My name is Abdul Rahman bin Salman Al-Hashimi and I am 92 years old.

I am the Saudi prince whose testimony shocked millions around the world.

The man who went viral for confessing that Jesus healed me after a lifetime spent under the shadow of Islam.

If you had told me even 5 years ago that I would ever speak the name of Jesus publicly, I would have called you a fool.

If you had told me that I would kneel in prayer to him, I would have ordered you out of my presence.

I live more than nine decades certain of who I was.

A son of Riad, a descendant of royal blood, a man who honored Allah, respected the Quran, and defended our traditions without question.

But everything changed the day my servant asked me a simple question.

Your highness, do you believe Jesus can heal you? I remember the fire that rose in my chest.

The anger that blinded me, the way I ordered him to be locked up for mentioning that name in my home.

I thought I was protecting my faith.

I thought I was defending my identity.

But I was wrong.

I see that now.

Because while I spent months trying to silence him, my body was dying.

My spirit was collapsing.

And the doctors, imams, scholars, and healers I visit across India, China, Indonesia, Ghana, and Benin could not save me.

I had power, wealth, reputation.

Yet, not one of those things could stop the burning that tore through my spine every night.

I never imagined I would one day say these words.

Jesus healed me.

Jesus saved me.

Jesus met me in the darkest chapter of my life when everyone else had failed.

Not in a palace, not in a hospital, but in a small underground church hidden beneath the Saudi desert.

And this is how it happened.

I was born in 1933 in Riad into one of the older collateral branches of the House of Assad, a lineage respected for his unwavering loyalty even though we were never positioned directly for the throne.

My father, Prince Al Salman al-ashimi, served as a senior adviser in the early ministry of interior during the reign of King Sad, helping to stabilize tribal relations during a time when the kingdom was still finding its footing.

Through him, our family maintained a close but quiet connection to the ruling household, particularly through shared ancestry with the descendants of Amam Fisel.

The present king is my distant cousin, though by the time he rose to power, men of my generation had long stepped out of public visibility.

Still, I spent decades representing kingdom and regional councils, overseeing development programs in Alcasm, and managing delicate reconciliation meetings among tribes.

Duty shaped every corner of my life.

And for many years, I believe my strength, my discipline, and my family’s honor name were enough to secure my future.

I noticed the first sign of weakness on a quiet morning in early 2018 while walking across the wide courtyard of my home in Al Nikill district.

The sun was rising gently over the palm trees and I felt grateful as I often did that at my age I could still walk unassisted.

But halfway to the fountain, my right leg trembled violently beneath me.

It was sudden sharp and completely unexpected.

I stopped immediately, steadying myself against a marble pillar while pretending to admire the garden, so the servants would not see the fear beginning to rise inside me.

I had always been a man who carried himself with dignity, who never allowed age to dictate how I moved or how I lived.

Yet in that moment, I felt as though part of my body no longer belonged to me.

I convinced myself it was fatigue and returned to my room, expecting it to pass.

Instead, the trembling grew worse as the day progressed, spreading to my fingers, then to my back until it felt like a wave of invisible fire ran along my spine.

Within a week, the symptoms multiplied.

The burning sensation intensified, crawling upward from my lower back into my shoulders, leaving me gasping at night and unable to sleep.

Some mornings I woke drenched in sweat, shaking uncontrollably, while other mornings I felt as though my legs were filled with heavy stones.

I found it difficult to hold a teacup without spilling its contents.

My personal physician from King Fisel Specialist Hospital examined me thoroughly, ordering a series of blood tests, neurological assessments, and full body scans.

But every result came back clean.

Your highness, he said gently.

There is no medical explanation yet.

We must continue testing.

His calm expression only fueled my growing fear.

How could my body be failing without reason? And how could all the advanced medicine I had relied upon for decades offer me no answers? I tried to keep the matter private, hiding my suffering from my family and household staff.

But inside my chest of storm was building.

One made not pain alone, but of uncertainty I had never faced before.

As the days turned into weeks, the illness tightened its grip on me.

The burning in my back intensified at unpredictable hours, sometimes so sharply that I gased aloud.

Walking became a slow, painful effort.

The palace corridors at once felt familiar and manageable suddenly seemed too long, too wide, too cruel for my weakened legs.

I soon found myself struggling with tasks I had always taken for granted, such as rising from a chair or bending to pick up a fallen item.

My age no longer felt like a number, it felt like a prison, I began cancelling my public engagements and tribal meetings.

Ashamed to let anyone see me this way, I had spent decades giving wise counsel, settling disputes, and representing my family with dignity.

The thought of people whispering about my frailty made my heart tighten.

And yet, no matter how hard I tried to maintain the illusion of control, the truth remained.

I was breaking down piece by piece, and medicine could not explain why.

My sleep became a battlefield.

I would lie awake for hours, my mind racing through memories of my youth, wondering if I had done something, anything that could explain why Allah had allowed this strange suffering into my life.

I recited traditional prayers, repeating the names of Allah softly in the darkness, seeking peace.

Yet the burning pain continued its merciless rhythm.

Night after night, I felt the weight of helplessness pressing onto my chest.

I remember my father speaking often in trials of how men were tested in unexpected ways.

But even he, a man of wisdom, had never faced anything like this.

As the pain spread and my strength faded, I began to question what could be happening inside me.

My thoughts grew darker and heavier with each passing day.

And I felt a loneliness I had never known before.

Even in a palace filled with people, the hospital visits increased as the months progressed.

My doctor recommended specialists until I had seen nearly every neurologist and internal medicine expert in Riad.

I sat through long consultations where men half my age study my reports with furough brows, searching for answers that did not exist.

I overheard one consultant whisper to another.

It’s not typical for someone his age.

And I felt a deeper fear coil inside me.

I remembered all the men I had outlived.

Cousins, colleagues, friends.

Yet now, at the tail end of my life, I was confronted not with a graceful exit, but with a torment I could not understand.

Every day, I asked myself if this might be the final chapter of my existence, one written in pain rather than peace.

Still, I pretended before others that I was strong, telling myself that princes did not crumble easily, nor did men of honor surrender without a fight.

But the truth I refused to admit was that I was terrified.

My body was deteriorating faster than anyone expected.

Weight fell for me rapidly, and I could feel my bones protruding beneath my skin.

My appetite vanished.

My vision blurred at random moments, and sometimes I felt as though the palace walls themselves were closing and around me.

The servants grew increasingly concerned, though they hid it out of respect.

I would catch glimpses of their worried expressions when they thought I wasn’t looking.

Even my driver, who had always been difficult to rattle, fidgeted nervously as he watched me struggle to enter the car.

One evening after nearly collapsing the hallway, I realized that pretending was no longer an option.

Something worse than sickness was happening to me.

Something deeper and more mysterious than medicine could measure.

I needed help.

True hope.

And yet, I had no idea where to find it.

In desperation, I allowed my physician to arrange consultations with international medical teams who visited Saudi Arabia periodically.

A neurologist from Germany examined me carefully and suggested that my symptoms did not match any known degenerative disease.

A specialist in the United States reviewed my scans twice and finally confessed, “Your highness, your condition is puzzling.

It does not follow any established pattern.

” I felt humiliation burn hotter than the pain in my spine.

Here I was, a man whose family had enjoyed decades of privilege, wealth, and access of the finest resources.

Yet I stood powerless against something no expert could define.

I began to wonder if perhaps this illness was not physical alone.

The whisper that thought frightened me, and I pushed away, focusing instead on survival, on the hope that somewhere in the world, someone would have the answers that the doctors in Riyad could not give me.

Eventually, my family urged me to travel abroad for treatment, believing that hospitals outside the kingdom might offer solutions that ours could not.

Reluctantly, I agreed.

Though I had spent much of my life advising others, guiding committees, and making decisions for the sake of community, I now found myself depending entirely on the guidance of those around me.

It was humbling in a way I had never imagined.

That night, as I lay awake listening to the faint hung of the air conditioner, I thought about the long years I had lived, the places I had visited, the people I had met, I thought about the confidence I once carried in my heart, a confidence I believe would never fade.

Yet here I was weak, confused, and afraid of the journey ahead.

I did not know then that the search for healing would lead me across continents, through mosques, through clinics, and through spiritual paths I once condemned.

I only knew that if I did not try, I would die without answers.

The next morning, arrangements were made for me to depart from King College International Airport under full discretion.

My departure was not announced.

I did not want my situation to become a matter of whispers across the kingdom.

As I sat in the private terminal, waiting for the aircraft doors to open, I stared at my trembling hands and felt a strange mix of dread and determination.

I did not know what awaited me beyond the borders of Saudi Arabia, but I hoped desperately that somewhere there existed relief from the torment my body endured daily.

I believe that perhaps Allah was testing me in ways I did not yet understand, and that if I remained patient, an answer would eventually come.

Yet a part of my heart trembled at the thought that even the most advanced doctors might fail me.

As I boarded the aircraft, gripping the railing tightly for support, I whispered a quiet prayer, asking Allah to guide me to the healing I needed.

Unaware that this journey would be beginning of a path I never imagined walking, I left Riyad, believing that the world outside the kingdom might hold the answers my doctors could not find.

The aircraft that carried me to New Delhi felt more like a flying hospital than a place of travel.

I moved slowly, gripping the arms of the seat as a burning pain tightened across my spine.

When we landed, the warm air rushed over me, mixed with a scent of smoke and spices drifting from the busy streets outside the airport.

India was the first recommendation from a well-known urologist who believed ancient medicine might reveal what modern scans could not.

I was driven quietly to an Aervetic hospital in Carerala where the doctor spoke softly and treated me with a gentleness I had not felt in months.

Yet despite their confidence, their herbal oils only soothe the surface of my skin without touching the fire raging inside my bones.

Every night I lay awake listening to the sound of the fan turning on the ceiling, realizing that my condition was not improving and that I had traveled thousands of miles only to find more questions instead of answers.

When the treatments in Carol failed, my physician arranged for me to see specialists in Shanghai, where China’s traditional medicine was respected worldwide.

I still remember the cold crisp air that greeted me as a plain door open.

The city rising in bright silver towers that made me feel both hopeful and overwhelmed.

The hospital their work with a level of discipline I admired and their doctors examined me thoroughly.

They placed in acupuncture needles along my spine, burned moxa near my skin, and gave me rare medicinal herbs to drink.

For a few moments after each session, I felt a lightness in my body, almost like relief.

And I prayed quietly to Allah that perhaps this would be the breakthrough I had been longing for.

But each temporary improvement faded within hours, leaving me trembling again with the same burning sensation.

One night, as I sat in my room overlooking the shimmering Hangpoo River, I realized that even among the finest practitioners of ancient knowledge, my suffering remained unmoved.

as though something hidden inside me refused to loosen its grip.

From China, I traveled to Jakarta, hoping that being among a large Muslim population might bring me closer to a spiritual explanation.

Indonesia holds more Muslims than any other country in the world.

And many respected healers, they’re known for combining medical knowledge with Islamic supplication.

I visited several clinics where imams recited verses in the Quran over me.

Their voices rising and falling rhythmically as I asked Allah to free me from whatever was attacking my body.

Their kindness touched me deeply, reminding me of the devotion that exists within Islam when people seek healing with sincerity.

Yet, the more prayers they offered, the heavier my body felt as though the illness resisted every effort made against it.

Some imams suggested I had been afflicted by an unseen force, something beyond medical understanding.

Others simply told me to remain patient and trust Allah’s wisdom.

But I had reached a place where patience no longer felt possible, and the silence inside me grew louder with every failed attempt.

The longer I searched, the more desperate I became.

My sons insisted that I return home and rest, but I refused, believing that the answer must exist somewhere in the world.

I traveled to Koala Lumpur, where a respected Muslim scholar examined me privately and told me that my symptoms suggested spiritual imbalance rather than physical disease.

He performed Rukia, reciting powerful verses and placing his hand gently on my back.

Yet, I felt nothing except a dull ache that had become part of me.

I left his home that evening feeling heavier than before, wondering whether I was chasing shadows.

I had seen the best neurologists, the best herbalists, and the most celebrated scholars.

Yet none could help me.

I began to question everything I once believed about healing, strength, and control.

My thoughts circled around the same fear.

What if Allah had already closed the door on my recovery, and I was simply refusing to accept it? My next destination was Doha, where I visited a specialist recommended by an imam in Riad.

The doctor that ordered another round of tests, hoping to identify abnormalities missed by previous physicians.

I cooperated patiently, though exhaustion made simple instructions feel like heavy burdens.

When the results arrived, they showed the same confusing pattern.

Nothing was wrong, yet everything was wrong.

My body told a story of sickness, but the scans read like a man in perfect health.

The doctor sat across from me with a frustrated expression, tapping his pen against the table.

“Your highness,” he finally said, “your symptoms do not match any known condition.

You need rest and spiritual grounding.

” His words struck me sharply because they were the same words others had used before him, a repetition that offered no relief.

I left Doha with my spirit sinking lower, feeling as though the world had become a circle with no exit.

Still unwilling to stop searching, I returned briefly to Riyad to consult several imams known for their deep understanding of spiritual ailments.

They visited my home, reciting verses from Surah Albakara and blowing gently into cups of water for me to drink.

I respected their efforts, yet each session left me more confused than the last.

Some believed my condition might be a test from Allah.

Others quietly suggested that someone might harbor jealousy toward me, though I dismissed the idea instantly.

I had lived long enough to know that not every misfortune comes from magic or envy.

But the uncertainty weighed on me.

If this was a test, why did it feel so merciless? Why did pain cling to me even as I begged Allah to ease my suffering? I sat awake many nights after these sessions, staring at the ceiling and wondering whether the answers I sought existed at all.

One afternoon, a respected rookie practitioner from Adena visited me upon request.

He examined my condition and asked detailed questions before beginning.

His voice was strong and steady, and his recitation echoed through the room like a warm wave.

Yet as he continued, I felt no reaction, no relief, no discomfort, no change.

This troubled him.

Your highness, he said carefully.

Your illness behaved strangely.

If it were something spiritual, we would expect at least a small sign during Rukia.

But there is nothing.

His uncertainty frightened me more than any diagnosis could have.

If neither medicine nor spiritual intervention could explain my suffering, then where did this fire inside me come from? My body felt like a battlefield with no enemy I could see, no theory I could believe, and no clear direction to pursue.

By the time I reached the end of my consultations in the Middle East, I had lost nearly all hope.

My weight had decreased drastically.

My legs trembled without warning, and sleep came only in painful fragments.

I felt stripped of dignity, relying on assistance to move around and hold me steady.

The proud prince who once walked into tribal councils with authority was now a fragile old man leaning on others to stand.

My heart ache from more than physical pain.

It ache from the humiliation of defeat.

I began to wonder if perhaps this illness was leading me toward my final days on earth.

I whispered prayers into my pillow, asking Allah to forgive me for whatever semi brought this hardship upon me.

Yet no matter how much I prayed, the torment followed me from room to room like a shadow refusing to detach itself.

My physician, noticing my declining hope, urged me to rest.

But there was a quiet whisper inside me, telling me that rest would only bring death closer.

I needed answers and I would not stop until I found them.

One evening while sitting near the window of my room and watching the fading Riad skyline, I made a decision that would shape the next stage of my life.

If neither modern medicine nor Islamic scholars could help me, then I would explore even the places I once believed I should never approach.

I told myself that healing, any healing, was worth the risk.

I did not know then that this decision would lead me into darkness I had never imagined.

Places where desperation swallow dignity and paths that would later shame me deeply.

All I knew was that my journey for healing had not ended.

It was only moving toward its most dangerous chapter.

I never imagined that a prince from one of the oldest branches of the Saudi royal family would ever step into places where men whisper to spirits, burn powders at midnight, or wore charms made from bones and plants.

Yet, desperation has a strange way of turning a man into someone he no longer recognizes.

After the failures in India, China, Indonesia, and the Gulf, my physician quietly mentioned that some Africans held spiritual knowledge passed through generations.

He hesitated before saying it, as though he feared offending my faith as a Muslim, but he saw the hopelessness in my eyes.

I dismissed the idea at first.

Visiting herbalist was one thing, but seeking out spiritualists felt like crossing a line no Muslim should ever cross.

Still, the pain inside me burned day and night.

I felt trapped inside a body that no longer baited me.

And the more I suffered, the more I felt the walls closing in.

Eventually, I told myself that the world was wide and healing could come from unexpected places.

That was how my journey into darkness began.

With a lie, I told myself to ease the discomfort of my growing desperation.

My first stop was Acra, the capital of Ghana.

a city filled with busy streets, warm smiles, and deep cultural traditions.

I arrived on a humid afternoon, and the air felt thick enough to press against my lungs.

I was taken discreetly to a traditional healer recommended by a well-connected businessman in the Gulf.

The healer lived in a compound far from the heart of the city, a place surrounded by clay walls and tall trees that cast long shadows even during the brightest hours.

He welcomed me with respect, bowing slightly and speaking through an interpreter.

I watched him carefully, noticing the strings of beads around his neck and the faint smell of burned herbs lingering in the room.

He placed his hand on my back and closed his eyes as though listening to something I could not hear.

After several moments, he said that my illness was not physical, but spiritual, that something unseen had tied itself to me.

His certainty unnerved me.

I told myself to stay calm.

He prepared a mixture of herbs, asked me to drink a bitter concoction, and performed a ritual with smoke that stung my eyes.

For a moment, I felt lightaded.

But when the ritual ended, the same burning pain flooded my spine again.

I left the compound with a heavy heart, realizing that whatever was afflicting me would not be frightened away by smoke or chance.

From Ghana, I was taken Benin, a country known for its deep history with voodoo traditions.

The moment I stepped out of the airport, something inside me recoiled.

The air felt colder despite the heat, as though the atmosphere itself carried an ancient weight.

The healer we visited lived outside Coden in a village where the houses were built from red earth and woven palm branches.

This man was older, but I so penetrating felt as though he was looking into the part of me.

I preferred to keep hidden.

He asked few questions and simply motioned for me to sit.

The room was filled with clay pots, carved wooden figures, and strange markings on the walls.

I reminded myself that I was only there for healing.

Nothing more, nothing less.

But as he began his rituals, chanting in a deep rhythmic voice, my entire body tensed.

He drew symbols in white powder on the floor, lit small fires and bowls, and waved a fan of feathers over my head.

The smoke and chant swirled around me until I felt dizzy, almost suffocated.

When he finally stopped, he looked straight at me and said, “Your spirit is chained, but not by anything here.

” His words echoed inside my mind long after I left his hut.

For a moment, I wondered what he meant.

But the pain in my spine returned with such force that the thought slipped away into exhaustion.

As more rituals failed, my moral conflict grew.

I had lived my entire life as a Muslim, repeating the Shia with sincerity, visiting mosques for Friday prayers and raising my sons to honor Allah and the teachings of Islam.

Yet here I was, fly between countries, sing before men who called upon forces I knew were forbidden.

At night in hotel rooms across Africa, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, asking myself whether I cross a line I could never return from.

In one room in a craw, I heard distant drums echoing through the night, blended with the faint hum of the air conditioner.

I pressed my hands over my face and whispered to Alla for forgiveness, telling him that I was only trying to find relief, not betraying my faith.

But deep inside my heart, I felt the sting of shame growing stronger with each passing day.

The rituals confused me, frightened me, and made me question whether I was losing not only my health, but also my identity.

My condition worsened as I traveled deeper into these spiritual territories.

The burning sensation in my back spread into my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

My legs trembled so violently at times that I could barely stand.

During one ritual in Benin, I collapsed onto the ground, unable to hold myself upright.

The healer paused his chanting and simply watched me as I studying how close I was breaking.

He later whispered something to my interpreter who refused to translate it.

when I insisted.

The interpreter hesitated before saying softly.

He believed the illness is not from this world and that these rituals will not help you.

Hearing those words felt like someone pressing a cold blade against my heart.

If even a man who dealt with spirits everyday could not help me, then where was I supposed to turn? I had never felt so lost, so empty, so stripped of every layer of certainty I once carried.

One healer in Ghana asked me to wear a charm made from leather and stones around my waist.

He said it would bring protection.

But the moment the charm touched my skin, a wave of fear washed over me.

I felt as though I was doing something profoundly wrong, as though Alla himself was turning his face away from me.

I removed the charm that night and placed it on the table across the room, unable to sleep while it remained near me.

I stared at it for hours, feeling ashamed how far I had allowed myself to fall.

I wanted to throw it away, but feared insulting the healer.

By dawn, my spirit felt heavy and stained, as though the weight of everything I had done clung to me like a second skin.

I returned the charm politely the next morning and left his home with trembling hands.

My final appointment was with a spiritualist known across Benine for treating conditions that defied explanation.

He lived deep within a rural area where mobile signals were weak and the roads turned to dirt.

The journey to reach him was long and uncomfortable.

And by the time we arrived, my body felt as though it was made of burning stone.

The healer’s compound was filled with symbols and carvings I did not recognize.

The air was thick with a smell of incense and something sharper, something that reminded me of metal.

As he examined me, he muttered to himself in a low voice.

Then he lit a small fire and dropped powders into it, causing bright sparks to fill the room.

The sudden light startled me so much that I flinched.

He looked at me and said in French, “What is inside you cannot be removed here.

It follows you from another place.

” His words confirmed what the others had hinted at.

Yet they offered no hope, only terror.

When he finished, he dismissed me with a polite but distant expression, as if he knew nothing more could be done.

By the end of my journey through Africa, I was physically and emotionally destroyed.

My health had deteriorated far beyond what it was when I first left Riad.

I could barely walk without assistance.

My appetite had nearly disappeared.

The tremors in my legs grew unpredictable.

Even speaking for long periods left me exhausted.

But the worst damage was the one no one could see.

The spiritual burden pressing down on me like a weight that refused a lift.

I felt tainted, hollow, and deeply ashamed.

The paths I had taken, the rituals, the chants, the smoke filled rooms, the symbols drawn in powder.

They haunted me long after I left those places.

At night, I dreamt of shadows, strange voices, and rooms where fire flickered against clay walls.

Even when I prayed, my voice felt small and distant, as though my connection to Allah had been blurred beyond recognition.

When I finally returned to Saudi Arabia, I enter my home in al- Niel district feeling as though I was a ghost wandering through a life that was no longer mine.

The servants greeted me with relief, but I could not meet their eyes.

I had left as a prince searching for healing and returned as a broken man burdened by fear and shame.

My sons tried to hide their worry, though their expressions betrayed them.

Father, they said gently.

Rest now.

You have traveled enough.

But rest no longer brought comfort.

It only gave me more time to think about how deeply I had fallen into practices I once condemned.

I felt disconnected from everything familiar.

My family, my home, even my own faith.

And worst of all, the illness still clung to me with sharp, merciless claws, showing me that all my efforts have been meaningless.

I lay in my bed that night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if death was approaching or if something even darker waited ahead of me.

I did not know then that the next turning point in my life would not come from doctors, healers, or mamms, but from someone within my own home, someone I had known for years, yet never imagined would hold the key to what I’d been searching for.

I only knew that Africa had left me empty and afraid, and that my journey, despite all the miles traveled, had only led me deeper into despair.

When I returned home from Africa, I expected at least a small sense of comfort, something familiar to soften away to the darkness I had carried across countries.

But instead, I felt like a stranger in my own palace.

The air inside my home felt colder.

The long hallway seemed emptier, and even the sound of my footsteps echoed with a loneliness I could not explain.

Everyone around me tried to hide their concern.

Yet their eyes revealed what their words did not.

I could sense their fear each time they watched me struggle to stand or walk.

My illness had followed me back unchanged, but the shame that now clung to me made everything heavier.

I felt as though every spiritual line I had crossed remained written across my back.

Yet, in the middle of that despair, the presence of one person stood out more than the rest.

Michael Reyes, my Filipino household attendant who had served me faithfully for over 27 years.

Michael had always been quiet, respectful, and extremely loyal.

I never once imagined he would become the central figure in the most transformative chapter of my life.

Michael had been with me longer than some members of my extended family.

He managed my medications, prepare my room, assisted me during travel, and care for my needs without complaint.

Over the years, I learned that he came from a devout Catholic family in Cebu and had moved to the Middle East to support his mother and younger siblings.

Despite our religious differences, I respected his work ethic and sincerity.

He never pushed his beliefs on anyone, and I appreciated that.

But as my condition worsened, I noticed the way he watched me with quiet worry, as though he carried a burden he could not express.

At first, I assumed he felt pity for my suffering.

I did not know that he had been praying silently for me every night, hoping I would one day listen to something he had been too afraid to say.

And I certainly did not expect that the words he finally spoke would shake the foundations of everything I believed.

One evening, after a particularly difficult day of tremors and burning pain, I sat on the edge of my bed with my face buried in my hands.

My body trembled uncontrollably, and I felt as though the fire inside me was spreading with every breath.

Michael stood a few steps away, holding a glass of water, unsure whether to approach.

When I finally lifted my head, he took a quiet step forward and said softly, “Your Highness, may I speak with you?” His voice carried an unusual weight as though he had been gathering courage for weeks.

I nodded weakly, too exhausted to question him.

He hesitated, placed a glass on the table, and then said the words that ignited a storm inside me.

“Your Highness, there is someone who can heal you.

His name is Jesus.

” The moment he spoke the name, something inside me snapped.

It was not just anger.

It was fury born from fear, pride, and the weight of everything I’d been through.

My voice rose before I could control it.

How dare you? I shouted.

Do you think I would turn to the god of another religion? Do you think I have fallen so far that I would abandon everything I was raised to believe? My hands shook with rage and I could feel the veins in my neck tighten.

Michael stepped back immediately, his face pale.

“Your Highness, forgive me,” he whispered.

“I only wanted to help.

” But my anger drowned out his apology.

“Get out.

” I roared.

“Leave my sight.

And if you ever mention that name in my presence again, I will ensure you never work anywhere in this kingdom.

” I did not recognize myself as those words left my mouth.

I sounded like a man possessed, broken, cornered, terrified of the possibility that he might be right.

But I did not stop there.

The anger inside me felt unstoppable, like a storm I could not contain.

I called for the guards and commanded them to place Michael in the lower quarters, the isolated service rooms beneath the old west wing of the palace, rarely used except for storage.

lock him there.

I ordered coldly.

No visitors, no contact, no freedom to move until I say otherwise.

The guards hesitated, knowing Michael had committed no offense deserving of such punishment.

But I was still a prince, and my authorities silenced their hesitation.

They obeyed.

I watched Michael being taken away, his eyes lowered, his hands trembling slightly.

He did not resist, nor did he protest.

That silence haunted me long after he disappeared down the hallway.

I sat alone in my room afterward, breathing heavily, unable to understand why the mention of Jesus had provoked such a violent response inside me.

But instead of questioning myself, I hardened my heart and refused to think about him again.

The days that followed were some of the darkest of my life.

My illness intensified rapidly as though reacting to the anger boiling inside me.

The burning sensation in my spine grew, so severe that I could barely sit upright for more than a few minutes.

I felt cold one moment and unbearably hot the next.

My sleep became fractured, broken into moments of rest, interrupted by waves of pain.

The palace doctor tried adjusting my medications, but nothing helped.

In secret, I began to feel afraid, not just of dying, but of what might happen to me beyond death.

I felt an unexplainable heaviness around me, as though a shadow lingered at the edge of my vision.

And at night, when the palace was silent, my mind filled with thoughts I did not want to face.

I wonder if I had done something terribly wrong by imprisoning an innocent man simply for speaking a name I refused to hear.

But pride would not let me admit it.

Soon, nightmares began to haunt me.

At first, they were vague and distorted.

Dark rooms, distant voices, shadows moving without form.

But as the weeks passed, they became clearer and far more terrifying.

I dreamt of walking through endless deserts.

My legs trembling, my breath weak, only to find myself sinking into sand while unseen forces whispered accusations.

I dreamt a fire surrounding me, not burning my skin, but burning my spirit as though something inside me was being consumed.

And sometimes I dreamt of figure standing far away.

Figures I could not reach or call for help.

I woke every night drench in sweat, gasping for air, unable to understand why my mind was tormenting me so mercilessly.

The doctors claimed it was stress.

But deep inside, I felt that something else was happening.

Something I could not explain.

After several weeks passed, the nightmares intensified into something even more disturbing.

I began to dream specifically of Michael.

In one dream, I saw myself standing in a dry riverbed under a vast empty sky.

The sun was setting, casting a golden glow across the desert.

Suddenly, I saw Michael standing beside a shallow stream that had not been there moments before.

The water sparkled unnaturally, clear like crystal.

He looked at me with calm, gentle eyes, not accusing, not afraid, simply patient.

He lifted his hand slightly and said, “Your highness, the water you seek is not here.

The healing you search for does not flow from the places you traveled.

You are looking in the wrong direction.

” His voice was soft, yet echoed inside me like thunder.

I tried to walk toward him, but the sand pulled at my feet, making every step impossible.

Then he said one more sentence that struck me like a blade.

Only Jesus can free you from what is holding you.

I woke with a violent gasp, my heart pounding, my clothes soaked with sweat, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

I tried to dismiss the dream as a creation of my exhausted mind.

But the following nights brought more dreams, each one clearer than the last.

In one dream, I saw Michael locked in a dark room.

Yet light surrounded him while I remained trapped in shadow.

In another, he extended his hand toward me.

But I turned away only feel fire spread across my back.

Every dream left me breathless, trembling, and deeply unsettled.

I began to fear sleep itself, knowing that as soon as my eyes closed, the images would return.

My doctor recommended sedatives, but they only made the dreams more vivid.

The sense of fear inside me grew into something unbearable.

It felt as though I was being confronted, not by Michael himself, but by something far greater than him, someone that refused to leave me until I understood its message.

After nearly 6 months of this torment, something inside me finally broke.

I could no longer deny the deep unrest weighing on my spirit.

One night, after waking from a dream so vivid it left me trembling for minutes.

I sat on the edge of my bed and began to weep.

I had not cried in decades, not since my father passed away.

But that night, the tears came without restraint.

I wept from fear, from exhaustion, from guilt, and from the overwhelming sense that I had wronged someone who did not deserve it.

I thought about Michael sitting alone in that dark confined room for all those months.

I thought about the kindness he had shown me throughout his years of service.

And I thought about the name he had spoken, the name that had awakened such violent emotion inside me.

I asked myself why I had reacted so fiercely, why that name alone had shaken me to the core.

I did not understand it completely, but I knew that I could no longer pretend I was right.

The following morning, with my voice weak and trembling, I called for the guards.

When they entered, I whispered, “Bring him back.

” They hesitated, unsure if they had heard me correctly.

“Your Highness Michael,” one them asked.

I nodded slowly.

Yes, bring him here.

As they left, I felt a strange mixture of fear, shame, and relief.

I did not know what I would say to Michael.

Nor did I know how he would respond after the cruelty I had shown him, but I sensed that something significant was about to happen.

Something tied not just my illness, but to the very core of my existence.

For reasons I could not yet explain, I felt that bringing him back was the beginning of an answer I had been searching for since the day my suffering began.

When the guards returned with Michael, I felt something inside me tremble in a way I had never experienced before.

He entered the room slowly, his steps unsteady, his body thinner than I remembered.

His eyes were tired yet strangely calm.

And when he looked at me, there was no anger, no fear, only compassion.

That alone broke something in me.

I expected him to avoid my gaze, but he stood before me with quiet dignity, as though he had already forgiven what I’d done.

For a long moment, we said nothing.

I felt my throat tighten and shame pressed heavily against my chest.

Michael, I whispered, struggling to form the words.

I have wronged you.

He bowed his head gently.

Your highness, I forgive you.

His voice carried no hesitation.

I had seen forgiveness extended among family, among friends.

But I had never seen forgiveness expressed so easily by someone who had suffered in silence for 6 months.

I had no words left, only a deep that came from realizing how far my pride had led me astray.

When we finally sat down, he did not begin by preaching, nor did he repeat the name that had triggered my rage.

Instead, he asked softly, “How is your pain now?” I felt tears sting my eyes at the simplicity of the question.

No doctor, no healer, no scholar had asked in that tone.

They had asked the professionals.

He asked as someone who cared.

I told him the truth.

The pain had grown worse.

The burning in my spine felt like fire eating me alive, and my nightmares had become unbearable.

He listened quietly, nodding with gentle understanding.

Then he said, “Your Highness, may I speak from my heart?” I nodded, though fear rose inside me.

I knew what he wanted to talk about.

I braced myself, expecting anger to rise again, but this time it didn’t.

Something inside me remained still, as though whatever had been fighting earlier now waited quietly.

He began speaking not with boldness, but with humility.

Your highness, I have prayed for you every day for many years, but especially during these months.

I believe Jesus wants to heal you, not only your body, but your heart.

Hearing the name again felt different this time.

It did not cut sharply through me like before.

Instead, it stirred something deep and hidden.

I listened because I no longer had the strength to push him away.

He continued, “Jesus is not the God of one nation or one people.

He is for everyone.

He healed the sick.

He restored the broken, and he gave peace to those who had none.

” His words washed over me slowly, breaking down walls I never knew existed.

As he spoke, I felt a strange warm settle in my chest.

Not the burning pain, but something softer, gentler, almost comforting.

I wanted to resist, but I also wanted to hear more.

I asked him, “Why would your Jesus care about a man like me?” It was a genuine question, one that came from years of pride mixed with fear.

Michael met my eyes and said, “Because he came for the lost, the weary, and the ones who cannot save themselves.

” Those words shook me deeply.

For months, I had felt lost.

I had felt weary.

I had felt completely unable to save myself.

Yet I did not want to accept anything without certainty.

So I asked, “If what you say is true, then why has he not healed me already?” Michael hesitated before answering, choosing his words carefully.

“Your Highness, Jesus often waits for the heart to open before healing begins.

He does not force his way into anyone’s life.

He knocks and we choose whether to let him in.

” His explanation was simple, yet it pierced straight through me.

I wonder if the last 6 months of nightmares, fear, and pain had been a knock I refuse acknowledge.

After speaking for nearly an hour, Michael finally said, “Your highness, there’s a gathering of believers not far from here.

They have prayed for many people in secret, and I believe they can pray for you, too, but it must be done quietly at night.

” My heart raced.

a secret gathering in Saudi Arabia.

The risk alone sent fear shooting through me.

I had lived my entire life under the laws and expectations of Islam.

Even though I was not publicly political, I understood the consequences of associating with underground Christians.

But at the same time, I knew that no doctor, no healer, no imam had been able to help me.

I was out of options.

My life had become a slow descent toward death.

And if there was even a small chance that this path could bring healing, I had to consider it.

After a long silence, I whispered, “Take me.

” That night, after the palace had grown quiet, Michael and one trusted driver led me to a black SUV with tinted windows.

I wore a simple th and a loose sham to cover part of my face.

My hands trembled from fear and weakness as I climbed into the back seat.

The night air outside carried a stillness that felt both peaceful and unsettling.

As we left the lights of Riad behind us, entering the vast stretches of the desert, I felt the way to what I was doing press against my chest.

I was a prince, a Saudi royal, traveling secretly to meet a group of underground Christians.

The thought was so unbelievable that part of me wondered if this was all a dream.

Yet the pain in my spine reminded me that this was very real.

The desert stretched endlessly on both sides, illuminated only by the faint moonlight.

Every passing minute felt like stepping deeper into territory I had never imagined walking.

After nearly an hour of driving, the SUV turned off the main road and followed a narrow path made of compacted sand.

There were no lights, no signs, just a quiet humy engine and a desert wind brushing against a vehicle.

Finally, we stopped beside what looked like an abandoned storage shed.

My heart sank in confusion.

This is it.

I whispered.

Michael nodded.

The driver stepped out first, scanning the area to make sure no one was watching.

Then Michael opened my door and helped me out gently.

My legs trembled beneath me and a cold night air sent a shiver through my body.

He guided me toward the shed, then lifted a large wooden board from the ground, revealing a metal hatch hidden beneath the sand.

I froze, staring at it with disbelief.

We go down, he said quietly.

I hesitated only a moment before nodding.

He opened the hatch, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.

Descending those steps felt like walking into another world.

A warm glow appeared at the bottom.

A soft light from lanterns placed around a small underground room.

When I reached the last step, I saw about 20 people gathered in quiet prayer.

Filipinos, Ethiopians, a few Pakistanis, and even two Saudis whose faces I could not fully see.

They sat on the ground, eyes closed, whispering prayers in different languages.

The room was simple.

No furniture, no decorations, only a wooden cross leaning softly against the wall.

Despite the humble surroundings, there was an atmosphere of peace so deep that for a moment my pain seemed to pause.

A man approached me, his face kind, his eyes gentle.

“Peace be upon you,” he said.

His Arabic was accented but warm.

I nodded, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of everything happening around me.

They invited me to sit on a cushion placed near the center of the room.

The moment I lowered myself, the burning in my back flared sharply, reminding me why I was there.

Michael sat beside me, placing a steady hand on my arm.

The group began to pray softly, their voices rising like a quiet wave that filled the room with warmth.

Some prayed in English, others in Tagalog, Amheric, and Arabic.

I had never heard such sincerity in voices before.

No ritual, no repetition, only genuine pleading for mercy and healing.

A woman approached with a small bottle of oil.

She anointed my forehead and whispered, “In Jesus’ name, be healed.

” I closed my eyes, unsure what to expect.

At first, nothing happened.

My back still burned, my hands still trembled.

But as their prayers grew more intense, something began to shift deep inside me.

A warmth different from the burning pain spread slowly through my spine, then into my chest, then throughout my entire body.

At first, I thought it was my imagination.

But the warmth grew stronger like a gentle fire that did not hurt.

My breathing steadied.

My hands stopped shaking.

I felt pressure release from my back slowly, as if knots I had carried for months were loosening.

Tears filled my eyes without warning.

I had held my emotions in for so long that I forgot what it felt like to release them.

For the first time since my illness began, the pain reduced, not slightly, but significantly.

Then something happened that I still struggled to describe.

It felt as though a heavy weight was being lifted off my shoulders.

A weight I had carried not only during my sickness, but throughout my entire life.

A sense of peace, deep, overwhelming, indescribable, settled over me.

I opened my eyes and whispered, “What? What is happening to me?” The leader of the group knelt beside me and said softly, “Jesus is touching you.

” In that moment, everything inside me broke.

All the years of pride, fear, tradition, and control melted away.

I felt small, fragile, and utterly human.

But I also felt loved.

Loved in a way I had never known.

Not from family, not from my position, not from the world.

Tears ran down my face as I whispered, “What must I do?” The leader looked at me gently and replied, “Open your heart.

Speak to Jesus.

Surrender to him.

” The room fell silent as I closed my eyes again.

I took a trembling breath and whispered words I never imagined I would say in my life.

Jesus, if this is truly you, if you have come to heal me, then I surrender.

I give you my life.

Help me.

As a final word left my lips, the warmth spread to my entire body, stronger than before.

I felt the burning pain in my spine vanish completely vanish as though it had never existed.

I gasped and placed my hand on my back in disbelief.

The pain that had tormented me for nearly a year was gone.

I began to sob uncontrollably.

Overwhelmed by the miracle unfolding inside me.

Michael cried beside me.

The believers praised God quietly, some lifting their hands in gratitude.

I felt as though light itself had entered my body, pushing out every shadow, every fear, every torment that had lived inside me.

I looked around the room and whispered, “I am healed.

” The leader nodded with a peaceful smile.

“He has touched you,” he said.

“Your life will never be the same.

” “And he was right.

In that underground room hidden beneath the Saudi desert, in a quiet presence of humble believers, I experienced a healing that no doctor, no healer, no imam had been able to give.

I left that place not as the man who entered, but as someone reborn, someone who had met the one I once rejected and found the peace I’ve been searching for across the world.

When I emerged from that underground room on a night of my healing, the desert air felt different against my skin.

For the first time in many months, I walked without trembling.

My spine, once burning with relentless fire, felt light and free, and the heaviness that wrapped around my chest had lifted completely.

I touched my back repeatedly, half expecting the old pain to return, but it didn’t.

Every breath felt new, as though the air itself carried a gentleness I had never known.

As Michael helped me into the SUV, I kept whispering, “How is this possible? and he would smile quietly responding, “Jesus has touched you, your highness.

” I spent the entire ride back to Riad staring out the window in stunned silence.

I had traveled across continents, consulted the world’s most respected specialists, bowed before Mams, endured rituals in Africa, and nothing changed.

Yet, in one small underground room hidden beneath the sands of Saudi Arabia, healing had come instantly.

It humbled me in ways I was not prepared for.

I returned to my palace before dawn, and for several hours, I simply walked through my rooms, touching furniture, leaning forward, bending my knees, testing every movement I could think of.

There was no pain.

I felt younger than I had in 20 years.

My servants noticed a change immediately.

They watched me with astonished eyes, whispering among themselves about my renewed strength.

But I said nothing about what had happened.

Not yet.

I knew the nation I belonged to and the faith traditions I had been raised under.

Even though I had served the kingdom quietly and without political involvement, I understood that speaking openly about what had occurred would shake everything around me.

I needed time to understand this transformation myself before revealing it to anyone.

For the first few days, I remained secluded in my room, praying a way I had never prayed before.

Speaking to Jesus, not as someone from another religion, but as someone who had met him personally in a moment of deep desperation.

Michael visited me daily, not as an employee, but as a brother.

He brought me passages from the Bible written on small folded papers so no one would notice.

I hid them carefully under my pillow or between the pages of old poetry books.

At night, I read them slowly, letting each word sink into the wounds of my heart.

The verse that touched me most said, “I will give you rest.

” I repeated it again and again until peace settled over me like soft cloth.

I began to pray in the quiet hours before sunrise, whispering thanks for the healing I had received.

I had spent decades believing strength came from discipline and honor.

Yet now I realized how fragile I truly was and how much I needed the one who had found me when everyone else had given up.

Those early days of secret fellowship with Jesus felt like learning to walk again.

Not with my legs but with my soul.

A week after my healing, Michael returned with news that the underground church want to pray with me again.

not to heal me, but to strengthen my new faith.

The thought of returning filled me with warmth.

For the first time in many years, I felt eager for something beyond my duties and responsibilities.

That night, we traveled once more into the desert.

Careful and quiet.

When I descended the steps into that hidden room, the believers greeted me with smiles, embraces, and gentle prayers of gratitude.

Their humility moved me deeply.

These were people who live without privilege, often in fear.

Yet their joy overflowed like a river.

As we prayed together that night, I felt my heart expanding with a peace that surpassed anything I had experienced in my long life.

I realized then that my healing was only part of the miracle.

The greater miracle was a transformation happening within me, reshaping the man I had been for 9 decades.

Months passed and I lived my new faith quietly, cautiously, but joyfully.

I continued to attend secret gatherings, sometimes once a week, sometimes more when my health permitted.

Michael stood by me every step of the way, teaching me the scriptures, guiding my prayers, and helping me understand what it meant to follow Jesus in a land where his name could not be spoken freely.

I understood the risk he took for me.

If anyone found out, his life could be in danger.

And I, even as an old prince, could face serious consequences.

And yet the danger never frightened me.

When a man witnesses impossible, fear loses its power.

I knew without doubt that Jesus had healed me.

I knew he had reached for me long before I reached for him.

That truth anchored me in every decision I made afterward.

Years passed and the world around me changed in ways I could not fully follow.

Yet one thing remained constant.

The quiet relationship I built with Jesus in the privacy of my home.

I continued to read the scriptures in secret, pray in silence, and meet with the underground believers when it was safe.

As my age advanced into my late 80s and 90s, my body began to weaken again, but this time from natural aging, not from illness.

Yet even in weakness, I felt no fear.

I had lived long enough to know that physical decline was part life.

But unlike before, I did not face it with panic or despair.

Instead, I faced it with a quiet confidence of someone whose eternity was no longer a mystery.

When I turned 92, something in my spirit stirred, a sense that my time on earth was drawing near.

I felt at peace with that realization.

But I also felt a deep burden pressing on my heart.

Many people in Saudi Arabia lived in fear, searching quietly for truth, longing for peace in places they were afraid to explore.

I thought about the millions of Muslims who suffered silently just as I had.

I thought about the healers, the imams, the clerics who could not help me.

And I thought about the underground church.

Those humble believers who risk their lives daily to worship Jesus.

I began to feel as though my story could help someone.

Perhaps even many people if only they knew it.

Yet speaking openly was impossible.

My identity alone would cause a political storm.

But I also knew I could not leave this world without sharing what Jesus had done for me.

One morning while sitting in my room reading from a small handwritten portion of the Gospel of John, I felt a strong impression in my heart, almost like a gentle voice nudging me.

I knew it was time to speak.

I called Michael and said, “I want to record my story, not for my family, not for my sons, but for the world beyond these walls.

” His eyes widened in surprise, but he nodded with respect.

“Are you sure, your highness?” he asked.

It may cause trouble.

I smiled faintly.

At my age, trouble no longer concerns me.

What concerns me is truth.

Jesus healed me.

Jesus saved me, and the world must know.

So, we prepared a small camera, placed it on my reading table, and Michael helped adjust the lighting.

I sat down slowly, my hands resting gently on my lap, and began to speak.

The words flowed naturally without force.

I told the story of my illness, my travels across nations, my visits to imams, clerics, and healers, and my descent into fear and confusion.

I spoke of the underground church, the moment of my healing, and the peace that entered my life afterward.

I did not mention names or details that could endanger others, but I spoke honestly, openly about Jesus, about his love, his touch, his miracle, and his forgiveness.

When I finished, tears streamed down my face.

Michael stopped the recording gently.

I looked at him and said, “This must not stay hidden forever.

When I am gone, release it.

Let the truth walk freely, even if I cannot.

” He nodded, though sorrow clouded his eyes.

Weeks passed and my help began to decline rapidly.

I felt tired often, needing help to stand or move.

Yet despite the weakness, my spirit felt strong, peaceful, and ready.

One evening, while resting in my bed, “Michael came to sit beside me.

His presence comforted me more than he understood.

” “Your Highness,” he said softly.

“The video has been shared.

” I stared at him with quiet surprise.

Who shared it? He lowered his gaze.

I believe one of the believers passed it to someone else, and it spread from there.

It is now everywhere.

I did not feel fear or shock.

Instead, I felt something like fulfillment.

Let it go, I whispered.

It is no longer my story.

It is his.

Within days, the video reached thousands, then millions.

Saudi officials denied its authenticity.

Some claimed it was edited.

Others insisted it was fabricated, but many watched it and felt truth in their hearts.

I began receiving whispers from the underground church that more people were searching, asking questions, seeking hope.

During my final week, I felt my strength slipping away.

My breathing grew shallow, and my hands trembled not from illness, but from age.

I asked Michael to stay close, and he did.

Sitting in a chair beside my bed day and night, we spoke often about Jesus, about heaven, about forgiveness.

I told him that serving me had never been his true purpose.

His true purpose was bringing the name I once hated into my life.

He wept softly at those words.

On the last morning of my life, the room felt unusually quiet, almost holy.

I sense the end approaching, yet I felt no fear.

I whispered to Michael, “Come closer.

” He leaned forward, holding my hand gently.

With my final strength, I said the words that shaped the last years of my life.

Tell them he saved me.

My eyes closed peacefully and for the first time I felt fully at