My name is Amamira.

I am 34 years old.

And on March 15, 2019, I was sentenced to death for bringing shame to the Saudi royal family as a barren third wife.

But then something unexpected happened.

A car accident that changed everything.

What I thought was my end became the the beginning of my real life through Jesus Christ.

I was born into wealth and privilege in Riyad.

the daughter of a successful oil executive who had connections to the royal family.

From the moment I could walk, my mother began preparing me for my destiny.

She would say, “Amira, you are beautiful and from good family.

You will marry a prince and give him many sons.

” Every day she taught me how to sit properly, how to speak softly, how to serve with grace.

I learned calligraphy, poetry, and the art of managing a household.

My education was designed for one purpose, to become the perfect wife for nobility.

When I turned 12, the lessons became more intense.

I was enrolled in a special school for girls, destined for royal marriages.

We learned protocol, religious duties, and most importantly, how to please our future husbands.

I remember feeling so proud and special.

While other girls my age played with dolls, I was being groomed for a palace.

My teachers constantly reminded us that our value as women came from our ability to bear sons for our husbands.

This was not just cultural expectation.

It was religious duty.

At 19, the arrangement was finalized.

Prince Abdullah, who was 35 at the time, had chosen me as his third wife.

The first wife, Zahara, had blessed him with two healthy sons.

The second wife, Fatima, had given him one son and two daughters.

Now it was my turn to contribute to his legacy.

I felt like I was living in a fairy tale.

The wedding was magnificent with hundreds of guests and celebrations that lasted for days.

Moving into the palace was overwhelming.

The luxury was beyond anything I had imagined.

Marble floors, gold fixtures, servants attending to my every need.

But I quickly learned that this golden life came with golden chains.

I was assigned specific quarters, given scheduled times to see my husband, and expected to follow strict routines.

The hierarchy among the wives was clear.

Zahara, the first wife, held the highest position because she had produced the air.

Fatima ranked second.

I was at the bottom, the newcomer who had yet to prove her worth.

My role was crystal clear.

Everyone in the palace, from the servants to the religious advisors, reminded me constantly that my primary function was to become pregnant and deliver male children.

The pressure was immediate and relentless.

Every month, the palace physician would examine me.

Every conversation with other wives centered around pregnancy and children.

I was given special foods, herbs, and prayers.

is all designed to increase my fertility.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever felt your entire worth as a human being depended on accomplishing one specific thing? That was my reality every single day.

I was not valued for my intelligence, my kindness, or my faith.

I existed solely to produce heirs for Prince Abdullah.

The weight of this expectation began crushing my spirit from the very first month of marriage.

After 18 months of marriage with no pregnancy, I knew something was terribly wrong.

The palace physician kept prescribing different herbs and treatments.

But to deepen my heart, I felt a growing dread.

The other wives had conceived within their first year.

Zahara often reminded me of this fact, sometimes kindly, sometimes with cutting remarks about my failure to fulfill my duties.

I began sneaking out of the palace to visit private fertility clinics in Riyad.

This required careful planning and deception.

I would tell my personal servant that I was visiting my mother, but instead I would change into common clothes and take taxis to medical centers across the city.

The fear of being discovered consumed me.

If Prince Abdullah learned I was seeking outside medical help without his permission, the consequences would be severe.

The first doctor I visited was kind but concerned.

After basic examinations and blood tests, he recommended more comprehensive testing.

Week after week, I returned for different procedures.

Each test required me to create new lies about my whereabouts.

I told elaborate stories about shopping trips, visits to religious sites, and time spent with female relatives.

The anxiety of maintaining these deceptions was almost as overwhelming as my fear of the medical results.

Dr.

Hassan, a fertility specialist at King Fisal Hospital, finally delivered the devastating news that would change everything.

I remember that Tuesday morning in November 2018 with perfect clarity.

I sat in his office wearing a black abaya and hijab, my hands trembling as he reviewed my test results.

His voice was gentle but firm when he said, “Mrs.

Amira, I am very sorry to tell you that you have a condition called primary ovarian insufficiency.

Your ovaries do not function properly and you will never be able to conceive children naturally or through any medical intervention.

The words hit me like physical blows.

I felt the room spinning around me as the full meaning sank in.

Never.

Not just difficulty getting pregnant, not just needing medical help, but never.

I was completely and permanently barren.

In that sterile medical office, my entire world collapsed.

Everything I had been raised for, everything I existed for in the palace was impossible.

I was a complete failure as a woman, as a wife, and as a member of the royal family.

The drive back to the palace was a blur of tears and panic.

I had to compose myself before entering the gates because any sign of distress would raise questions I could not answer.

For the next four months, I lived with this terrible secret eating away at my soul.

Every day became an exhausting performance of hope and normaly while inside I was dying.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine carrying a secret that could destroy your entire life.

That was my daily reality.

I continued participating in fertility rituals, accepting advice about foods and prayers, all while knowing they were completely useless.

The guilt of deceiving everyone, especially Prince Abdullah, grew heavy heavier each day.

By early 2019, Prince Abdullah’s patience was completely gone.

His suspicions about my continued failure to conceive had grown into an angry certainty that something was seriously wrong.

One morning in February, he demanded that I submit to examination by the royal physicians.

There was no way to refuse or delay any longer.

The truth uh was about to destroy me.

The royal physicians confirmed what I already knew, but hearing it pronounced officially in front of Prince Abdullah was devastating beyond words.

Dr.

Al- Rashid, the head of the royal medical staff, delivered his findings in the formal reception hall while I knelt on the marble floor.

His voice echoed through the vast space as he declared, “Your Highness, the third wife, suffers from complete ovarian failure.

She has been medically barren since birth and has deliberately concealed this condition through deception and lies.

” Prince Abdullah’s rage was terrifying.

His face turned red as he stood from his throne, pointing at me with trembling fingers.

You have brought shame upon my bloodline, he shouted.

You have wasted two years of my time and dishonored the royal family with your lies.

The other wives watched from the sides of of the hall.

Zahara with satisfaction and Fatima with what looked like pity.

I remained on my knees, unable to speak or defend myself.

The religious council was summoned immediately.

Shik Muhammad, the chief imam who advised the royal family arrived within an hour accompanied by two other religious scholars.

They consulted Islamic law and palace traditions while I waited in a small chamber under guard.

When they returned, Shik Muhammad’s pronouncement was swift and final.

In our sacred traditions, a barren wife who deceives her husband brings shame upon the entire bloodline.

This deception threatens the purity and continuation of royal heritage.

The punishment for such dishonor is death.

I felt my legs give way as the sentence was pronounced, “Death, not divorce, not exile, but actual execution.

” Prince Abdullah nodded his approval and added his own cruel words.

You will have 30 days to prepare your soul for for Allah’s judgment.

Use this time to seek forgiveness for the shame you you have brought upon our family.

The guards immediately escorted me from the main palace to isolated quarters in the basement level.

My new living space was a stark contrast to the luxury I had known.

one small room with a narrow bed, a prayer rug, and a single window that faced the courtyard wall.

I was stripped of all royal clothing and jewelry, given simple white garments that resembled burial shrouds.

The symbolism was not lost on me.

I was already being treated as dead.

The isolation was the crulest part of my punishment.

No contact with family was permitted.

My parents were informed of my disgrace and forbidden from visiting.

The servants who once attended to my every need now avoided looking at me directly.

Even the guards who brought my daily meals would not speak.

I had become invisible.

A ghost uh haunting the palace basement while waiting for my official death.

Every day, Shik Muhammad would visit to prepare my soul for the afterlife.

He would lecture me about repentance, about accepting Allah’s will, about the righteousness of my punishment.

I prayed five times daily as required, begging Allah for mercy that never seemed to come.

The Quran offered no comfort for someone in my position.

I found verses about punishment for disobedience, about the importance of obedience to husbands, but nothing about forgiveness for women like me.

I’m asking you just as someone who faced death would.

Where do you turn when all hope is gone? My prayers felt empty, bouncing off the ceiling and returning unanswered.

Heaven seemed completely silent to my desperate please.

March 15, 2019 arrived with an eerie calmness that I had not expected.

I woke before dawn and performed my final prayers, asking Allah one last time for mercy that I knew would not come.

The guards had informed me the night before that my execution would take place at a remote location outside the city, away from public view, but in accordance with Islamic law.

I had made a peace with dying, though not with the feeling that God had completely abandoned me.

The preparation ritual was somber and precise.

I was given a ceremonial white robe and head covering symbolizing my return to Allah in purity despite my sins.

Shake Muhammad performed the final religious rights.

Reading verses about divine justice and the importance of accepting God’s will, I signed my final confession, acknowledging my crimes against the royal family and accepting my punishment as righteous.

My hands were surprisingly steady as I wrote my name for the last time.

The vehicle that arrived to transport me was a black SUV with tinted windows.

Two guards sat in the front seats while Shik Muhammad and I occupied the back.

The drive through Riyad’s morning traffic felt surreal.

I watched ordinary people going about their daily lives, children walking to school, vendors opening their shops, completely unaware that a condemned woman was passing by their windows.

My heart had settled into an strange rhythm of acceptance mixed with lingering hope for some impossible intervention.

We were traveling through a busy intersection near the King Fod district when everything changed in an instant.

A large delivery truck carrying construction materials ran straight through a red light at full speed.

The driver appeared to be looking at his phone and never saw our vehicle approaching from the right.

The collision was devastating and immediate.

The impact threw our SUV completely sideways, rolling it twice before it crashed into a concrete barrier.

The sound of crushing metal and shattering glass filled my ears as I was thrown around inside the vehicle like a ragd doll.

When the motion finally stopped, I found myself hanging upside down, still strapped in my seat, but miraculously conscious and alert.

The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth and I could hear groaning from the front seats.

Shik Muhammad was unconscious beside me, blood trickling from a head wound.

Both guards appeared to be seriously injured and unable to move.

The SUV’s doors had been damaged in the crash, but the rear window had completely shattered, creating an opening just large enough for a person to crawl through.

In that moment of chaos and confusion, I realized that Allah or perhaps some other divine power had presented me with an impossible opportunity.

Without thinking about consequences or possibilities of recapture, I unbuckled my seat belt and squeezed through the broken rear window.

My white execution robes caught on the jagged glass, tearing in several places, but I managed to pull myself completely free from the wreckage.

Emergency sirens were already wailing in the distance, and a crowd of people had begun gathering around the accident scene.

What seemed like a tragic accident was actually Jazafus orchestrating my rescue.

Though I would not understand this truth for several more days, I stood on the busy street in my torn white robes, completely free for the first time in 30 days, with absolutely no plan for what to do next.

I ran through the streets of Riyad in my torn white execution ropes, not knowing where I was going, but driven by pure survival instinct.

The adrenaline from the crash kept me moving despite cuts and bruises covering my body.

Every police siren in the distance made my heart race with terror that they were searching for me.

After running for what felt like hours, I found myself in an unfamiliar residential neighborhood.

Completely exhausted and collapsing at the doorstep of a small modest house.

The woman who opened the door was unlike anyone I had ever encountered.

Sarah was an American aid worker in her 40s with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

Instead of turning away from the bloody, desperate stranger on her doorstep, she immediately invited me inside.

She spoke Arabic fluently and asked no questions about my torn white robes or obvious state of distress.

Her first words were, “You are safe here.

Let me help you.

” Something in her voice carried a piece I had never heard before.

Sarah cleaned my wounds, gave me fresh clothes, and prepared a simple meal while I sat in stunned silence on her couch.

She never pushed me to explain my situation, but simply cared for my immediate needs with a gentleness that felt completely foreign.

That evening, she told me she was a Christian who worked with refugee women and that she felt God had prompted her to help me.

This was my first introduction to the concept of a God who cared about individual people, especially women in desperate situations.

Over the following days, Sarah began sharing her faith with me through her actions more than her words.

She never forced religious conversations, but I observed how she prayed before meals, how she treated every person with dignity, and how she spoke about Jesus as if he were a personal friend rather than a distant deity.

She gave me a Bible translated into Arabic and suggested I might find comfort in reading about Jesus’s interactions with women.

Reading the Gospels was a revelation that shattered everything I thought I knew about God.

I discovered stories of Jesus healing women, defending women caught in adultery, and treating women as valuable individuals rather than property.

The woman at the well, Mary Magdalene, the woman with the issue of blood, all were loved and accepted by Jesus regardless of their circumstances or perceived failures.

This was completely opposite to everything I had experienced in Islamic culture.

The turning point came on April 3rd, 2019, exactly 19 days after my escape.

I was reading the story of the woman caught in adultery when Jesus’s words pierced my heart.

Neither do I condemn you.

Go and sin no more.

I realized that Jesus was offering me something I had never experienced.

Unconditional love and acceptance.

Not love based on my ability to produce children or my usefulness to men, but love simply because I existed and was precious to God.

Ask yourself this question.

When was the last time you felt completely accepted for who you are, not what you can do? That night, kneeling in Sarah’s living room, I surrendered my heart to Jesus Christ.

I confessed my sins, my fears, and my complete brokenness.

And for the first time in my life, I felt truly forgiven and loved.

The peace that filled my heart was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

Through years of Islamic prayers and rituals, Jesus didn’t just save my life from physical death.

He gave me a completely new identity and purpose that I never could have imagined.

The first months after my conversion were a mixture of incredible joy and profound grief.

I was experiencing the freedom and love of Christ for the first time.

But I also had to accept that I could never return to my family, my culture by the or my homeland.

I was legally dead to my former world.

but spiritually alive in ways I had never known possible.

Sarah connected me with an underground network of believers who helped former Muslims transition to new lives in Western countries.

Through their assistance, I was able to obtain refugee status and eventually relocate to Canada where I could practice my faith openly without fear of execution.

Learning to navigate a completely different culture while processing my trauma required immense patience and support from my new Christian family.

The healing process was gradual but miraculous.

Jesus began showing me that my identity was not tied to my ability to bear children or serve men, but to my relationship with him as his beloved daughter.

The shame and inadequacy that had defined my entire existence slowly melted away as I learned about God’s unconditional love.

I discovered spiritual gifts I never knew existed, including a calling to minister to other women who had experienced similar persecution and trauma.

Within two years of my conversion, God began placing a burden on my heart for Muslim women who were trapped in desperate situations like I had been.

I started volunteering with organizations that helped women escape honor violence, forced marriages, and religious persecution.

My own story became a powerful tool for reaching women who thought they were beyond hope or divine love.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself what God might want to do through your own pain and experiences.

In 2021, I officially started a ministry called Daughters of Hope that provides safe houses, legal assistance, and spiritual support for women fleeing Islamic persecution.

We have helped establish a network of safe safe locations across North America where women can find refuge while they rebuild their lives in Christ.

The most incredible part of this ministry is witnessing other women encounter Jesus for the first time.

In the past five years, I have personally led 47 women to Christ, each with stories as dramatic and heartbreaking as my own.

seeing their faces light up when they realize that God loves them unconditionally.

Regardless of their past or their perceived failures, never gets old.

What the enemy meant for evil in my life, God has turned for good in the lives of dozens of other women.

Today I am married to David Break Anai, a wonderful Christian man who loves me deeply, not for what I can give him, but for who I am in Christ.

Ironically, after years of believing I was barren, God blessed us with two adopted daughters from Somalia who had also escaped Islamic persecution.

Our family is a living testimony to God’s redemptive power.

If Jesus could save someone like me, a Muslim woman who was literally facing death for disappointing others, he can save anyone.

No matter what your background, your failures, or your circumstances, Jesus offers you the same unconditional love and acceptance that he gave me.

I’m asking you just as someone who has experienced both death and resurrection would.

What is keeping you from surrendering to Jesus today? Every breath I take is a gift from him and he wants to give you that same abundant