kill me.

The headlights from the vehicles cast harsh shadows across the sand. In that light, I could see what they had prepared. A shallow pit had been dug. Rope lay coiled on the ground, and there was a large plastic container, the kind used for fuel.

The night air was cool, but I was sweating. The smell of the desert, usually clean and empty, now seemed thick and suffocating.

One of the men stepped forward. I didn’t know his name, but from the way the others deferred to him, he was in charge. He was older, maybe in his 50s, with a beard that was more gray than black. His face was hard, but I didn’t see cruelty in it. I saw certainty. He believed he was doing the right thing. This made it worse somehow. If he had been cruel, if he had enjoyed this, I could have hated him. But he was just a man who believed he was serving Allah.

He asked me one final time. His voice was level, almost gentle. He said I still had a chance to save myself. All I had to do was recant. All I had to do was declare the shahada, the Islamic confession of faith. All I had to do was say that Muhammad was the messenger of Allah and that Jesus was just a prophet. He told me to think of my family, think of my children, think of my life.

Every cell in my body wanted to say yes. Every instinct screamed at me to do whatever I had to do to survive. My mind was racing, trying to find a way out, trying to find some compromise, some middle path. Maybe I could say the words but not mean them. Maybe I could recant now and then leave the country later. Maybe I could lie to save my life and ask Jesus to forgive me afterward.

But even as I thought these things, I knew I couldn’t do it. Not anymore. I had already spent a year living a lie. I had already denied Jesus a thousand times in a thousand small ways. I couldn’t do it again. Not now. Not like this. If I denied him now with death staring me in the face, what would my faith be worth?

I looked at the man. My voice came out barely above a whisper, but it was steady. I said no. I told him I was a follower of Jesus Christ. I told him Jesus died for my sins and rose from the dead. I told him nothing would make me deny that truth.

For a moment, no one moved. The man’s face remained impassive, but I saw something flicker in his eyes. Maybe disappointment, maybe respect. I don’t know.

Then he nodded to the others.

Two men grabbed me by the arms. I didn’t resist. What would be the point? They were stronger than me and there was nowhere to run. We were in the middle of the desert. Even if I broke free, I would die out here.

They walked me to the pit and forced me to my knees at the edge. My knees hit the sand hard. The impact sent a jolt of pain up my legs, but it was nothing compared to the terror coursing through me.

They pushed me forward so I was lying face down in the pit. The sand was rough against my cheek. I could taste it in my mouth. I was breathing in rapid, panicked breaths now, unable to control it.

Someone tied my ankles together. Then they tied my ankles to my wrists behind my back. So I was bent backward, unable to move effectively. I was completely helpless.

They rolled me onto my side so I wasn’t face down in the sand. I could see the stars above me. They were so bright, so beautiful. And I thought how strange it was that I might die looking at something so beautiful.

Then I heard the sound of liquid sloshing. The container was being opened. The smell hit me first. Gasoline. Sharp and chemical and overwhelming. I started coughing even before they poured it.

And then they did.

The liquid was cold against my skin. It soaked through my clothes instantly. They poured it over my torso, my legs, my back. The smell became so intense I could barely breathe without gagging. My eyes were watering. The fumes were burning my throat. Some of it splashed on my face. I closed my eyes and mouth tight, but I could still taste it. The chemical burn on my lips and tongue was horrible.

They stepped back. I could hear them moving away from the pit. I could hear them talking in low voices, but I couldn’t make out the words over my own panicked breathing.

I tried to pray, but my mind was white with fear. All I could think was, “This is really happening. They are really going to do this. I am going to burn alive.”

I had heard about people burning to death. I knew it was one of the most painful ways to die. The body’s pain receptors would be screaming until the nerve endings were destroyed. It could take minutes. Long, agonizing minutes.

I started to hyperventilate. My chest was heaving. Tears were streaming down my face, mixing with the gasoline. I was making sounds, whimpering sounds I couldn’t control. I didn’t feel brave. I didn’t feel peaceful. I felt absolutely terrified.

I heard someone say something about making an example. Someone else said this was what happened to apostates, to those who betrayed Allah. Someone said the fire would purify the land.

Their voices sounded distant, unreal, like I was hearing them through water.

I forced myself to focus. I forced myself to pray. *Jesus, Jesus, please, I’m so afraid. Please help me. Please be with me.* But the fear kept overwhelming the prayer.

My thoughts were fragmenting, breaking apart under the weight of terror. I thought about the times I had heard about martyrs in church history. How they had faced death with courage and faith. How some had even sung hymns as they died. I had always admired those stories, had thought that if I ever faced persecution, I would be like them.

But I wasn’t. I was just terrified.

I thought about Stephen in the book of Acts, stoned to death for his faith, seeing Jesus standing at the right hand of God. I prayed I would see Jesus, too.

I prayed the pain would end quickly. I prayed for my family, that they would be okay without me. I prayed for my wife, that she would find peace somehow. I prayed for my children, that they would grow up strong. I prayed for my father, that somehow, someday, he would understand.

And I prayed for the men standing around me, preparing to kill me. I prayed that they would come to know the Jesus I had found. I prayed they would discover that same peace, that same truth. Even now, even as they were about to burn me alive, I couldn’t hate them. They thought they were serving God. They were wrong, but they believed they were right, just like I had once believed.

And then I heard the sound that made my entire body go rigid with terror. The sound of a match being struck. It made a small scratching sound, then the hiss of it catching fire. Such a tiny sound. But I knew what it meant.

I saw the small flame in someone’s hand. I saw him lower it toward the pit. Someone said something. I think it was a prayer. I think they were asking Allah to accept this offering.

Then the man dropped the match.

For a split second, time seemed to stop. I saw the little flame falling through the air, tumbling end over end, getting closer.

And then it hit the gasoline-soaked sand near me.

The fire came alive with a roar. It wasn’t a normal fire. Gasoline burns different. It’s fast and hungry and hot. The flames were blue and orange and they spread across the pit in an instant.

The heat hit me like a physical blow. My clothes caught fire immediately. I felt the flames touch my skin.

And the pain.

Oh, God, the pain.

There are no words for that kind of pain. It was beyond anything I had ever experienced or imagined. It was like every nerve in my body was shrieking at once. My skin was burning. My flesh was burning.

I screamed. I couldn’t help it. The scream tore out of my throat, raw and animal. I had never made a sound like that before.

I could smell my own flesh burning. That’s a smell you can never forget. Sweet and sickening and wrong.

The flames were spreading across my body. My shirt was gone in seconds, just ash. The fire was eating through my pants. My skin was blistering and splitting and charring.

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t pray. There was only pain and fire and terror.

I thrashed against my bindings, but I couldn’t move. I was tied too tightly. All I could do was writhe in agony as I burned.

I remember thinking, “This is it. This is how I die. Please, God, let it be over soon. Please.”

My screaming had become continuous. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. My body was just trying to express the agony, but there was no way to express it adequately.

The heat was unbearable. The air itself seemed to be burning. I couldn’t breathe without inhaling flame and smoke. I was choking, coughing, still screaming.

I could hear the men talking, but their voices seemed very far away. I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Nothing existed except the fire and the pain.

This went on for what felt like an eternity, but was probably less than a minute. A minute that contained more suffering than I had experienced in my entire life.

And then something happened.

I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know how to make you understand.

The fire didn’t go out. Not yet. But I felt something. Someone.

In the midst of the flames, in the midst of the pain, I felt a presence with me. It was as real as the fire, as real as the agony, as real as anything I had ever experienced. More real, actually.

I felt arms around me, though I couldn’t see them. I felt like I was being held, cradled, protected—not from the fire, but *in* the fire. With me in the fire.

It was like I wasn’t alone anymore. Like someone had stepped into the flames with me, the way Jesus stepped into the fiery furnace with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego all those centuries ago.

The pain didn’t stop, but somehow, impossibly, it became bearable. Not because it was less intense, but because I wasn’t carrying it alone.

And then I heard a voice. Not with my ears, not a sound that traveled through the air. Deeper than that. In my soul. In that place where thought becomes knowing, where the deepest truths register. It said, “You are mine, and I am with you.”

The voice was calm. It was strong. It was full of a love so vast and so personal that even through the pain and the fear, I felt it overwhelm me.

This was what I had been searching for my whole life—this presence, this love, this certainty that I was known completely and loved anyway, that I belonged to someone who would never let me go.

And I knew it was Jesus. He was there in the fire with me. The same Jesus I had read about in secret. The same Jesus I had prayed to in the darkness of my study. The same Jesus I had confessed even when it meant losing everything.

He hadn’t abandoned me. He was right there with me in the worst moment of my life.

I don’t know what happened next. I can’t explain it. The doctors I saw later couldn’t explain it either.

The fire went out.

Not slowly, not gradually. It just *stopped*. One moment I was burning, engulfed in flames. The next moment the fire was gone.

I was still lying in the pit. I was still tied up. But the flames were gone. There was smoke rising from my clothes, from my skin, but no fire.

I could hear the men shouting. They sounded shocked, confused, maybe frightened. I heard someone say something about Allah’s judgment, about a sign. I heard someone else say this wasn’t possible, that gasoline fires didn’t just go out.

I was still in terrible pain. My skin felt like it was still burning even though the flames were gone. Every breath hurt. Moving hurt. Existing hurt.

But I was alive. I *shouldn’t* have been. But I was.

The men were arguing now. I could hear them clearly even though I couldn’t see them well. My vision was blurred from smoke and tears and trauma. One voice, young and shaking, said, “This is a sign from Allah.” He said, “Maybe we were wrong. Maybe we should let him go.”

Another voice, older and harder, said, “This changes nothing. He is still an apostate. He still rejected Islam. The fire going out doesn’t change what he did.”

A third voice, the one that had led them, spoke over the others. He sounded uncertain for the first time. He said they needed to leave. Something had gone wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. They needed to go before someone came.

Someone asked what they should do about me. There was silence. Then the leader said to leave me. I was badly burnt. I was tied up. I was in the middle of the desert. I would die out here anyway. It was almost merciful, his logic. Let the desert finish what the fire had started, rather than trying again themselves.

I heard them getting into their vehicles, doors slamming, engines starting. And then they were gone. The sound of their engines faded into the distance until there was only silence.

I lay there in the pit, bound and burned, listening to them drive away. The sound of the engines faded into the distance, and then there was silence. Just silence, and the vast empty desert, and the stars overhead.

I was alone.

The pain was so intense I thought I might pass out. Maybe I did for a little while. Time became strange. I would be aware, then not aware, then aware again.

At some point, I realized I needed to move. I couldn’t just lie here. I would die here if I didn’t get help. The night was cold now that the fire was gone, and I was going into shock.

I tried to move, but the ropes held me tight. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through my burned skin. I bit down on my lip to keep from screaming again. I tasted blood.

I worked at the ropes. My wrists were still tied to my ankles behind my back, but the fire had burned some of the rope. It was weakened. If I could just…

It took a long time. I don’t know how long. My hands were burned and clumsy. The pain was making me dizzy and nauseous. But I kept working at it.

Finally, the rope broke. My hands came free. Then I could untie my ankles. Every movement was torture. But I did it.

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t hold me. I collapsed back into the pit. The sand was rough against my ruined skin. I lay there for a moment, breathing hard, trying to gather strength.

I prayed. I thanked Jesus for saving me from the fire. I asked him to help me now. I told him I couldn’t do this on my own.

And I felt that presence again, that assurance that I wasn’t alone.

I tried again to stand. This time I made it to my knees. Then, using the side of the pit, I pulled myself up to standing. The world spun. I thought I would fall, but I stayed upright.

I could see tracks in the sand where the vehicles had been. I could see which direction they had gone. That was the way back to the city, to help, to survival. But it was also the way toward the people who had tried to kill me. If I went that way and they found me, they might try again.

I looked the other direction. Just empty desert. If I went that way, I would die of exposure. I was injured, burned, in shock. I wouldn’t last long out here.

I didn’t have a good option. But I had to choose.

I started walking away from the city, into the desert. I don’t know why. Maybe because I knew I couldn’t face my attackers again. Maybe because I was delirious and wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe because God was leading me.

I just walked.

Each step was agony. The burned skin on my legs cracked and bled with every movement. My lungs ached from breathing smoke. My whole body felt like it was still on fire, even though the actual flames were long gone.

The night desert is a strange place. Beautiful and terrible at the same time. The temperature drops dramatically once the sun goes down. I had been burning minutes ago, and now I was shivering with cold. The wind against my burned skin was like knives.

I was leaving a trail of blood in the sand. I could see it in the starlight, dark spots marking where I had been. I thought about how easy it would be to track me if they came looking, but I didn’t think they would. They thought I had burned to death. They thought they had left a corpse in that pit. They didn’t know about the miracle. They didn’t know the fire had gone out.

I walked for what felt like hours, but might have been less. I had no sense of time. The stars wheeled overhead. The desert was silent except for my labored breathing and the soft sound of my feet in the sand.

My mind started playing tricks on me. The pain and shock were making me delirious. I saw things that weren’t there. Shapes in the darkness. Lights that disappeared when I looked directly at them.

At one point, I thought I heard my father’s voice calling my name. I turned around, but there was no one there. Just empty desert.

At another point, I thought I saw my children running toward me. I reached out to them, but they vanished like smoke.

I was dying. I knew I was dying. The burns were severe. I was losing blood. I was going into shock. My body was shutting down.

But I kept walking.

I fell several times. Each time it took longer to get back up. Each time I wondered if this was it, if I would just lie here and die. But each time I got up. I kept walking.

I was walking toward nothing. There was nothing out here, just sand and stars and the cold night air. But I kept walking because it was all I could do, and because Jesus had saved me from the fire. And I believed he hadn’t saved me just to let me die in the desert.

I don’t know how long I walked. Eventually, I saw something in the distance. Lights. Maybe a road. Maybe a building. I couldn’t tell.

I changed direction, heading toward the lights. They seemed impossibly far away, but I kept going. My vision was getting dark around the edges. I was stumbling more than walking now. My body was shutting down.

I saw the lights getting closer. Or maybe I was getting closer to them. It was hard to tell.

And then I saw a vehicle. It was parked on the side of a road I hadn’t even realized I had reached. There was someone next to it, looking at something under the hood.

I tried to call out, but my voice was barely a whisper. I tried to wave, but I could barely lift my arm.

I took one more step toward the person and the vehicle. And then my legs gave out completely. I fell. I hit the ground hard. The impact sent shock waves of pain through every burnt nerve. Sand stuck to my wounds. I tried to push myself up, but my arms wouldn’t work anymore. My body had nothing left.

I lay there on the side of the road, looking up at the stars. They were still beautiful, still bright, still indifferent to human suffering.

I heard footsteps, running. Someone had seen me fall.

A face appeared above me—a man, young, with dark skin and wide, shocked eyes. He said something in a language I didn’t understand, not Arabic, maybe Tagalog or Hindi. One of the foreign workers.

He knelt beside me and I saw his expression change from shock to horror as he saw my burns in the light from his vehicle.

He was talking rapidly, maybe to me, maybe to someone else. I couldn’t understand him and couldn’t respond. My throat was too damaged from screaming and smoke.

But I saw him pull out a phone. I saw him making a call. I saw genuine concern and compassion on his face as he looked at me. This stranger, this foreign worker who I would have barely noticed a year ago, was trying to save my life.

He took off his shirt and tried to cover me with it, to keep me warm maybe, or to protect my burns from the dirt and wind. The fabric touching my skin hurt, but I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t speak.

I heard sirens in the distance. The ambulance was coming, or maybe the police. I didn’t know which, and part of me didn’t care. I was just so tired.

The man stayed with me. He kept talking even though I couldn’t understand. I think he was praying. I think maybe he was a Christian. I don’t know. But his presence comforted me.

The last thing I remember thinking was, *Jesus, thank you. You saved me. You saved me. Not just from the fire, but you sent this stranger to find me. You brought the ambulance. You orchestrated even this. You haven’t abandoned me in the nothingness.*

I woke up in a hospital. I didn’t know where I was at first. I didn’t know how I had gotten there. I didn’t know how much time had passed. Everything was white and bright and clean. So different from the dark desert, the fire, the sand, and blood.

I tried to move and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through my entire body. My skin felt like it was being pulled apart. I made a sound, something between a gasp and a scream.

A nurse appeared beside my bed. She was speaking to me, but I couldn’t focus on her words. The pain was overwhelming everything else. She did something, adjusted something, and slowly the pain became more manageable—not gone, but bearable. I realized she had given me medication through the IV in my arm.

As the pain receded enough for me to think, I looked down at myself. My arms were wrapped in bandages. My chest was wrapped. I could feel bandages on my legs, my back. I was covered in them.

The nurse was explaining something about my burns, about the treatment, about how lucky I was to be alive. I heard words like *second degree* and *third degree* and *extensive damage*.

I heard *miracle*, too. She said it was a miracle I had survived.

She didn’t know how right she was.

I tried to ask questions, but my throat was so damaged I could barely make sounds. The nurse understood and brought me water with a straw. Even swallowing hurt, but the water was cool and I was so thirsty.

I managed to whisper, “How long?”

She told me I had been in the hospital for 3 days. I had been unconscious for most of it. They had kept me sedated while they treated the worst of the burns.

3 days. It felt like both a moment and an eternity since I had been in that desert pit.

Over the next few days, as I drifted in and out of consciousness, I learned more about what had happened after I collapsed on the roadside. The man who found me was a Filipino worker named Carlos. He had stopped because his truck had overheated. When he saw me fall, he had immediately called for help. He had stayed with me until the ambulance arrived.

The medics who responded hadn’t known what to make of my burns. They were severe, but not severe enough for how fresh they appeared to be. They asked me what happened, but I was unconscious by then.

At the hospital, they had treated my burns as best they could. They had cleaned the wounds, applied dressings, given me antibiotics and pain medication. They had kept me stable while my body tried to heal from the trauma. But they were confused. The pattern of my burns didn’t make sense. They looked like fire burns, but they weren’t consistent with being in a building fire or a vehicle fire. And why had I been out in the desert?

I couldn’t tell them the truth. If I told them I had been burned for apostasy, for leaving Islam, they would have to report it. And then the men who tried to kill me might come back to finish the job.

So I said I didn’t remember. I said I had been attacked but couldn’t remember the details. I implied I had been robbed maybe and left for dead. The doctors seemed skeptical, but they didn’t push too hard. Saudi Arabia is a place where sometimes it’s better not to ask too many questions.

What I didn’t realize yet was that my disappearance had caused problems for the men who had tried to kill me. My wife had reported me missing when I didn’t come home that first night. The mosque had to explain where I was. They couldn’t say they had handed me over to be killed. So they said I had left, that I had abandoned my family and my faith.

But then I turned up in a hospital, burnt and nearly dead. Now there were questions. If I had simply left, how did I end up burnt? Who had done this to me? Where had I been?

My wife came to see me on the fourth day. I saw her before she saw me. She was standing in the doorway of my hospital room, and the expression on her face was one I had never seen before. Horror mixed with disgust mixed with grief.

When she finally looked at me, really looked at me, she began to cry. She came closer, but she didn’t touch me. She stood at the foot of my bed and asked me why. Why had I done this? Why had I thrown everything away? Why had I become an apostate?

So she knew. Of course she knew. The mosque would have told her.

I tried to speak, but my voice was still rough and weak. I told her I was sorry. I told her I loved her and the children. I told her I had found truth and couldn’t deny it.

She shook her head. She said I had found lies. She said I had been deceived by shaitan. She said I had destroyed our family.

I wanted to reach out to her, but I couldn’t move without pain. And I knew she wouldn’t have accepted my touch anyway.

She told me the children were asking for me. Khaled kept asking when I was coming home. Our daughter cried at night. Even the baby seemed to sense something was wrong.

Then she said the words I had been dreading: I couldn’t come home. Not to her. Not while I was an apostate. My father had taken them in. He was caring for them, raising them in a proper Muslim household, protecting them from my influence.

I felt something break inside me, a pain worse than the burns. My children. My babies. I would never see them again.

I begged her. I told her to let me see them just once. Let me explain to them that I loved them. Let me say goodbye properly.

She said no. She said it would only confuse them, only hurt them more. Better for them to think I had abandoned them than to see me like this, to know what I had become.

She stayed for a few more minutes, but there was nothing left to say. She looked at me one last time, and I saw that she was already mourning me. Already treating me as if I were dead.

Then she left.

I lay in that hospital bed and wept. Not quietly, not with dignity. I sobbed like a child, and the sobs hurt my burned chest and my damaged throat, but I couldn’t stop.

I had known there would be a cost to following Jesus. I had known I might lose my family. But knowing it intellectually and experiencing it emotionally were completely different things. My children were gone. My wife was gone. My father had disowned me. My brothers would never speak to me again. My community had rejected me. I was alone.

In that moment, I questioned whether it had been worth it. I had gained Jesus, yes, but I had lost everyone else. The pain was so deep, I thought it might kill me when the burns couldn’t.

But then, in that darkness, I felt Jesus again. Not a dramatic presence from the fire, just a quiet, steady assurance. A reminder: *You are not alone. I am with you, and I will never leave you.*

It didn’t take away the pain, but it kept me from drowning in it.

The days that followed were difficult in ways I hadn’t expected. The physical pain was bad enough. The burns were healing slowly, and every dressing change was agony. I had to learn to move again, to walk again. Simple things like eating or using the bathroom became ordeals.

But the emotional and psychological pain was worse. I had nightmares every night. I would wake up screaming, feeling the fire again, smelling the gasoline, hearing the men’s voices. The nurses would rush in to calm me down, to give me medication. But the fear remained. I was afraid to sleep, afraid to close my eyes, afraid the fire would come back.

I was also afraid that the men who had tried to kill me would find me. Every time someone new came into my room, my heart would race. Every unexpected sound made me jump. I was constantly on edge, constantly waiting for them to come finish what they started.

The hospital social worker came to see me. She wanted to know about my living situation, about my family support, about my plans for when I was discharged. I had no answers for her. I had no home to go back to. My family wanted nothing to do with me. I had no money, no job, no plan. I was a man with severe burns who would need ongoing medical care. I was a known apostate in a country where that could get you killed. I had nothing and no one.

The social worker looked troubled. She said she would see what she could do, but I could tell she didn’t know how to help me.

It was Carlos, the man who had found me, who ended up helping. He came to visit me in the hospital. He brought fruit and juice, and he sat beside my bed and told me he had been praying for me.

That word *praying* caught my attention. I asked him carefully what he meant, and he smiled and said he was a Christian. He had been praying for me since the night he found me.

I started to cry again. Here was another Christian, sent by God at exactly the moment I needed him.

Carlos told me about the underground church in Riyadh. There weren’t many Christians who could meet openly, but there were small groups of believers, mostly foreign workers, who met in secret to worship together. He said if I needed help, if I needed a place to stay, if I needed community, he could connect me with them.

I nodded. Yes, I needed all of those things.

When I was finally discharged from the hospital, I had nowhere to go. But Carlos had arranged for me to stay in a small room in a building where several Filipino workers lived. It wasn’t much, just a single room with a mattress on the floor, but it was safe and it was shelter.

The workers there knew what I was. They knew I was a Saudi who had converted to Christianity. They knew I was in danger, but they welcomed me anyway.

For the first time in my life, I experienced real Christian community. These men and women, foreigners in Saudi Arabia, working difficult jobs for low pay, far from their families. They shared what little they had with me. They brought me food. They helped me change my bandages. They prayed with me.

And on Friday evenings, when the Muslim world was at mosque, we would gather quietly in someone’s room and worship Jesus together.

I cannot describe what it meant to finally worship openly, to sing praise songs without fear, to pray aloud in a group of believers. I had been a Christian for over a year, but I had never experienced corporate worship. It was beautiful. It was healing.

These people, my new brothers and sisters in Christ, helped me in ways I didn’t know I needed. They listened to my story. They cried with me over my losses. They prayed for my family. They reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

One woman, a nurse named Maria, helped me process my trauma. She had medical training and spiritual wisdom. She explained to me that what I was experiencing—the nightmares, the fear, the sudden panic—were symptoms of trauma. She said it was normal, that my brain and body were trying to process what had happened to me. She taught me breathing exercises. She taught me grounding techniques for when the panic came. She sat with me during the nightmares and reminded me that I was safe, that the fire was in the past, that Jesus had saved me.

Slowly, very slowly, I began to heal. Not just physically—though my burns were improving—but emotionally and spiritually, too. I began to understand that God had saved me for a reason. I was alive when I should be dead. I had survived when there was no natural explanation for my survival. God had a purpose for me. He had a plan.

But understanding that intellectually didn’t make the day-to-day reality easier. I still struggled. I still hurt. I still grieved.

Some days were better than others. Some days I would wake up and feel grateful to be alive. Grateful for my new Christian family. Grateful for the freedom to worship Jesus openly in our small gatherings.

Other days I would wake up and the first thing I would think about was my children. I would wonder what they were doing at that exact moment. Were they eating breakfast, going to school, playing? Did they miss me? Did they remember me? The not knowing was torture.

I wanted to try to see them, to find a way to send them a message, to let them know I still love them. But Maria and Carlos both counseled me against it. They said it would be too dangerous, both for me and for them. My father was surely watching for any attempt I might make to contact them. And if I did manage to reach them, what would I say? How could I explain to children so young why their father had chosen a different god?

So I prayed for them instead. Every morning and every night, I prayed for their safety, their health, their happiness. I prayed that somehow, someday, they would understand, that they would come to know Jesus, too, that we would be reunited, if not in this life, then in the next.

Those prayers were often the only thing that kept me going.

I also had to grieve what I had lost. I thought about my children constantly. I wondered what they were being told about me. I wondered if they hated me. I wondered if they would grow up thinking their father had abandoned them, not knowing that I had wanted nothing more than to be with them.

I thought about my wife, Ila. I had loved her as best as I knew how. I had tried to be a good husband, and now she was alone, raising three children without me, bearing the shame of having an apostate for a husband.

I thought about my father, who had devoted his life to Islam and to raising me in that faith. How betrayed he must feel, how devastated that his eldest son, the one he had trained to follow in his footsteps, had rejected everything he held dear.

The grief came in waves. Sometimes I would be fine, focusing on my recovery, grateful to be alive. And then suddenly I would be overwhelmed with sadness, with loss, with the weight of what my faith had cost.

My new Christian friends understood. They didn’t try to rush me through the grief. They didn’t tell me to just be happy because I had Jesus. They let me mourn. They mourned with me.

And through it all, Jesus was faithful. In my darkest moments, when I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake, when I wondered if the cost was too high, he would remind me of his presence. Sometimes through scripture, sometimes through a brother or sister speaking words of encouragement, sometimes just through a quiet sense of peace that I couldn’t explain.

I remembered the voice in the fire. *You are mine, and I am with you.* That promise sustained me.

As the months passed, I grew stronger. My burns healed, leaving scars that would be with me forever. But I could move again. I could function again. I could live again.

Carlos helped me find work. It was simple labor, work that foreign workers usually did, but I was grateful for it. It gave me purpose and income.

The work was hard—construction sites, loading and unloading trucks, cleaning, maintenance. Physical labor that made my healing burns ache. The other workers, mostly from South Asia and the Philippines, were kind to me despite my Saudi background. They knew my story. They knew I was one of them now, not in nationality, but in faith and in circumstance.

I learned humility through that work. I, who had been a teacher, who had been respected, who had sat in meetings with other religious leaders, was now doing the kind of work I had previously taken for granted. The kind of work done by people I had barely noticed.

But I learned to find dignity in it. Honest work is honest work. And I was providing for myself through my own hands, not through my family’s position or my religious credentials.

The work also kept me busy, which helped with the grief and the trauma. When I was physically exhausted at the end of the day, I slept better. The nightmares still came, but less frequently.

I was living a completely different life than the one I had known. I had gone from being a respected religious teacher to being a laborer. From having a family and a home to living in a single room. From being a Saudi with status to being treated almost like a foreign worker.

But I was free. Free to worship Jesus openly, at least in the privacy of our small group. Free to read the Bible without hiding. Free to pray without pretending. And I was loved. My Christian community, these brothers and sisters who had barely known me, loved me in a way I had never experienced in all my years as a Muslim. They loved me not because of what I could do or how righteous I was, but simply because we were family in Christ.

It was during this time that I was baptized. I had wanted to be baptized since the moment I believed in Jesus, but circumstances had made it impossible. Now, finally, I could take that step.

We gathered one evening in someone’s apartment. They had filled a large tub with water. It wasn’t a river or a baptismal pool in a church. It was simple and humble, but it was sacred.

Carlos baptized me. As he lowered me under the water, I thought about dying to my old life. When he raised me up, I thought about resurrection, about new life in Christ. My brothers and sisters gathered around, sang softly, praising God. And I wept, overcome with joy and gratitude.

This was my public declaration of faith. Not in a mosque or in front of my old community, but here among these believers who had become my family.

After my baptism, I felt a new freedom. I had taken the step I had been afraid to take for so long. I had publicly identified with Christ. And the world hadn’t ended. In fact, I felt more alive than I ever had.

One evening, about 6 months after the fire, we were having a Bible study in Carlos’s room. We were reading from Romans chapter 8. Someone read aloud: “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

As I heard those words, I felt something settle in my spirit. Nothing could separate me from God’s love. Not fire, not persecution, not loss, not even death. The men who had tried to kill me thought they could separate me from Jesus by burning me alive. But they couldn’t. Even in the fire, he was with me. My family had separated themselves from me because of my faith. But God’s love remained.

I had lost everything I thought defined me. But I had gained something far more valuable.

I looked around at the faces of my brothers and sisters gathered in that small room. We came from different countries, spoke different languages as our first tongue, had different backgrounds, but we were one in Christ. This was the church. This was what Jesus had died to create. This was the family that would last forever.

I realized that God had not just saved me *from* the fire. He had saved me *for* this. To be part of his family, to know his love, to share his gospel.

And I understood that my story wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

The burns on my body were healed enough that I could show them to people. The scars remained, deep and visible. But instead of being ashamed of them, I began to see them as a testimony. These scars were proof of what had happened to me. Proof that I had been set on fire for my faith. Proof that Jesus had saved me when I should have died. Every time someone asked about my scars, I had an opportunity to tell them about Jesus, to explain what he had done for me, to share the gospel.

I began to understand that God had allowed me to survive, not just for my own sake, but so I could tell others what he had done.

Maria told me one day that the best way to overcome trauma is to find meaning in it, to transform suffering into purpose. My suffering had meaning. It wasn’t meaningless pain. It was a testimony to God’s faithfulness. It was proof that he saves those who call on him. It was evidence that following Jesus is worth any cost.

I started to feel a growing conviction that I needed to tell my story more widely, not just to the small group of believers I worshiped with, but to the world.

I knew it would be dangerous. I knew that speaking openly about my conversion and persecution would put me at even more risk. But I also knew that there were others out there like me. Secret believers in Saudi Arabia and across the Muslim world, living in fear, hiding their faith, wondering if anyone else understood what they were going through. I wanted them to know they weren’t alone. I wanted them to know that Jesus is real, that he saves, that he is worth following, even when it costs everything.

I also wanted Christians in the free world to know what their brothers and sisters in restricted countries are facing. To know that persecution isn’t ancient history, it’s happening right now. To know that people are dying for their faith even today.

And I wanted non-Christians, especially Muslims, to hear my story. Not to mock Islam or to be disrespectful, but to share what I had found in Jesus. To explain why I believed he was worth losing everything for.

This growing conviction became a calling. I felt God asking me to step out of safety and into purpose, to use my story to glorify him and to help others.

It terrified me, but it also excited me. I was alive for a reason, and that reason was becoming clear.

I needed to tell the world what Jesus had done for me. I needed to testify to his faithfulness. I needed to be a voice for those who couldn’t speak.

My life would never be normal again. My family was gone. My old life was gone. My safety was always at risk. But I had a purpose. I had a mission. I had been through the fire, and Jesus had brought me through it. Now I would spend the rest of my life telling people why.

The scars on my body would fade over time, but they would never completely disappear. And I was glad. They were reminders of what God had done. They were marks of his faithfulness. Every morning when I woke up and saw those scars, I remembered: I should be dead, but I’m alive. And that’s a miracle. A miracle that I would spend the rest of my life sharing with anyone who would listen.

I’m telling you this story today because it needs to be told. Not for my glory. I’m not a hero. I’m just a man who found truth and was willing to lose everything to keep it. A man who was terrified when they set me on fire. Who screamed in agony. Who didn’t face death with courage, but with fear. But Jesus saved me anyway.

And that’s the point. This isn’t my story. It’s *his* story. It’s about what he did, not what I did. And I’m telling it because there are people who need to hear it.

To those who are being persecuted for your faith right now, wherever you are in the world, I want you to know something. You are not alone. I know what it’s like to be afraid every single day. I know what it’s like to hide your faith, to pretend to be something you’re not, to live in constant fear of discovery. I know what it’s like to lose your family because of Jesus. I know the pain of being rejected by the people you love most. I know what it feels like when your own father says you’re no longer his son.

I know what it’s like to face violence for your faith. I know what fire feels like. I know what it’s like to think you’re going to die.

And I want to tell you, Jesus is with you. He was with me in the fire. Not figuratively. Actually with me. I felt his presence. I heard his voice. He held me when the flames were consuming me. And he’s with you now in whatever fire you’re facing. Whether it’s physical persecution or emotional rejection or the daily struggle of hiding your faith, he’s there.

Your suffering matters. It’s not meaningless. It’s not in vain. God sees every tear. He knows every fear. He understands every loss. And one day—one day—it will all make sense. One day, you’ll understand why he allowed what he allowed. One day, you’ll see how he was working even in the darkest moments.

But even if that day doesn’t come in this life, even if you never understand why, I can tell you this: He is worth it. Jesus is worth every cost. Worth every sacrifice. Worth every loss. Because he is truth, and he is life, and he is love.

Don’t give up. Don’t let fear make you deny him. Hold on. He’s holding you.

To the secret believers in Muslim countries, hiding your faith because discovery means death: I see you. I was you for almost a year. I lived that double life. I know the exhaustion of it. I know the guilt and the fear and the loneliness. I know how it feels to teach Islam while believing in Jesus. I know how it feels to bow in prayer at the mosque while your heart is crying out to a different God. I know how it feels to deny Jesus with your words even while your heart is clinging to him.

And I want to tell you, I understand. I understand the impossible position you’re in. I understand that you can’t just confess your faith and face the consequences. You have families who depend on you. You have children to protect. You have parents who would be destroyed if they knew.

I’m not going to tell you to go announce your faith tomorrow and prepare to die. That’s not my place. Only God can tell you when the time is right.

But I am going to tell you this: You can’t live that double life forever. Eventually, you’ll have to choose. Either you’ll have to deny Jesus and return fully to Islam, or you’ll have to confess him and accept the consequences. And when that day comes, when you have to choose, choose Jesus.

Yes, it will cost you everything. Yes, you’ll lose people you love. Yes, you might face violence or death. I won’t lie to you about that. But I’ll also tell you that he’s worth it, and that he will be with you no matter what happens.

In the meantime, be wise. Be careful. Protect yourself and your family. But don’t deny him in your heart. Keep reading the Bible. Keep praying. Keep seeking fellowship however you can, even if it’s just online with other believers you’ll never meet. And trust that God has a plan. He brought you to faith for a reason. He’ll make a way for you when the time is right.

Just don’t give up on him. Because he’ll never give up on you.

To Christians in free countries, who can worship openly without fear, who’ve never faced persecution for your faith, I have a message for you, too.

Wake up.

Wake up to what’s happening to your brothers and sisters around the world. We are being persecuted. We are being imprisoned. We are being killed. Right now. Today. While you’re sitting in comfortable churches, singing worship songs without fear, we’re hiding in secret rooms, whispering our prayers, afraid of being discovered. While you’re debating theological fine points and church programs, we’re facing actual life-and-death decisions about our faith. While you’re complaining that someone was rude to you for being a Christian, we’re being tortured and murdered.

I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. I’m saying it because you need to know. You need to know what’s happening. You need to know that persecution isn’t ancient history. It’s happening now. And you need to do something about it.

Pray for us. Please pray for us. Pray for believers in Saudi Arabia and Iran and Pakistan and North Korea and Somalia and every other place where following Jesus can get you killed. Pray for those of us who have been separated from our families. Pray for those who are in prison. Pray for those who are being tortured. Pray for those who are about to die. Your prayers matter. They really do. I felt them even when I didn’t know who was praying. I felt the prayers of believers around the world holding me up.

But don’t just pray. Advocate. Speak up. Use whatever influence you have, whatever platform you have, to tell the world what’s happening to Christians in restricted countries. When your government has opportunities to help persecuted believers, push them to do so. When organizations are working to help us, support them. When refugees from our countries come to yours, welcome them.

And support missions and ministries that are working in the hardest places. Support the underground church. Support the translation work that gets Bibles into restricted countries. Support the radio and internet ministries that reach into closed nations.

Your freedom comes with responsibility. You have the ability to help us. Please use it.

And one more thing: don’t take your freedom for granted. I had everything I thought made life worth living. And I lost it all for Jesus. You have freedom to worship, freedom to gather, freedom to speak about your faith—and sometimes you don’t even use it. You have Bibles in your language, as many as you want, and you don’t read them. You have churches on every corner, and you don’t attend them. You have the freedom to share the gospel, and you stay silent.

Please don’t waste what you have. Don’t waste your freedom. Use it. Use it to worship Jesus boldly. Use it to grow in your faith. Use it to tell others about him. Because you don’t know how long you’ll have it. Freedom can disappear faster than you think.

And ask yourself: if persecution came to your country tomorrow, if being a Christian became dangerous where you live, would your faith survive? Would you be willing to lose everything for Jesus?

I’m not trying to judge you. I’m asking you to examine your heart. Because one day you might have to answer that question for real.

To Muslims who are searching for truth, who have questions about Islam, who feel that emptiness I felt: I want to speak to you with respect and love.

I was where you are. I was a devoted Muslim. I believed in Allah with all my heart. I followed every rule. I did everything I was supposed to do. And I was empty inside.

I don’t say this to mock Islam or to disrespect you. I say it because it’s true. And maybe you feel it, too. Maybe you’ve been praying five times a day and fasting during Ramadan and reading the Quran, and you still feel like there’s something missing. Maybe you’ve been trying to earn Allah’s favor and you’re exhausted from the effort. Maybe you have questions you’re afraid to ask. Questions about things in the Quran or the Hadith that trouble you. Questions about whether Allah really loves you. Questions about whether you’re doing enough to get to paradise.

I had those questions. And I was terrified of them, because I thought having questions meant I was weak in faith. But now I understand: questions are not weakness. Questions are the beginning of finding truth.

I want to tell you about Jesus. Not to force you to believe, not to trick you or deceive you, just to share what I found.

Jesus claimed to be God in human form. He said he was the way to God. Not just a way, but the only way. He said he came to give eternal life to everyone who believes in him. And then he proved it by dying on a cross for our sins and rising from the dead three days later.

I know Islam teaches something different. I know you’ve been told that Jesus was just a prophet, that he didn’t really die, that Christians are mistaken. But I’m asking you to investigate for yourself. Read the Gospels. Read what Jesus actually said and did. Don’t just accept what you’ve been told about Christianity. Look at the evidence yourself.

I did. And I found that Jesus was telling the truth. I found that salvation is not something you earn by being good enough. It’s a gift. Jesus paid the price for our sins. And all we have to do is accept that gift by believing in him.

I found that God is not distant and unknowable. He is a father who loves his children. He wants a relationship with you, not just your obedience.

I found peace. I found forgiveness. I found love. I found everything I had been searching for my whole life.

Yes, it cost me everything. I lost my family. I lost my position. I was set on fire and left to die. But I gained Jesus. And he is worth more than everything I lost.

I’m not asking you to make the decision I made right now. I’m just asking you to be open. To ask the questions. To search for truth, even if it leads somewhere you didn’t expect.

God will reveal himself to those who genuinely seek him. If you ask him to show you the truth, he will. Just be ready for the answer. Because when you find truth, you’ll have to decide what to do with it. And that decision will change your life.

To those who don’t believe in God at all, who think all of this is superstition or delusion, I want to say something to you, too.

I understand your skepticism. I really do. This story sounds incredible. A man set on fire who survives because God miraculously put out the flames. It sounds like something from a movie or a fantasy novel. If someone had told me this story before it happened to me, I might have been skeptical, too.

But it happened. It really happened. And I have the scars to prove it.

The doctors who treated me couldn’t explain how I survived. The burns were severe, third-degree in places. I should have died from shock or infection, even if the fire hadn’t killed me outright. But I didn’t die. I’m here. I’m alive. And there’s no natural explanation for that.

I’m not asking you to just believe me because I say so. I’m asking you to consider the evidence.

Consider that I had everything to lose and nothing to gain by converting to Christianity. I lost my family, my position, my safety, my comfort. What would motivate me to make that choice unless I believed it was true?

Consider that I was willing to burn alive rather than deny Jesus. People don’t die for things they know are lies. They might die for things they mistakenly believe are true, but not for deliberate lies.

Consider that there are thousands of people like me in countries all over the world who are risking everything for Jesus, who are being imprisoned, tortured, killed. Why would they do that for a fairy tale?

Consider that Christianity has survived 2,000 years of persecution. Empires have tried to stamp it out. Governments have tried to eliminate it. And yet it keeps growing, especially in the places where it’s most persecuted. There’s something real here, something that can’t be explained away by psychology or sociology or wishful thinking.

I found Jesus, and he changed everything. He’s more real to me than anything else in my life.

You don’t have to believe me. But I’m asking you to at least consider it. Consider that maybe, just maybe, there’s a God who loves you, who made you, who wants to know you. And consider what you’ll do if it’s true.

To everyone listening, regardless of who you are or what you believe, I want to tell you what I learned from all of this.

I learned that faith costs something. Real faith always costs something. It’s easy to believe when belief is convenient. The test comes when belief becomes costly.

I learned that Jesus is faithful even when we’re not. I denied him for months, living a double life, teaching Islam while believing in him. And he never left me. He was patient with me. He waited for me to find courage.

I learned that God’s love is not something we earn. It’s something we receive. All my life in Islam, I tried to earn Allah’s favor by being good enough. I was exhausted by the effort and never sure if I had done enough. But Jesus’ love is a gift, freely given to those who believe in him.

I learned that suffering has purpose. I don’t understand all of it. I don’t know why God allowed me to go through what I went through. But I know it wasn’t meaningless. My suffering has become my testimony. My scars have become my platform to share the gospel.

I learned that we are not alone. Even in the darkest moments, even in the fire itself, Jesus was with me. And he’s with every believer who is suffering. We are never abandoned.

I learned that the church is a family that transcends every human boundary. The believers who took me in, who cared for me, who loved me, came from different countries and spoke different languages, but we were one family in Christ. That’s real. That’s powerful.

I learned that persecution cannot stop the gospel. They tried to kill me to silence the testimony of a Muslim-background believer. But they failed. I’m alive, and I’m telling my story to anyone who will listen. Every attempt to silence the gospel only makes it spread more.

I learned that Jesus is worth everything. Every cost. Every sacrifice. Every loss. He is worth it all.

I want to end by telling you what I’m doing now and why I’m sharing this story publicly.

After I recovered from the burns, after I found my Christian community, I knew I couldn’t stay silent. I had survived for a reason. God had saved me, and I needed to tell people why.

So I started sharing my testimony. First with small groups of believers, then in online forums, then with Christian organizations that work with persecuted believers.

And now I’m sharing it with you.

I know it’s dangerous. I know that speaking publicly about my conversion and my survival makes me a target. There are people who would still like to silence me, to finish what they started in that desert.

But I can’t be silent. Too many people need to hear this message.

Secret believers need to know they are not alone. Persecuted Christians need to know people care. Muslims searching for truth need to know about Jesus. And comfortable Christians need to wake up to what’s happening in the world.

My life is not my own anymore. I gave it to Jesus the night I first believed in him. He bought me with his blood on the cross, and then he saved me from the fire. My life belongs to him, and I’ll use it however he wants.

If that means speaking out despite the danger, then that’s what I’ll do. If it means eventually dying for my faith, then I’ll die. I’ve already faced death once. I know Jesus is on the other side. I’m not afraid anymore.

But until that day comes, I’ll keep telling my story. I’ll keep testifying to what Jesus has done. I’ll keep being a voice for the voiceless and a witness to the world.

I look at my scars every day. They’re permanent. They’ll be with me for the rest of my life.

When I first got them, I hated them. They were reminders of the worst night of my life. Reminders of pain and fear and loss.

But now I see them differently. These scars are proof. Proof that I was set on fire for my faith. Proof that I should have died. Proof that Jesus saved me.

These scars are my testimony. Every time someone asks about them, I get to tell them about Jesus. Every time I see them, I remember his faithfulness.

The fire couldn’t consume me because Jesus wouldn’t let it. The flames couldn’t destroy me because he had more for me to do.

I am a walking miracle. A living testimony. A witness to the power and love of Jesus Christ.

And I will spend every day I have left making sure people know what he did for me.

There’s a verse in the Bible that has become very important to me. It’s from the book of Revelation, and it talks about believers who overcome Satan. It says: “They triumphed over him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony. They did not love their lives so much as to shrink from death.”

By the blood of the Lamb—by what Jesus did on the cross—we have victory. By the word of our testimony—by telling what Jesus has done—we overcome. And by not loving our lives more than we love Jesus—by being willing to die rather than deny him—we triumph.

That’s what I’m trying to do. To live out that verse. To testify to what Jesus has done. To show that he is worth more than life itself.

I didn’t choose this path. Or maybe I did when I chose to follow Jesus. But either way, this is where God has led me, and I wouldn’t change it. Even with all the pain, all the loss, all the suffering, I wouldn’t go back. Because I know Jesus now. I’ve experienced his love, his presence, his faithfulness. And that’s worth everything.

So why am I telling you all of this? Why am I sharing such a painful, personal story with the world?

Because it’s not about me. It’s about Jesus. It’s about what he can do. It’s about who he is. It’s about how much he loves us.

If he loved me enough to save me from that fire, he loves you enough to save you from whatever you’re facing. If he was faithful to me in my darkest moment, he’ll be faithful to you in yours.

The message of my story is simple: Jesus is real. He saves. And he is worth following, no matter the cost.

That’s the message I lived for. That’s the message I was willing to die for. And that’s the message I’ll keep proclaiming for as long as I have breath.

The fire couldn’t consume me because God wasn’t finished with my story. He had more for me to do. He had this testimony for me to share.

And now you’ve heard it.

The question is, what will you do with it?

If you are being persecuted, will you hold on to Jesus?

If you’re a secret believer, will you trust that God has a plan?

If you’re a comfortable Christian, will you wake up and help your suffering brothers and sisters?

If you’re a Muslim searching for truth, will you investigate Jesus?

If you’re a skeptic, will you at least consider that this might be real?

What will you do with this testimony? Because it’s not just a story. It’s an invitation. An invitation to know the Jesus I know. To experience the love I’ve experienced. To find the truth I found.

He’s waiting for you with open arms. Ready to forgive. Ready to save. Ready to transform your life.

All you have to do is come to him. Believe in him. Trust him.

Yes, it might cost you everything. It cost me everything.

But you’ll gain far more than you lose.

You’ll gain Jesus. And he is worth it all.

I don’t know what the future holds for me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep sharing my story publicly, or if eventually someone will succeed in silencing me. I don’t know if I’ll ever see my children again in this life. I don’t know how long I’ll live or how I’ll die.

But I know who holds my future. I know Jesus has me in his hands. And I know that nothing—not fire, not persecution, not even death—can separate me from his love.

That’s enough. That’s more than enough.

So I’ll keep walking forward, one day at a time, trusting him, following him, testifying about him.

And if you’re on this journey too, if you’re following Jesus despite the cost, know that you’re not alone. We are walking together—the global church, the family of God, united by our faith in Christ.

We’ll face hardship. We’ll face persecution. Some of us will face death. But we’ll face it together. And we’ll face it knowing that Jesus has already won the victory. Death couldn’t hold him. And it won’t hold us either.

One day, we’ll all be together in his presence. No more tears. No more pain. No more persecution. No more fear. Just Jesus and his people and perfect joy forever.

That’s the hope I’m holding on to. That’s the promise that keeps me going.

And until that day comes, I’ll keep telling my story. I’ll keep pointing people to Jesus. I’ll keep saying what the fire proved to be true:

Jesus saves. Jesus is faithful. And Jesus is worth everything.

That’s my testimony. That’s my message. That’s my life.

The fire couldn’t consume me because God had more for me to do.

And now I’ve done it. I’ve told you my story.

What you do with it is up to you.

But I pray you’ll choose Jesus. I pray you’ll find the truth I found. I pray you’ll experience the love that saved me from the fire.

Because he’s real. He’s here. And he’s waiting for you.

Don’t wait too long to find him. Life is short. Eternity is long.

Choose wisely.

Choose Jesus.

May God bless you wherever you are, whatever you’re facing. May he reveal himself to you. May he draw you to his Son. And may you come to know the love that I know—the love that saved me, the love that will never let me go.

In Jesus’ name, amen.