My name is Prince Khaled.

I am 33 years old and on a bright morning in Riyad, I was led to the center of Dera Square to be executed for leaving Islam.

The sword was raised above my neck and the crowd fell silent.

But before the blade could fall, the sky itself turned against the moment.

A violent sandstorm swept through the city, blinding everyone in its path.

I should have died that day.

But God had another plan.

Let me tell you how a Sudi prince who once bowed before royal power came to bow before the living Christ.

I am the third child of a distant cousin to King Salman.

Which means that I was born into a royal family though not into the immediate line of succession.

From the day I was born, my life was wrapped in luxury and strict rules.

I grew up inside tall palace walls where marble floors shone brighter than mirrors and fountains ran with cold water even in the heat of the desert.

Servants bowed when I walked past.

Guards stood at every door.

My father, Prince Fad, was a respected man known for his devotion to Islam and his loyalty to our family.

My mother was gentle, loving, and strong.

From her, I learned kindness.

From my father, I learned discipline.

My earliest memories were of the royal mosque near our palace where I began learning the Quran when I was only 4 years old.

Every morning before breakfast, my teacher, Shik Abdul Rahman, would sit with me and my brothers.

He had a long white beard and a voice that carried both authority and warmth.

He would say, “Khalid, remember, every word of Allah you memorize will shine like a light in your heart.”

I wanted that light.

So, I worked hard.

By the time I was 10, I could recite long suras from memory.

and my father was proud.

We prayed five times a day, fasted during Ramadan and gave zakat to the poor.

Religion was not just faith in our house.

It was our life, our culture and our identity.

I never questioned it.

I only knew that being a good Muslim meant obeying, respecting, and serving.

Life inside the royal compound was like living in another world.

We had private tutors for every subject.

math, science, English, history, and Quranic studies.

My days were full of lessons, sports, and ceremonies.

I rode horses in the palace courtyard, learned to shoot arrows, and studied leadership from military officers.

Everyone told me that one day I would serve as a governor or advisor in our royal administration.

I was expected to be strong, confident, and wise.

Yet, even as a teenager, when I had everything a young man could want, expensive cars, servants, and respect, something inside me felt empty.

I couldn’t explain it then.

It was like standing in the middle of a grand banquet with a thousand dishes, but having no appetite.

At night, when the palace became quiet and the city lights of Riyad twinkled like stars, I often sat by my window and looked out over the desert.

I would see the dunes stretching endlessly under the moonlight and wonder what lay beyond them.

I was supposed to feel blessed, and I did.

But I also felt trapped.

Everything in my life had already been decided for me.

what I would believe, who I would marry, what position I would hold.

Sometimes I would whisper into the darkness, “Ya Allah, is this all there is? Is this the only way life can be?”

But I quickly pushed those thoughts away, fearing they were wrong to think.

My father was a man of prayer and power.

He loved Allah deeply and demanded the same from his sons.

He often took me to meet important religious leaders in Riyad.

One of them, Imam Yuf, once said to me, “Prince Khaled, never forget that our strength as Muslims is our obedience to Allah’s laws. Without Islam, we are nothing.”

I nodded respectfully, but something in his tone made me uneasy.

He spoke of obedience, but not of peace.

He spoke of power, but not of love.

That night I couldn’t sleep.

I began to notice how fear often guided people.

Fear of sin, fear of shame, fear of failure.

I respected our faith, but I wondered why it felt so heavy on the heart.

As I grew older, my responsibilities increased.

I attended royal events, met foreign diplomats, and learned to speak English fluently.

I loved reading about the world outside Saudi Arabia.

I admired how different nations had their own belief systems and freedoms.

My favorite subjects were history and philosophy.

Uh I enjoyed asking questions.

But in our world, questions could be dangerous.

When I was 22, my father told me that I had been chosen to continue my studies abroad.

You will study international relations at George Washington University in the United States, he said with pride.

Learn what you can, but never forget who you are.

A son of Islam and a prince of Arabia.

I promised him I would not forget.

Leaving Saudi Arabia for the first time felt like leaving a golden cage.

I remember the day I boarded the plane.

My mother hugged me tightly and whispered, “Khalid, keep your faith strong. The world is full of distractions.”

My father simply nodded, confident that I was prepared.

I carried with me the Quran, my prayer mat, and a heart full of mixed feelings, excitement, fear, and curiosity.

I didn’t know that the journey I was starting would plant the first seeds of change in my heart.

In Washington DC, everything was different.

The air felt lighter.

People spoke freely, laughed loudly, and questioned everything.

I was not treated like a prince there, just another student.

At first, it was strange.

No one bowed or called me your highness.

I had to do simple things for myself, wash my clothes, cook my meals, and find my way around.

But instead of feeling insulted, I felt free.

I could walk down the street unnoticed.

I could sit in a cafe and talk with anyone.

For the first time in my life, I saw how ordinary people lived, and I liked it.

Even though my faith was strong, I was naturally curious about others.

Many of my classmates were Christians, and I was surprised by how kind and sincere they were.

One of them, a Nigerian student named Daniel, often invited me to join group discussions after class.

He never argued about religion or tried to convert me.

He simply shared stories of hope and forgiveness that came from his Bible.

Sometimes he would say, “Brother Kalis, Jesus teaches us to love even our enemies.”

I found those words interesting.

In Islam, we are taught mercy, too.

But this kind of love, loving those who hate you, was something I couldn’t understand at that time.

During Ramadan, some of my Christian friends would even fast with me out of respect.

That touched me deeply.

They didn’t worship Allah, but they honored my faith.

One Sunday, out of curiosity, I attended a church service with Danielle.

I remember sitting quietly in the back as people sang songs about love and peace.

They lifted their hands, smiling and crying at the same time.

I didn’t understand everything, but I could feel something.

A peace that filled the room.

I kept wondering, why do these people look so happy?

Their joy wasn’t from wealth or power.

It came from somewhere deeper.

I didn’t become a Christian there, but something began to stir inside me.

4 years in America changed me in ways I didn’t expect.

I learned about freedom, compassion, and humility.

I studied hard, graduated with honors, and gained respect from my professors.

But more importantly, I learned to see people as people, not as Muslims, Christians, or foreigners, but as human beings with hearts and dreams.

My American friends never judged me for being a Muslim.

They showed me kindness without expecting anything in return.

I realized that faith could exist without fear.

It could inspire peace instead of pressure.

I didn’t yet understand it fully, but I carried that thought home with me like a hidden treasure.

When I returned to Riyad after graduation, the city looked the same, but I didn’t feel the same.

The palace was still shining, the prayers still echoed from the mosques, and the rule were still as strict as ever.

But now, I saw everything differently.

The life that once felt normal began to feel empty.

I had tasted a different kind of freedom, one that came not from rebellion but from understanding.

I still prayed to Allah five times a day.

But my prayers felt quieter, more personal.

I didn’t want to lose my faith.

I wanted to understand it.

Yet the more I searched for meaning, the more restless I became.

My father noticed the change in me.

One evening during dinner, he said, “Khalid, you’ve been quiet lately. Have your years in the West made you soft.”

I smiled politely and said, “No, father. They’ve made me think.”

He frowned clearly uncomfortable with my answer.

“Too much thinking can be dangerous,” he warned.

I nodded.

But in my heart, I knew that silence was even more dangerous.

Something inside me was awakening.

A desire to know truth, not just tradition.

That night, as I lay in my bed, I remembered Daniel’s words about love and forgiveness.

I remembered the peace I had seen on people’s faces when they prayed to Jesus.

I didn’t yet believe as they did, but I couldn’t forget what I had felt.

The palace walls no longer comforted me.

They reminded me of everything I didn’t understand.

I wanted to know God, not only through rituals and laws, but through a relationship of the heart.

As I drifted to sleep, I looked out my window at the same desert that had surrounded me since childhood.

It was quiet, vast, and beautiful.

Somewhere in that silence, a question rose from deep within my soul.

A question that would change the course of my life forever.

Allah, show me who you really are.

The morning after that prayer, I woke up feeling different.

I couldn’t explain why, but something inside me had shifted.

I looked around my room.

The golden walls, the silk curtains, and the marble floors.

Everything looked the same, but it no longer felt like home.

It was as if my eyes had opened for the first time.

I realized that all my life I had been surrounded by beauty, but I had never truly seen it.

I wanted to know God in a deeper way, to understand what truth really was.

That quiet prayer I whispered the night before stayed with me like an echo in my heart.

It was a small prayer, but it would lead me into a journey that changed my life forever.

After some months at home, I received a letter from my former university inviting me to attend an international student conference in Washington DC.

It was a rare honor and my father allowed me to go.

Remember who you are, Khaled, he said.

You represent our family, our country, and our faith.

I nodded respectfully, but I also knew that part of me was eager to breathe the free air of America again.

When my plane landed at Dallas airport, a strange come filled me.

It felt like stepping into a world where I could think without fear.

The air was cold and clean and people moved with purpose.

I took a deep breath and whispered, “Thank you Allah for bringing me back here.”

During the conference, I met old friends from my university days.

One of them was Danielle, the Nigerian classmate who had always treated me with kindness.

When he saw me, his face lit up.

“Khalit, my brother,” he said, pulling me into a hug.

I smiled, surprised by how happy I was to see him.

Danielle had a way of making everyone around him feel safe.

He introduced me to some of his church friends who were helping with the event.

They were simple people, yet their joy and peace filled the room.

As we talked, I noticed again how freely they spoke about faith, hope, and love.

It wasn’t forced.

It was natural.

I didn’t realize how much I had missed that kind of openness until that moment.

One evening after the conference, Danielle invited me to join a small dinner with some Christian students.

We sat around a table in a simple apartment eating rise and chicken while laughing and sharing stories.

They spoke about their lives, their families, and their dreams.

When it was my turn, I told them about growing up in Saudi Arabia, my royal family, and my studies.

They listened with genuine interest, not because I was a prince, but because they cared.

And then Daniel said softly, “Khalit, I remember you once said you wanted to understand God more deeply. Do you still feel that way? His question caught me off guard.

I paused for a moment and said, “Yes, I do. I pray every day, but sometimes I feel like my prayers only reach the ceiling.”

Everyone grew quiet for a moment, and then Daniel said, “Maybe God is closer than you think.”

After dinner, one of the girls, Maria, handed me a small book.

It was a copy of the Gospel of John.

She smiled and said, “You don’t have to read it if you are not ready, but if you ever want to know what we believe, this is a good place to start.”

I looked at the book in my hands, feeling both curiosity and fear.

In my country, even possessing such a book could be dangerous.

But here in this free land, it was just a book, simple, small, and peaceful.

That night in my hotel room, I opened it for the first time.

The first words I read were, “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.”

I didn’t understand everything, but the words had a strange power.

They made me think about who God really was.

Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about that verse.

I continued reading quietly each night.

The stories of Jesus amazed me.

He healed the sick, forgave sinners, and spoke with such authority and love.

I found myself wondering, could Allah really be like this?

Full of mercy and grace, not just judgment.

I didn’t tell anyone what I was reading, not even Daniel.

I didn’t want anyone to think I was losing my faith.

I still prayed to Allah, still recited the Quran, but my heart was beginning to ask a new questions.

I wanted to understand how this Jesus could speak with such compassion and still have such power.

When the conference ended, Danielle and his friends invited me to attend one last gathering before I returned home.

They called it a worship night.

It was held in a small hall near the university.

The lights were dim and people were singing softly.

Their voices blended beautifully, rising and falling like waves.

I didn’t know the songs, but the piece in the room was overwhelming.

Some people were crying, others smiling, and I just stood there listening.

I felt something deep inside me, a warmth that was hard to describe.

I closed my eyes, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like a prince or a Muslim or a visitor.

I just felt human, small, but loved.

After the song ended, a man came forward to speak.

He said, “Sometimes we search for God in traditions, rules or knowledge, but God wants us to know him as a father.”

The word father touched something deep in me.

I thought about fuse, my own father, strong, respected, but distant.

I had always loved him, but I never truly felt close to him.

Could it be that God wanted to be close to me in that same way like a loving father?

The idea seemed impossible yet beautiful.

That night when I returned to my hotel, I fell to my knees and prayed quietly.

Allah, I don’t understand everything, but if you are more than what I’ve known, show me.

When I flew back to Saudi Arabia a few days later, I carried that small Gospel of John hidden inside my jacket.

I didn’t read it publicly, but I couldn’t let it go.

It wasn’t rebellion.

It was hunger.

I wanted to know the God I had seen reflected in those Christian friends.

The God who gave peace, not fear.

Back in Riyad, life returned to its royal routine.

The palace guards still bowed.

The call to prayer still echoed five times a day.

But inside me, something had changed.

I felt as if my heart had awakened and the old ways no longer satisfied me.

Every prayer I prayed to Allah now came with a silent question.

Are you the same God who loves like Jesus loved?

In the months that followed, I tried to focus on my duties.

My father arranged meetings for me with government advisors, expecting me to take a leadership role soon.

I smiled and obeyed, but my thoughts were far away.

[sighs] I often remember Daniel’s smile, Maria’s kindness, and the peace I felt at that worship night.

I missed that feeling of love and community.

One evening while sitting in the palace garden, I opened the small gospel again.

I read where Jesus said, “Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you.”

The words struck me deeply.

I had grown up surrounded by everything the world could give.

Wealth, comfort, respect, but not peace.

For the first time, I realized that true peace could not be bought or inherited.

It had to be found.

Reading those words made me look at my life differently.

I began to see how many people around me were pretending to be happy but were not.

Servants feared losing their jobs.

Ministers feared losing their positions.

Even among the royal family, people feared falling out of favor.

Everyone lived by fear.

Fear of man, fear of shame, fear of failure.

I started to wonder if fear had also shaped my faith.

Did I pray out of love for Allah or fear of punishment?

The question burned inside me.

I wanted to love God, not just obey him.

That thought both comforted and frightened me.

I didn’t tell anyone, not even my brothers.

I knew that questioning too deeply could bring trouble.

One Friday after Juma prayer at the mosque, I walked through the busy streets of Riyad.

The sun was blazing and the sound of vendors filled the air.

I passed by a small shop that sold old books in English and Arabic.

Curiosity led me inside.

The smell of paper and dust reminded me of the university library in Washington.

As I browsed the shelves, I found a worn English Arabic dictionary.

When I opened it, a small folded paper slipped out.

It was a note handwritten in neat letters.

Seek the truth, and the truth will set you free.

My heart raced.

I didn’t know who wrote it or why, but those words followed me all the way home.

I couldn’t ignore them.

That night I whispered again, “Allah, show me the truth. I am ready.”

In the days that followed, I felt torn between two worlds.

The world I was born into and the world my heart was slowly discovering.

I still respected Islam deeply, but I knew that something was missing.

The peace I had seen in Christians still called to me like a gentle voice.

I didn’t yet understand where my journey would lead.

But I knew one thing for certain.

I could no longer ignore the longing in my soul.

I wanted to know the truth, even if it cost me everything I had.

That was the beginning of my secret search.

A journey that would take me beyond fear, beyond the walls of tradition, and closer to a god I had only begun to know.

After I returned to Riyad from the United States, nothing felt the same anymore.

The palace walls that once made me feel safe now felt like barriers keeping me from the world outside.

My days were full of meetings, ceremonies, and prayers.

But my heart was empty.

I tried to convince myself that I was fine, that everything would go back to normal, but it didn’t.

I would wake up early for fajar prayer, perform the ablution, and stand before Allah.

Yet the peace I once felt was gone.

I said every word correctly, bowed at the right times, but my heart felt distant.

I couldn’t understand why I no longer felt connected to my faith as I once did.

The same questions that started in America began to grow louder inside me.

My father soon noticed the change in my attitude.

Khaled, he said one evening after dinner, you’ve become too quiet.

You don’t laugh as you used to.

You don’t seem happy.

I smiled and told him I was fine.

But he didn’t believe me.

He reminded me that our family carried a great responsibility to live as examples of strength and obedience.

We are not like others, he said firmly.

We cannot show weakness.

I nodded respectfully, but inside I felt like I was wearing a mask.

Every day I put on the royal robes, smiled for the cameras, and greeted guests, but my soul was tired.

I didn’t want to be a perfect prince anymore.

I wanted to be honest.

Honest with Allah, honest with myself.

Sometimes I would drive through Riyad at night just to escape the noise of the palace.

I would pass the shining towers of the kingdom center and the busy streets filled with people rushing home.

Everyone looked busy, but no one looked truly happy.

The world outside the palace was full of struggle.

Workers sat by the roadside eating cheap meals.

Children sold dates and tissues at traffic lights.

It broke my heart.

I began to see how different life was for ordinary people.

I wondered how many of them prayed for help each night asking Allah for mercy while the rich lived in comfort.

I had grown up believing that wealth was a blessing.

But now I wasn’t sure why did I have so much while others had so little.

One afternoon I visited a government office to represent my father in a meeting.

The discussion was about a development project in a poor district.

The officials talked about numbers and profits but no one mentioned the people who lived there.

When I asked what would happen to the families being displaced, one of the men laughed and said, “They will find somewhere else to go. These people are used to hardship.”

His words made me angry.

[sighs] Later that day, I drove through the district myself.

The houses were old and falling apart.

Children played barefoot on dusty streets and women carried water in buckets.

When they saw my car, some waved, not knowing who I was.

I felt ashamed.

I had been born into comfort, but I had done nothing to deserve it.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I prayed and asked Allah, “Why did you make the world this way? Why do some suffer while others live in ease?”

Days turned into weeks, and my questions only grew stronger.

My father began to talk about arranging my marriage to the daughter of another noble family.

It will strengthen our ties, he said proudly.

But I didn’t want an arranged marriage.

I wanted to marry for love, not politics.

I tried to explain this to him, but he became angry.

Love is a weakness.

He said, “A man of your position must think of duty, not emotion.”

I nodded quietly, though my heart was breaking.

I began to realize that everything in my life was about duty, duty to family, duty to reputation, duty to Islam.

But what about duty to truth?

What about duty to my own soul?

I started to feel that something was deeply wrong with the way I was living.

At times I went to the royal mosque to pray and find peace.

The imam would preach about obedience to Allah, about rewards and punishments.

His words were strong, but they left me uneasy.

He spoke often about fear, fear of hell, fear of disobedience, fear of a failure.

But what about love?

What about mercy?

I longed to hear someone speak about the love of Allah.

I began reading the Quran more deeply, hoping to find answers.

But I felt as if I was reading the same words I had known since childhood, without new meaning.

I respected the Quran deeply.

Yet something in me wanted to know God more personally, not through laws, but through a relationship.

The memory of my Christian friends came back to me in the way they prayed as if God were right beside them.

I wanted that closeness too, though I didn’t yet understand what it meant.

The more I searched, the more restless I became.

My family noticed my change in behavior and began to worry.

My brothers teased me, saying I was becoming too serious, too thoughtful.

My father warned me not to question too much.

Questions lead to confusion, he said.

Faith requires obedience.

But how could I obey what I didn’t understand?

One evening, I went up to the palace rooftop alone.

The call to prayer echoed from the mosques across Riyad, filling the air with a beautiful harmony.

As I looked out over the city, tears filled my eyes.

Allah, [sighs] I whispered, I want to serve you, but I don’t know how.

I want to love you, but I don’t know who you are anymore.

It was the most honest prayer I had ever said in my life.

In the weeks that followed, I began to avoid social gatherings.

I no longer enjoyed the laughter, the endless feast, and the empty conversations about power and wealth.

I preferred to spend time alone in my study.

Sometimes I read old poetry about faith and longing.

Other times I just sat in silence.

One day while sorting through the books I had brought from America, I found the small Gospel of John that Maria had given me.

I held it on my hand for a long time.

I didn’t open it yet, but just seeing it reminded me of peace.

I placed it in my desk drawer, telling myself I would read it again soon.

But even without opening it, I knew my heart was already walking a new path, one that could not be turned back.

My mother was the only one who sensed what I was going through.

She would often find me sitting quietly and come to sit beside me.

“My son,” she said gently, “you carry too much on your heart. Tell me what troubles you.”

I wanted to tell her everything about my doubts, my search, my longing for truth, but I couldn’t.

I knew she would be afraid for me.

Instead, I smiled and said, “I’m just thinking about life, mama.”

She nodded slowly and touched my face.

Khaled, remember Allah sees your heart.

Whatever you are searching for, ask him.

He will not turn you away.

Her words comforted me even though she didn’t know what I was really searching for.

I believed Allah was listening through her voice.

One night as I walked through the palace garden, I saw a group of servants praying together under a tree.

Their voices were soft and sincere.

They prayed not in grand mosques but under the open sky.

When they finished, one of them, a young man named Ahmed, looked up and smiled at me.

“Your Highness,” he said respectfully, “would you like to join us someday?”

I smiled back and said, “Perhaps.”

As I walked away, I thought about how pure their faith seemed.

They had nothing, yet they seemed to have peace.

I had everything, yet I had no peace.

That realization hit me hard.

It was not wealth or position that made a person close to Allah.

It was the heart.

My sleepless nights became more frequent.

Every time I tried to rest, my mind filled with questions.

I thought about the verses I had read in in the gospel about love, forgiveness, and peace.

I compared them to what I had been taught all my life.

both spoke of God but in such different ways.

I didn’t want to abandon Islam.

Yet I couldn’t ignore the growing pull towards something deeper, something more personal.

I began to ask Allah directly in my prayers, if Jesus is only a prophet, why do his words bring me peace?

If he is not more than a man, why do I feel his presence when I think about him?

I didn’t have answers, but I knew my heart was being prepared for something I could not yet name.

As months passed, I began to withdraw more from the royal life.

My father thought I was becoming lazy or rebellious.

But it wasn’t that.

I just couldn’t pretend anymore.

I no longer cared for titles or riches.

I wanted meaning.

I wanted truth.

Every time I attended a royal meeting or listened to religious discussions filled with pride and politics, I felt sick inside.

I started spending more time reading, meditating, and quietly asking Allah to show me the path that led to peace.

It was during one of those long nights of prayer that I began to sense a quiet whisper inside my heart.

a voice that said, “The truth you seek is near.”

I didn’t understand it fully then, but I knew my journey was about to take a new and dangerous turn.

After that night, when I felt the quiet whisper in my heart saying, “The truth you seek is near,” I could not think of anything else.

Those words followed me everywhere I went.

I heard them when I prayed, when I walked through the palace gardens, even when I sat in meetings.

It was like an invisible hand was guiding me towards something I could not yet see.

I didn’t tell anyone about it.

I knew it would sound strange, especially in my family where questions about faith could be seen as rebellion.

But I knew deep inside that Allah was calling me to seek truth and I could not ignore that call any longer.

My heart felt restless yet alive.

For the first time in my life, I felt that something big was about to happen.

One evening, I sat in my study surrounded by books.

I had everything, the Quran, history books, poetry, and philosophy.

Yet my eyes kept wandering to the drawer where I had hidden the small Gospel of John months earlier.

I opened the drawer and looked at it again.

The brown cover was slightly worn, but it still felt new to me.

I picked it up slowly, my hands trembling a little.

I remembered the peace I felt when I had read it before.

I whispered softly, “Allah, if there is something you want to show me, help me understand.”

Then I opened it and began to read from the beginning once more.

The words were simple, but they felt alive.

In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.

I paused.

Could it be that this word meant something more than I had been taught?

I kept reading quietly, line by line.

The more I read, the more I felt drawn in.

I read about Jesus healing the blind man, forgiving the woman caught in sin, and feeding the hungry.

His words were different from anything I had ever heard.

He didn’t speak like a prophet giving laws.

He spoke like someone who knew the heart of man.

When he said, “Come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.” I felt as if those words were written for me.

I had everything, wealth, power, education, yet I was weary.

My soul was burdened.

I wanted that rest he spoke about.

I closed the book, placed my hand on my heart, and whispered, “Allah, who is this Jesus really?”

From that night on, riding became my secret habit.

Each night, after everyone had gone to sleep, I locked my study door and opened the gospel under the small disc lamp.

I read slowly, sometimes stopping to pray.

The words of Jesus filled me with peace, but they also stirred questions.

He spoke of God as a loving father who cares for his children, even those who make mistakes.

That was new to me.

In my prayers, I had always felt like a servant before a distant master.

But here was a message of closeness and love.

Could it be possible that Allah wanted to be that close to me?

The idea was both beautiful and frightening.

I didn’t tell us all.

I knew that if anyone found out I was reading this book, it could destroy my life.

As weeks passed, the words of Jesus began to shape my thoughts.

I started noticing how often he spoke about forgiveness, mercy, and humility.

I remembered how my father and the imams would talk about strength, justice, and obedience.

Those were good values, but they lacked the warmth I found in these pages.

The Jesus I was reading about didn’t seek power.

He served others.

He didn’t demand fear.

He offered love.

One verse in particular touched me deeply.

Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

I sat staring at those words for a long time.

Could I ever love someone who hurt me?

Could I forgive a person who betrayed me?

In our world, forgiveness was seen as weakness, but here it was described as strength.

I began to realize that this teaching was not only different, it was divine.

One night while I was reading, I heard footsteps approaching my study.

My heart jumped.

I quickly closed the book and hid it under some papers.

The door opened and it was my mother.

She smiled softly and said, “Chaled, you’re still awake. What are you doing?”

I forced a smile and said, “Just reading some old university notes.”

She nodded and walked closer.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said.

“Are you worried about something?”

I wanted to tell her everything, as in about my search, my doubts, and the peace I felt when reading the gospel.

But I couldn’t.

I didn’t want to frighten her.

So, I said, “I’m fine, mama. Just thinking about life, she placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Allah sees every heart, my son. He will guide you.”

When she left, I whispered quietly, “I believe you are guiding me already.”

After that night, I became more careful.

I made sure no one entered my study without knocking.

I even kept a small lock box to hide the gospel.

Every time I opened it, I prayed, “Allah, if these words are from you, let me know.”

One evening, I read the story of Jesus calming the storm.

His disciples were afraid and they cried out for help.

Then he stood up and said, “Peace, be still.” And the storm is stopped.

I closed my eyes and imagined that scene.

My own heart felt like a storm full of confusion, fear, and longing.

I whispered, “If you can calm the sea, can you calm my heart, too?”

At that moment, I felt something warm and gentle fill my chest.

It was like a quiet voice saying, “Peace.”

Tears filled my eyes.

I didn’t understand what was happening, but I knew it was real.

The more I read, the more I began to see life differently.

I started noticing beauty in small things.

The smile of a servant, the laughter of a child, the sunrise over the desert.

Before I had walked past these moments without thought, but now they felt like gifts.

It was as if my eyes had been open to a world I had never seen before.

I realized that love was not weakness as I had been taught but strength.

I began to treat the people around me with more kindness.

My servant were surprised when I thanked them for simple task.

One day my driver asked, “Your highness, are you feeling well? You seem different.”

I smiled and said, “Maybe I am learning to see life differently.”

He didn’t understand, but I did.

Something inside me was changing quietly but deeply.

One evening while reading, I came across the words, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the father except through me.”

I read that verse over and over.

My heart pounded.

What did it mean?

Was Jesus claiming to be more than a prophet?

Was he saying he was the path to God?

I wanted to reject the thought.

It sounded impossible.

Yet, the peace I felt told me it was true.

I closed the book and walked to the window.

The moon was high above the desert, shining softly over the sand.

I whispered, “Allah, I don’t want to disobey you. I only want to know you. If Jesus is part of your truth, then show me. My voice trembled as I spoke those words.

That night, I slept with a calm I hadn’t felt in years.

Days passed and I found myself longing to read more.

The gospel became my most precious possession.

Sometimes I would wake up before dawn, open it, and read a few verses before the call to fajure prayer.

I still prayed to Allah faithfully, but my prayers were now mixed with new words, words of hope and love.

I no longer felt that I was speaking into the air.

I felt that someone was listening.

The loneliness that had filled my heart for years was slowly fading away.

I couldn’t explain it to anyone, but I knew I was no longer the same man.

Something divine had touched my life.

I began to feel that the truth I had been seeking was no longer far away.

It was standing right before me, waiting for me to see it fully.

One night, after reading late into the hours, I fell on my knees beside my bed.

My eyes were full of tears.

I whispered, “Allah, I have searched for you all my life. I have tried to please you, to obey you, but I still feel lost. If Jesus is your truth, please show me.

I stayed there in silence waiting.

The air in the room felt different, peaceful, and warm.

I didn’t hear a voice, but I felt something deep inside, like a gentle whisper saying, “You are not far from the truth.”

I cried quietly, not out of sadness, but out of peace.

For the first time in my life, I felt loved.

Not because of my prayers or good deeds, but simply because I was known.

That night marked a turning point in my life.

I didn’t yet understand everything, but I knew I had found something I could not ignore.

My search for truth had led me to a place I never expected.

to the words of Jesus, to peace, and to a love that I couldn’t explain.

I didn’t tell anyone about it, not even my mother.

I kept my secret close, hidden like a treasure.

But I knew that secrets don’t stay hidden forever.

The more I read, the brighter the light inside me grew.

And with that light came both peace and danger.

I didn’t know it then, but my quiet search for truth would soon lead me into a storm that would change my life forever.

After the night, I fell on my knees and asked Allah to show me if Jesus was his truth, my heart was never the same again.

Each day felt brighter, even though the world around me had not changed.

I still prayed in the royal mosque and attended family gatherings, but my soul was living in a different place.

The peace that filled me was something I couldn’t describe.

It was quiet, strong, and beautiful.

I began to look at people differently, not with pride or judgment, but with compassion.

Even those who once annoyed me seemed to matter now.

I wanted everyone to know the love that was growing inside me.

But I also knew that I had to keep my secret carefully hidden.

In Saudi Arabia, faith is not a private choice.

It defines who you are, and changing it can cost you everything.

Every night I continued to read the gospel in my study.

I had now read all of John and most of Matthew.

The more I read, the more certain I became that Jesus was not only a prophet.

His words were too powerful, too full of divine authority.

When he said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” I felt it in my heart.

I could no longer call him only a messenger.

I began to whisper prayers using his name, though quietly afraid someone might hear me.

One night I said, “Lord Jesus, if you truly are the son of God, I believe you. Guide me.”

I expected fear to fill me, but instead I felt a peace that seemed to wash away years of worry and guilt.

I knew something had changed.

My life now belonged to him.

Though I didn’t yet understand how dangerous that truth would become, my new faith stayed hidden for many months.

I acted normal during the day, attending meetings, greeting guests, leading prayers when asked, but inside I was living in a different world.

The palace was full of luxury.

But I cared less about it now.

The more I learned about Jesus, the less attraction wealth had for me.

I began to share small acts of kindness with the servants, not as a prince, but as a brother.

Some were surprised and touched, but others found it strange.

One of them, Ahmed, was the oldest servant in our household.

He had served our family for over 40 years and had known me since I was a child.

He often said, “Your highness, I have watched you grow into a good man. your father would be proud.

I smiled at his words, but I knew he would not be proud of the man I was becoming inside.

Ahmed was like a second father to me.

He taught me to ride horses when I was young and often told me stories about faith.

I trusted him deeply.

But trust can be fragile when fear and faith collide.

One morning, I had stayed up all night reading.

The gospel lay open on my desk beside a small lamp.

The call to fajure prayer had not yet begun and I had fallen asleep with my head resting on my arm.

When I opened my eyes, the room was filled with light from the early dawn and Amit stood in the doorway.

His eyes went straight to the open book.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

The air in the room felt heavy.

Then slowly his face turned pale.

Your highness, he whispered.

“What is that?”

I tried to speak, but my throat felt dry.

It’s It’s a book I’ve been reading, I said softly.

His eyes filled with tears.

“That is not just a book. That is the Injil, the Christian book. Do you know what you are doing?”

I stood up, my heart pounding.

Ahmed, please let me explain.

But he shook his head in disbelief.

If anyone finds out, they will kill you.

They will kill me too for for not reporting it.

His voice trembled.

I took a step closer and said, Ahmed, I am not rejecting Allah.

I am finding him.

I am learning about his mercy through Jesus.

He covered his face with his hands.

He whispered, “You are walking on dangerous ground. You must burn that book before someone sees it.

I reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.” Ahmed, you have known me my whole life. “Would I lie to you? I have found peace. For the first time, I know God loves me.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Please, Khalid,” he said softly.

Do not speak these words again.

You do not know what you are inviting upon yourself.

Then he turned and left the room.

That day was the longest day of my life.

I couldn’t eat or rest.

I kept praying that Ahmed would keep my secret, that his love for me would be stronger than his fear.

But deep down, I knew he would not be able to stay silent.

The law of our land demanded that anyone who witnessed apostasy must report it.

If he didn’t, he too could face punishment.

As night fell, I heard voices in the hallway.

My father’s voice was louder than usual.

Then footsteps approached my study.

The door opened suddenly and four royal guards entered, followed by my father.

His face was hard and pale.

Khaled, he said sternly, is it true?

My heart sank.

What do you mean, father?

He slammed his hand on the desk, pointing to the drawer.

Do not lie to me.

Is it true that you have been reading the Christian book?

I stood silently, my hands shaking.

There was no point denying it.

Yes, father, I said quietly.

I have been reading it.

The silence that followed felt endless.

My father’s eyes burned with both anger and pain.

“Do you know what you have done?” he shouted.

“You have brought shame upon our family, upon Islam, upon your ancestors.”

My brothers stood at the door, shocked.

“Father,” I said, trying to remain calm.

“I have not betrayed you. I have only sought the truth. I have found peace in Jesus. I cannot deny what I have seen in my heart.”

My father’s face turned red.

Silence, he roared.

Do you realize the punishment for apostasy?

Death.

Death by law.

My mother, who had been standing quietly behind him, began to cry.

Please, she begged.

He is our son.

He doesn’t know what he is saying.

But my father turned to her and said coldly.

He knows exactly what he is saying.

That night, I was taken to a small room in the lower part of the palace and locked inside.

Two guards stood outside the door.

I was no longer a prince.

I was a prisoner.

The room was dark with only a small window near the ceiling.

There was no bed, only a mat on the floor.

I sat down and tried to pray.

Fear filled my chest, but so did peace.

I knew what awaited me, yet I didn’t regret anything.

I whispered, “Jesus,” you said, “do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Give me strength to stand firm.”

The following day, a group of religious scholars came to question me.

They asked if I would renounce what they called false beliefs and return to Islam.

I looked at them calmly and said, “I will always honor Allah, but I cannot deny Jesus. He is my Lord.”

Their faces hardened.

One of them said, “Then you have chosen death.”

3 days later, my father came to see me in the prison cell.

His face was tired and his eyes looked empty.

“Khalid,” he said softly, “you are still my son. I do not want your blood on my hands. Just say the words. Say that you return to Islam and this will all be over.

I looked at him with tears in my eyes.

Father, I love you, but I cannot lie.

I have found the truth and I cannot deny it.

He turned away.

His shoulders shaking.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then in a broken voice, he whispered, “May Allah forgive you.”

He walked out leaving me alone again.

That was the last time I saw him as my father.

From that day, I was no longer part of the royal family.

The guards no longer bowed when they entered.

To them, I was just another condemned man.

The trial was short.

Religious judges read out my charge.

Apostasy from Islam.

They asked if I wanted to defend myself, but I said nothing.

I didn’t need to.

My peace didn’t come from their approval.

It came from knowing who I belonged to.

The verdict was clear.

Death by public execution.

The date was set for one week later.

When the guards took me back to my cell, I felt a strange calmness.

I thought about Jesus standing before his accusers, silent and strong.

I prayed, “Lord, help me to stand like you stood.”

Each night I wrote prayers on the wall with a small piece of stone.

I prayed for my family, for Ahmed, even for my father.

I asked God to forgive them, for they did not understand.

I also prayed for courage, not to escape death, but to face it with faith.

As the days passed, the guard’s attitude toward me began to change.

At first they mocked me, calling me the Christian prince.

But when they saw my calmness, some grew curious.

One young guard once asked, “Why aren’t you afraid?”

I smiled and said, “Because my life is in God’s hands. You can kill my body, but you cannot kill my soul.”

He looked at me for a long moment and then walked away silently.

On the last night before my scheduled execution, I couldn’t sleep.

I knelt on the cold floor and prayed one final prayer.

Jesus, I am ready.

I am not worthy, but I trust you.

If I must die, let my death bring glory to you.

As I prayed, I felt a warmth in the room, as if I was not alone.

[clears throat] It was the same peace I had felt the first time I read his words.

I knew that even in this dark place, he was with me.

The next morning, I heard the heavy sound of chains and footsteps.

The guards came to take me away.

My heart beat fast, but not with fear.

I knew where I was going and to meet the one who had saved me.

As they led me out of the cell, I whispered a final prayer for Ahmed and my family.

The corridor was long and cold, but in my heart there was light.

I didn’t know what awaited me at the execution ground.

But I knew that God was not done with my story.

Something deep inside told me that even in the face of the blade, his plan would not fail.

The morning of my execution began with the silence.

The prison was unusually quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

The guards came early, their faces grim.

They did not speak as they unlocked my cell.

One of them, the young guard who had once asked why I was not afraid, could not look me in the eye.

I smiled at him gently and said, “Do not be sad. God’s will is perfect.”

He nodded slowly, tears forming in his eyes.

They shackled my hands and feet with heavy iron chains.

Each link clinked linked loudly as we walked down the long, cold corridor.

My heart was steady.

I had prayed all night and my soul felt ready.

I knew that in a few hours I might see my savior face to face.

I whispered softly, “Lord Jesus, give me courage to stand for you.”

When we stepped outside, the sunlight was blinding.

The sky was a perfect blue, the air dry and still.

I was placed in the back of a dark prison truck with two guards beside me.

As the doors closed, I could hear the distant hum of the city waking up.

Riyad was alive.

Cars, people, the call to prayer echoing from the mosques.

Yet for me it felt like the world was fading.

The truck moved slowly through the streets and I looked out through the small iron window.

I saw places from my childhood.

The school where I learned the Quran.

The park where I once played with my brothers.

Everything looked the same.

Yet I was not the same.

I was no longer a prince of this world.

I belonged to a different kingdom now.

As we approached Dera Square, known to many as Chop Chop Square, the noise grew louder.

Even from inside the truck, I could hear the mermmore of a large crowd.

My stomach turned, but not from fear, from sorrow.

I thought about my mother, who was probably weeping somewhere in the palace.

I thought about my father torn between pride and grief.

I whispered, “Father, I forgive you.”

When the truck stopped, the guards opened the door and motioned for me to step out.

The sight before me took my breath away.

Hundreds of people had gathered in the square, standing behind barriers.

Some were silent, others whispered.

Soldiers surrounded the area, keeping the crowd in order.

In the middle of the square stood a wooden platform, and beside it the executioner dressed in black, holding a gleaming sword.

They led me toward the platform.

The sun was high now, hot and merciless.

The air shimmerred with heat and sweat ran down my back.

I could hear the imam reading verses from the Quran.

His voice echoing through the loudspeakers.

He spoke about apostasy and the punishment for those who turn away from Islam.

His words were sharp, but I no longer feared them.

As I stood before him, he asked, “Khalid, do you repent and return to the faith of Islam?”

I looked up at the sky, then at him, and said softly, “I will always honor Allah, but I cannot deny the truth. Jesus Christ is my Lord.”

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

The imam’s face darkened and he turned away, signaling the executioner.

The guards forced me to kneel on a mat.

I closed my eyes and prayed silently.

Into your hands, Lord.

I commit my spirit.

The executioner stepped forward.

I could hear the sound of the sword as he lifted it.

My heart pounded, but I felt no fear.

My thoughts were calm, filled with light.

Then, at the very moment the blade began to fall, the sky suddenly darkened.

It happened so fast that people gasped in shock.

The bright sunlight vanished, replaced by swirling clouds of sand.

The wind roared through the square like a lion.

Within seconds, a massive sandstorm engulfed everything.

The crowd screamed and scattered.

Guards shouted orders, but their voices were lost in the roar of the wind.

I could not see anything, only walls of sand moving like waves.

The chains on my wrists rattled violently.

And then, to my astonishment, they snapped apart as if they were made of paper.

I fell to the ground, covering my face, realizing that something miraculous was happening.

The storm was fierce.

Sand stung my skin, and I could barely open my eyes.

Yet in the middle of the chaos, I felt peace.

I heard a voice deep within my heart, calm, steady, and full of love.

My son, it said, get up and run.

I didn’t hesitate.

I stood and began to move, guided only by faith.

The guards were running in all directions, blinded by the storm.

I stumbled through the confusion, using my hands to feel the walls and posts around me.

Every step felt like a miracle.

I should have been seen, caught, or struck down.

But somehow the sand shielded me.

I could hear the cries of fear, the sound of metal clashing, and people praying loudly for mercy.

But above it all, I felt the quiet whisper, “Go. I am with you.”

When I reached the edge of the square, I found a narrow street leading away.

I ran through it.

My chains dragging behind me, the wind pushing me forward.

The storm followed me like a moving wall covering my escape.

I turned corner after corner until the sound of the square faded behind me.

My lungs burned and my feet achd, but I kept running.

Finally, when I reached the outskirts of the city, the wind began to die down.

The sky cleared slowly and the sun returned, shining over a city now in chaos.

I stopped on a small hill and looked back.

From where I stood, I could see dust still swirling above the square.

My heart filled with awe.

I whispered, “Thank you, Lord. You have saved me.”

I knew I couldn’t stay near Riyad.

The guards would soon start searching for me.

My white prison clothes made me stand out, so I removed the outer shirt and tore part of it to wrap around my head like a scarf.

I began walking toward the open desert.

I didn’t have food, water, or a plan, but I trusted that God would lead me.

The desert stretched endlessly before me, golden and silent.

The heat was fierce, and my throat soon became dry.

I walked until my legs could barely move.

When I finally stopped to rest under a small rocky hill, I prayed, “Lord Jesus, you brought me out of death. Please help me survive.”

I closed my eyes and rested, the sand warm beneath me.

When I woke, the sun was lower and the air had cooled.

I saw something glimmering in the distance, a small pool of water surrounded by palm trees.

At first, I thought it was a mirage, but when I walked closer, I realized it was real.

A tiny oasis lay hidden between two sand dunes.

The water was clear and sweet.

I fell to my knees and drank deeply, tears mixing with the water.

I ate a few dates that had fallen from the trees and thanked God for his provision.

I stayed there through the night, praying and resting.

I felt weak, but my spirit was strong.

The next morning, I began walking again, heading north.

I knew that if I could reach the Jordanian border, I might find safety.

The journey was long and harsh.

During the day, the sun burned my skin, and at night, the cold wind chilled my bones.

Yet, I never felt alone.

Each time I grew weary, I remembered the voice in the storm saying, “I am with you.”

On the third day, as I walked through a valley of rocks, I saw a group of travelers in the distance.

They were bedwins leading camels.

I hesitated, unsure if I should approach, but I needed help.

I called out, “Assalamu alaykum.”

They stopped and looked at me.

One of them, an older man with a kind face, came closer.

Walaykum salam, who replied.

Who are you?

I paused, searching for words.

I am a traveler who has lost his way, I said.

He studied me for a moment, then nodded.

“You look like you’ve come from the city. Come rest with us.”

They gave me water and bread.

When they asked where I was going, I said, “To Jordan.”

The old man smiled.

“That’s a long walk, but Allah is merciful. We will take you part of the way.”

I thanked him with all my heart, knowing that this too was a part of God’s plan.

For 2 days, I traveled with the Bedwins through the desert.

They were kind but curious about me.

At night, as we sat around the fire, they spoke about Allah, life, and destiny.

I listened quietly, not daring to share my secret.

When we reached the edge of their route near the desert border, the old man handed me a small pouch of dates and said, “This will help you on your journey. Go with Allah’s protection.”

I bowed and said, “Thank you, my brother. May Allah bless you for your kindness.”

Then I continued walking alone toward the border.

The final stretch was the hardest.

The heat was unbearable and my feet were blistered.

Yet every time I thought I couldn’t go on.

I felt a strange strength rise within me.

A reminder that I was not walking alone.

At last, after many hours, I saw lights in the distance.

the faint glow of buildings across the border.

My heart leapt.

I had made it to Jordan.

As I approached, I found a narrow river, the Jordan River itself.

The water flowed gently, shining under the moonlight.

I fell to my knees and wept.

“Thank you, Lord,” I whispered.

“You brought me from death to life.”

On the other side of the river, I saw two men waiting.

They were dressed in simple clothes and waved for me to come closer.

When I crossed, one of them said softly in Arabic, “Brother Khaled, we have been waiting for you.”

I stared in disbelief.

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

The man smiled gently.

“God told us to come here tonight. You are safe now.”

I felt my knees weaken as tears filled my eyes again.

For the first time in my life, I knew I was free.

That night, they took me to a small house near the border.

There were other believers there, people from different countries who had once been Muslims like me.

They gave me food, clothes, and a place to rest.

As I lay down, I thought about everything that had happened.

The prison, the sword, the storm, and the desert.

Every moment had been guided by a power far greater than me.

I whispered, “Thank you, Jesus. You saved me when I had no hope. My life belongs to you now.”

And with that prayer, I closed my eyes.

Not as a prince, not as a prisoner, but as a man who had been given a second chance by the hand of God himself.

The night I crossed into Jordan felt like the first night of my real life.

For the first time, I could breathe freely without fear of chains or guards.

The believers who helped me escape treated me like family.

They gave me food, clean clothes, and a warm bed in a small house near.

As I lay there that night listening to the sound of the wind through the olive trees, I felt peace unlike anything I had known before.

I was no longer a prince or a prisoner.

I was just a man saved by grace.

I whispered softly, “Thank you, Jesus, for giving me a new life.”

I didn’t know what my future would hold, but I knew my past no longer defined me.

The title of Prince Khaled had died in the desert.

But something greater had been born inside me.

In the days that followed, I stayed with the small group of believers who had taken me in.

Most of them were former Muslims who had also found Christ.

Some were from Iraq, some from Syria, and others from Egypt.

We met quietly in homes and spoke softly, always aware that many around us would not understand our faith.

Yet in those small gatherings, I found a joy that no royal banquet could ever offer.

We prayed together, sang softly in Arabic, and shared stories of how God had changed our lives.

Their love and kindness healed parts of me I didn’t even know were broken.

For the first time, I felt what true family meant.

Not family by blood, but by spirit.

One day, a man named Pastor Michael visited us.

He was from Egypt and had once been a Muslim, too.

When he heard my story, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, “Brother Khaled, God has saved you for a reason. You have a calling.”

I didn’t know what he meant at first.

I am not a preacher, I said.

I don’t even know the Bible well.

He smiled and replied, that is how God works.

He chooses the broken to heal others.

His words stayed with me.

He invited me to attend a small worship service held secretly in a house on the edge of the city.

I went with him and there I saw people worshiping freely.

They sang songs in Arabic, thanking Jesus for his love.

Their faces glowed with peace.

I stood among them, my heart full.

After the worship ended, Pastor Michael came to me and said, “Khalid, it is time.”

I knew what he meant.

I had believed in Jesus in my heart, but I had not yet declared it publicly.

We drove to the Yordan River that same afternoon.

The sun was setting and the water sparkled like gold.

As we walked into the river, Pastor Michael said, “Brother Khaled, today the old life ends and the new one begins.”

I felt tears streaming down my face as he placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Do you believe that Jesus is the son of God?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said with all my heart.

Do you accept him as your savior and lord?

Yes, I whispered.

Then he lowered me into the water and said, I baptize you in the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit.

When I came up out of the water, I felt like the sky had opened.

The sunlight touched my face and the wind blew softly across the river.

I felt completely clean, not just on the outside, but deep inside my soul.

The weight of my past, the fear, the shame, all washed away.

Pastor Michael hugged me and said, “Today, Prince Khaled is gone. Brother Khaled is born.”

Everyone around clapped and sang softly.

I smiled through my tears.

For the first time, I felt truly alive.

That muddy river water was more precious than all the gold I had left behind.

I was no longer part of the royal family of Saudi Arabia, but I had become part of the family of God.

In the months that followed, I stayed with the church in Jordan and began learning more about the Bible.

I studied every day with Pastor Michael.

He taught me how to pray, how to share my story, and how to understand God’s word deeply.

The more I learned, the more I felt a fire burning inside me, a desire to tell others about the peace I had found.

I couldn’t keep it to myself.

One night during prayer, I heard a clear voice in my heart.

Feed my sheep.

I didn’t understand it at first, but Pastor Michael explained, “God is calling you to help others find the truth just as you did.

I was afraid.”

“You know, I cannot return home.”

I said, “They will kill me.”

He looked at me gently and replied, “Sometimes following Jesus means walking straight into danger, but his light will guide you.”

For 2 years, I stayed in Jordan, studying the scriptures and preparing for what God had planned.

I joined a small training group for former Muslims who wanted to share their faith secretly in the Middle East.

We learned how to teach, how to comfort, and how to survive in difficult places.

Many of us lived under new names for safety.

I was no longer Prince Khaled anywhere.

I was just Brother Khaled.

a servant of God.

During this time, I wrote down my story in a notebook, not to be famous, but to remind myself of what God had done for me.

Each page reminded me that grace is stronger than fear and that truth cannot be silenced.

When the training ended, I began traveling with small groups of believers into neighboring countries, Syria, Iraq, and even parts of Lebanon.

We moved quietly, visiting small house churches, praying with believers, and encouraging them to stay strong.

Sometimes we met people who had never heard about Jesus before.

I told them, “I once lived in a palace, but I was empty. Now I have nothing but I am full.”

Many cried when they heard my story.

Some wanted to know more about this Jesus who could bring peace even in danger.

I saw lives change.

Men, women, and children finding faith in secret, whispering prayers in dark rooms, yet shining with joy.

It was risky, but it was worth everything.

My work was not easy.

I lived simply, often moving from place to place, never staying too long in one city.

Sometimes I had to hide when rumors spread that a former Saudi prince was preaching about Jesus.

There were nights when I slept in small rooms or mountain caves praying for safety.

Once in northern Iraq, a local group discovered that I was a convert.

I had to flee through the desert under cover of darkness.

Yet every time danger came close, I remembered the night of the sandstorm.

How God had saved me once before.

I believed he would protect me again, and he always did.

I learned that fear loses its power when faith takes its place.

Even though I could never return to Saudi Arabia, I carried my homeland in my heart.

I prayed daily for my family, for my people, and for the Muslims who were still searching for peace.

I knew how hard it was to question what you have been taught since childhood.

I knew the fear of breaking tradition.

But I also knew the love that waited beyond that fear.

Once while praying, I saw in my mind the faces of my father and Ahmed, the servant who had exposed me.

Instead of anger, I felt love.

I prayed, “Lord, forgive them. They did what they thought was right. Show them your truth.”

In that moment, I realized what Jesus meant when he said, “Love your enemies. True love comes from forgiveness.”

Over the years, I met many people whose stories touched me deeply.

One of them was a young man from Pakistan who had been forced to hide his faith after converting.

He told me that he had once seen a video about a Saudi man who found Jesus and escaped death.

“That story gave me courage,” he said.

I smiled knowing that the story was mine, though he didn’t know it.

I hugged him and said, “Never stop believing that God can use your life no matter the cost.”

Later that night, as I prayed, I realized how far God had brought me from the palace halls of Riyad to hidden rooms where his light still shone in secret.

Now, as I look back on my journey, I see how everything had a purpose.

The emptiness, the questions, the betrayal, the storm, and the escape.

Each step led me closer to the truth.

I lost a kingdom on earth, but I gained a kingdom that will never end.

I traded the crown of gold for a crown of light.

I gave up being called your highness to be called his servant.

My life has been filled with danger, but it has also been filled with peace.

Sometimes I miss my family, especially my mother.

But I know one day we will meet again, not in a palace, but in the presence of the King of Kings.

If you are reading my story or hearing my voice, I want you to know this.

No matter where you come from, no matter what you have done, there is hope.

I was a prince who had everything but peace.

I found that peace not in power, not in wealth, but in the love of Jesus Christ.

His love is not limited by religion, culture, or language.

It is for everyone who seeks the truth.

My journey was long and painful.

But it was worth every step because in the end, I discovered that no sword, no storm, and no law is stronger than God’s grace.

I lost my old life, but I gained eternity.

Today I live quietly, still serving where I can.

My name remains hidden, but my heart is free.

Every morning when I wake up, I whisper, “Thank you, Lord, for saving me.

I may never walk again in the palaces of Riyad, but I walk daily with the king who reigns forever, and that is more than enough.

For I have learned that no crown on earth compares to the crown of light that waits for those who follow him.