My name is Ali.

I am 36 years old.

I was a respected imam in Saudi Arabia, a man people turned to for faith and guidance.

But the day one of the Saudi royal princes forcefully took my wife from me, everything I believed about Allah, Islam, and justice shattered.

My life was shattered and I didn’t know who to run to until I met Jesus.

This is my redemption story.

I was born and raised in a small village near Brida in the Alcasim region of Saudi Arabia.

From as far back as I can remember, Islam shaped every breath I took.

My father was an imam and our home was filled with the sound of Quran recitations before dawn.

By the age of 12, I had memorized most of the Quran.

And by 17, I was teaching children in the local Madrasa.

People said I had a gift, a voice that made verses come alive.

I never cared for games or gossip.

All I wanted was to study, to preach, and to defend the purity of Islam in a world I felt was changing too quickly.

Even as a young man, I feared that western ideas would soon poison the hearts of our youth.

In those days, our village life was simple and peaceful.

The call to prayer echoed across the dusty streets five times a day, and I could walk from one end of the village to the other, greeting every man by name.

We shared dates, we prayed together, and we looked after one another’s families.

When I became the imam of our main mosque at the age of 29, I felt like Allah himself had chosen me for a purpose.

People came from nearby towns to listen to my Friday sermons.

I spoke with passion about holding fast to the Quran and resisting the influence of Western education and entertainment that I believed was watering down our values.

My words were fiery, but they came from love for my faith and my people.

The elders in the village treated me with great respect.

They would often visit after MRI prayers to seek my advice on family matters or disputes.

Even the governor of our district once attended a Friday sermon and told me afterward that I spoke with the conviction of the early scholars.

Those compliments humbled me, yet they also planted a seed of ambition in my heart.

I began to dream about spreading my message beyond Alcasim to stand among the great voices calling the kingdom back to the roots of Islam.

I read speeches by prominent Imam Zi from Riyad and Medina and imagine myself addressing crowds in the capital.

In my mind, I was fighting for the soul of our nation, warning people that modern influences were creeping into our faith like a slow disease.

Around that time, my parents arranged my marriage to a young woman named Amira from a nearby town.

She was gentle, modest, and deeply devoted to the Quran.

Her father was a respected teacher and when I met her for the first time, she spoke softly about her dream of raising children who would memorize the Quran as we had.

Her humility touched me.

Our wedding was simple, held in the courtyard of her family’s home under strings of lights and the recitation of Surah Alman.

That night as we shared our first meal together, I thanked Allah for blessing me with a woman whose faith matched my own.

Amira became my comfort, my peace after long days of teaching and preaching.

In her presence, I found tranquility, the kind that the Quran promises to those who fear Allah sincerely.

Marriage changed me in subtle ways.

I became more patient, more thoughtful.

But my fire for Islam still burned.

My sermons grew more intense, urging our people to guard their hearts against Western influence.

I spoke about television shows, music, and foreign schools that were quietly shaping our youth to question their religion.

Many in our region agreed with me, saying I was a brave voice in an age of compromise.

My name began to spread beyond Al-Chasim.

Invitations came for me to lead prayers or speak at religious events in nearby cities.

Each time I spoke with conviction that Saudi Arabia must remain the fortress of Islam and the defender of the Quran.

When government officials from Riyad began attending these events, I knew something was changing.

I was no longer just a village imam.

I was becoming a national voice.

One afternoon after Friday prayers, a white SUV arrived outside the mosque, a man in a white th and dark sunglasses stepped out carrying an envelope embossed with the seal of the Ministry of Islamic Affairs.

Inside was a formal invitation for me to attend a religious seminar in Riyad.

My heart raced as I read it.

For years, I had prayed for a chance to bring my message to the capital, and now Allah had opened that door.

Amira’s eyes shone with pride when I told her the news.

“Allah is honoring your dedication,” she said softly.

“We both believed this was a sign that my efforts to protect Islam were being noticed by those who had the power to bring change across the kingdom.

I prepared for the trip with great excitement, unaware that it would be the beginning of the greatest test of my life.

When I arrived in Riyad, the city dazzled me.

Tall buildings, shining cars, and people from every corner of the world filled the streets.

It felt like a different universe from our quiet village.

Yet beneath my awe was unease.

Western shops, English signs, and even the fashion of some younger Saudis troubled me.

I told myself that my mission was clear to remind people that progress should never come at the cost of faith.

At the seminar, I met imams, scholars, and officials from across the kingdom.

When it was my turn to speak, I poured my heart into my words.

I warned that allowing western ideas to spread unchecked would erode the purity of Islam.

My voice trembled with emotion as I recited verses from the Quran about guarding the believers from fitna temptation.

The hall was silent when I finished and then it erupted in applause.

After the event, several influential clerics approached me praising my courage.

One of them, an older scholar from Mecca, told me that the kingdom needed more voices like mine.

Over the next months, I received more invitations, not just to speak, but to attend meetings discussing religious education and cultural policy.

The authorities seemed to value my perspective.

I felt honored, convinced that Allah was using me to defend his religion at a national level.

Amamira and I discussed moving to Riyad permanently so I could be closer to the heart of these developments.

She hesitated at first.

The city was noisy and she feared losing the quiet rhythm of village life.

But eventually she agreed trusting that Allah would bless our new beginning.

Within a few months, we found a modest apartment in the Al-Malaz district of Riyad and began our life a new.

Life in the capital was busier than anything we had known.

I spent long days attending conferences and seminars and evenings preparing for sermons broadcast online.

Amamira adapted quickly, though she missed the simplicity of our village.

She would often visit the local market where she made friends with other wives of clerics and officials.

Our marriage grew stronger in those early months.

We prayed together before dawn thanking Allah for his guidance.

My reputation was rising quickly.

Newspapers quoted my speeches and I was even interviewed on a local radio program.

I spoke passionately about protecting Saudi youth from foreign corruption and my words resonated with many who felt the same unease about the changes sweeping through society.

I felt I was exactly where Allah wanted me to be.

It was during one of those public events that fate took a turn I never expected.

I had been invited to deliver a lecture at a university hall in Riyad attended by several members of the royal family.

Um afterward as I greeted guests in the reception area, I noticed Amira standing quietly near the women’s section as dignitaries and their families passed by.

She wore her abaya and nikab, her modesty radiating a grace that drew attention without effort.

Among those present was a man whose presence made the entire room shift.

Prince Fisal Bintarik, a nephew of the king’s son and one of the most influential princes in Riyad.

His reputation was known to all, charming, confident, and accustomed to getting whatever he desired.

I caught the moment his gaze lingered on Amira.

It lasted only a few seconds, but something in my heart turned cold.

At first, I dismissed it as my imagination.

Princes met hundreds of people every week.

Surely, he wouldn’t notice the wife of a village imam.

But over the following weeks, subtle signs began to appear.

At official gatherings, his aids greeted me with unusual warmth.

Invitations came to attend smaller private discussions where the prince himself was rumored to be present.

My colleagues congratulated me saying my influence was growing among the royals.

Outwardly I smiled and gave thanks to Allah but inwardly I felt uneasy.

I could not explain why, but every time I saw the prince’s convoy arrive, an invisible tension gripped my heart.

Amamira noticed my silence and asked if I was worried about my responsibilities.

I simply told her that with greater honor comes greater trials.

Not realizing how prophetic those words would soon become.

I often think back to those early months in Riyad and how proud I felt standing before scholars, princes and ministers believing I was protecting the faith of our nation.

I did not know that the very circle of power I trusted would become the source of my greatest pain.

My sermons about resisting western corruption reached thousands.

But I failed to see that corruption wears many faces.

Even beneath the robes of those who claim to serve Allah.

My name once spoken with respect in my village would soon be whispered with pity and fear.

and the man I had believed was honoring my work, Prince Faizal Benturik, would soon shatter everything I held dear.

The weeks after that university lecture felt like a dream come true.

I was being invited to places I had only heard about in the news.

Private gatherings where scholars, politicians, and members of the royal family discussed how to strengthen Islam in our modern society.

Each time I entered one of those rooms lined with gold frame verses and velvet chairs, I felt a mixture of pride and nervousness.

My words now carried weight.

When I spoke, men twice my age listen carefully.

They said my sermons had touched the hearts of young Saudis who were losing interest in religion.

I believed I was serving Allah’s purpose, that he was lifting me from a simple village imam to a defender of faith for the entire kingdom.

It never crossed my mind that this new visibility came with hidden eyes watching more than my words.

My wife Amira was proud of me.

She would prepare my clothes, iron my th until it looked new, and remind me to speak kindly even to those who disagreed.

Her quiet support gave me confidence.

At night, we would sit on the balcony of our apartment overlooking the lights of Riyad.

I would tell her about the people I met, about the dinners held in uh honor of scholars and the promises officials made about improving Islamic education.

Amamira would smile and say, “Allah is using you for something great.

” I believed her.

Our marriage was full of peace and our prayers together made me feel that as long as we stayed close to Allah, nothing could harm us.

I did not realize that peace was about to be tested in ways I could never imagine.

One evening after a conference at the King Sod University, a messenger approached me with another invitation.

It was embossed with the royal seal of Prince Faizal Bintarik.

The note was polite but commanding.

The prince was hosting a private dinner for selected scholars and wanted me to attend as an honored guest.

I was surprised yet honored.

Such an invitation was rare for someone of my rank.

I saw it as a sign that my message was reaching the highest levels of society.

Amira helped me prepare, her hands trembling slightly as she fastened my gutra.

She seemed uneasy.

“You should be careful,” she whispered.

Powerful people often have powerful temptations.

I smiled and told her not to worry.

Prince Faizal is known for his generosity.

I said he supports the spread of Islam.

There is nothing to fear.

Those words would later haunt me.

The dinner was held at a royal guest palace in the diplomatic quarter, an area of Riyad that sparkled with wealth.

Marble floors reflected the chandeliers above and servants moved silently with trays of kawa and dates.

Prince Fisel bent entered the hall wearing a crisp white to a red checkered gutra.

He was tall, confident, and had a charm that instantly commanded attention.

When he greeted me, his handshake was warm but firm.

His smile practiced.

Imam Ali, he said, I have heard much about your sermons.

You speak truth boldly and our nation needs such men.

His praise filled me with gratitude.

I thanked him and prayed silently that Allah would use our connection for good.

Yet beneath his polite words, his sharp eyes seemed to study me, not as an equal, but as someone he could easily control.

In the weeks that followed, I found myself invited to more events connected to the prince.

Sometimes they were small religious gatherings, other times private discussions on policy.

I noticed that he liked to keep influential clerics close to him.

He would listen with interest, asking deep questions about the role of religion in modern governance.

His intelligence was undeniable.

But behind that intelligence, there was something else.

An arrogance born from generations of power.

He was used to having everything he wanted.

Still, I convinced myself that my friendship with him could help strengthen Islamic values in the kingdom.

It felt like a divine mission.

Whenever Amamira expressed discomfort about these new circles, I would remind her that spreading Islam often required walking among rulers.

She would nod, but her eyes showed doubt.

One afternoon, I returned home from a royal lunchon and found Amira standing by the window, her hands clasped tightly.

She said a car had followed her from the market earlier that day, a black SUV with tinted windows.

The driver had stopped briefly near our building, then left.

I dismissed it as coincidence, telling her that Riad was full of security vehicles.

But that night, I could not sleep.

The image of the prince’s watchful eyes came back to me.

I remembered how during one of our dinners, his questions had turned personal.

He had asked casually if I was married, how long I had been, and whether my wife had joined me at public events.

At the time, it seemed harmless curiosity.

Now, it felt different, like a seed of interest planted in silence.

Despite my unease, my reputation continued to grow.

The ministry began consulting me on public sermons and I was asked to appear on television to discuss the moral dangers of globalization.

Each success pulled me further into the princess orbit.

He sent gifts, rare books, expensive perfumes, and even a small goldplated Quran.

I accepted them out of respect but felt uncomfortable displaying such luxury.

Amamira suggested returning one of the gifts, saying modesty was better.

When I hesitated, she quietly placed the items in a drawer and said, “The one who gives so freely may one day ask for something he should not.

” Her words stung, but I brushed them off.

I wanted to believe that Prince Faizalik’s attention was purely political.

My faith in people was stronger than my cushion.

Not long after I was invited to speak at a charity event organized by the royal family, Amira accompanied me seated in the women’s section as was customary.

When the event ended, I was ushered to greet the prince again.

He praised my speech warmly, calling me the voice of the people.

As I thanked him, I noticed his gaze drift momentarily toward the women’s side.

I could not see through the partition, but I knew exactly where Amira sat.

My chest tightened.

Later that night, as we drove home, Amamira told me she had felt someone staring through the separation curtain during the event.

She had looked up briefly and caught a glimpse of a man’s outline wearing a bish like the princess.

We both fell silent.

For the first time, I felt fear creeping into our home.

I tried to push the worry aside, telling myself that suspicion is from Shayan.

But days later, a royal aid visited our apartment with a strange request.

The prince, he said, was establishing a new foundation to promote Quran education and wanted me to serve as its director.

It was a major opportunity, one that would make me responsible for religious programs across several regions.

I was speechless.

Accepting such a role would mean financial stability and nationwide influence.

Amira looked at me nervously as I read the letter.

She didn’t trust the offer.

Maybe he admires your work, she said.

But sometimes admiration hides other motives.

I assured her that nothing unislamic could happen under the watch of the royal court.

I signed the acceptance form the next day, unaware that the prince’s plans for me were far more personal than professional.

The new position came with privileges.

I was given an office near the ministry compound and access to resources I had never imagined.

My colleagues treated me with new respect and officials began addressing me as shik Ali.

But with the honor came pressure.

The prince would often summon me to private meetings late in the evening, insisting we discuss religious matters over coffee.

Those sessions rarely touch the scripture.

Instead, he asked about my life, about air, about our marriage.

His tone was casual, but his questions were too specific.

One night after I spoke about the role of family in Islamic society, he smiled and said, “Your wife must be a remarkable woman to support such devotion.

” I nodded politely, my throat dry.

Something in the way he said it made my heart pound with dread.

I began noticing subtle changes around me.

Guards who once nodded respectfully now watched my movements closely.

Michaels to certain officials went unanswered.

Invitations to public events came less frequently, replaced by private summons from the prince.

It felt as if he was slowly drawing a circle around me, cutting me off from others.

Amira sensed it, too.

She stopped going out alone and spent most of her time reciting Quran.

I wanted to protect her, but how could I protect her from someone as powerful as Prince Fisal bin Tarik.

I still hoped it was my imagination that perhaps he had simply grown fond of our friendship.

Yet deep down I felt the balance of our lives shifting towards something dark and dangerous.

The breaking point came on a warm Thursday evening.

I was preparing for Juma prayers when two black SUVs stopped outside our building.

Men in white thes stepped out, their faces expressionless.

They handed me an envelope sealed with royal crest.

Inside was an official request from Prince Faizal Bintarik’s office.

It stated that his highness wished to extend an invitation to my wife Amira to visit the royal household to discuss a new charity project for women’s education.

My knees went weak as I read the words.

I knew what such invitations meant.

Refusal was not an option.

Yet acceptance could destroy us.

Amira’s face turned pale when she saw my expression.

Ali, she whispered, “Please don’t let them take me.

” I promised her that I would do everything in my power to protect her, even as fear wrapped around my heart like iron chains.

That night, I paced our apartment until dawn, praying for guidance.

I begged Allah to show me a way out of the trap that had closed around us.

Every recitation felt hollow, every dua unanswered.

For the first time in years, I sensed danger not from foreign corruption, but from the very palace that claimed to defend Islam.

The city that had once symbolized my rise now felt like a cage.

I looked at Amamira sleeping beside me, her face calm in the dim light, and I realized that the honor I had chased so eagerly had brought us into the lion’s den.

Outside, the first call to prayer echoed through Riyad, but my heart was too heavy to respond.

I knew that the next chapter of our lives was about to begin, and it would not be a peaceful one.

The following morning began with a silence that felt heavy, as if the air itself refused to move.

Amamira and I sat in the living room without speaking, the unopened royal envelope still lying on the table between us.

Neither of us dared to touch it again.

I had not slept at all that night.

Every creek in the building made me think of footsteps coming for us.

Around dawn, I went to the mosque to pray, hoping to find peace, but my heart was restless.

I could not focus on the words of the Quran.

The image of the prince’s seal on that letter kept flashing before my eyes.

I knew what it meant.

In Saudi Arabia, when a royal requests something, refusal is dangerous.

I returned home shaken, trying to hide my fear.

But Amira saw it in my face.

She reached for my hand and whispered, “Ali, Allah will protect us.

” I wanted to believe her.

I wanted to hold on to that faith that had carried me through every sermon, every prayer, every hardship.

But deep down, I felt something breaking.

For the first time, I began to doubt whether our faith could shield us from the will of powerful men.

By midm morning, I decided to visit the Ministry of Islamic Affairs to seek counsel.

Perhaps someone there could intervene or at least clarify whether this so-called invitation was genuine.

The office was crowded, but when I mentioned the prince’s name, the clerk’s expression changed instantly.

He lowered his voice and said, “Shik Ali, I advise you not to get involved in matters above your level.

” I pressed him for help.

But he shook his head.

“These things are not for us to question,” he murmured, avoiding eye contact.

My stomach turned cold.

Even those who worked for a religion were afraid of speaking against royalty.

When I returned home, two black SUVs were already parked outside the building.

My heart stopped.

Uniformed guards stood by the entrance, their faces blank.

I rushed upstairs to find Amira quietly packing a small bag.

Her eyes were red from crying, but her hands were steady.

She had already folded her prayer clothes and placed her Quran on top of them.

“They came while you were gone,” she said softly.

They said Prince Faizel’s car will arrive by evening.

I felt dizzy.

I dropped to my knees beside her and grabbed her hands.

“You don’t have to go,” I said desperately.

“I’ll tell them you’re sick.

I’ll” My voice broke.

She touched my face gently.

“Ali, we cannot fight them.

If you resist, they will harm you.

” Her calmness broke me more than her fear could have.

I wanted to scream, but the words refused to come out.

When the guards knocked that evening, I opened the door with shaking hands.

The leader, a tall man with a trimmed beard and cold eyes, greeted me formally.

“His highness appreciates your service to the faith,” he said, “and requests the company of your wife for a few days to assist in his charitable project.

” His words were polite, but his tone left no room for argument.

I tried to explain that my wife was not well enough to travel, but he interrupted me.

The prince insists, “Shake, you will be informed when she is to return.

” Amira stood behind me, her abaya neatly draped, her face pale.

She looked at me once, and in that moment, I saw everything we had built together.

Our prayers, our love, our dreams crumble before my eyes.

I could only whisper her name as they led her away.

I followed them to the street, begging the guards to reconsider, but they ignored me.

Amira stepped into the car without resistance, her composure more powerful than any protest I could make.

Before the door closed, she looked back at me and said, “Trust Allah.

” Then the SUV pulled away, disappearing into the evening traffic.

I stood there until the tail lights vanished.

The neighbors were watching from behind their doors, whispering, but not daring to speak.

I could feel their pity, but no one came forward.

In Riyad, everyone knew that silence was safety.

When I finally went back upstairs, the apartment felt lifeless.

Her prayer rug lay neatly folded beside mine.

Her teacup was still on the table.

I fell to the floor and wept until my body achd.

Crying out to Allah for mercy.

That night I prostrated myself again and again, begging Allah to return my wife.

I prayed every dua I knew for justice, for protection, for deliverance.

But the silence in the room was suffocating.

I had always told others that Allah sees all, hears all, protects all.

Yet in that moment, I felt abandoned.

Each time I closed my eyes, I saw Amira’s face, her tears hidden beneath her nikab.

As the car door closed, I shouted into the empty room, demanding to know why Allah would let such a thing happen to people who had served him faithfully.

I bit my chest in anguish and finally collapsed from exhaustion.

When I woke the next morning, my throat was sore, my eyes swollen, and my heart heavy with disbelief.

I tried to reach out for help.

I went first to the imam of a large mosque I respected.

An elderly scholar who had once praised my sermons.

When I told him what happened, his expression hardened.

Shake Ali, he said.

We must accept Allah’s will.

Perhaps this is a test.

I stared at him in disbelief.

“A test,” I said bitterly.

“My wife has been taken against her will, and you call it a test.

” He looked away, lowering his voice.

“Brother, do not speak too loudly.

You cannot accuse a prince.

That is dangerous talk.

” His cowardice made me tremble with rage.

I realized that even in the house of Allah, truth bowed before power.

As I left the mosque, my legs felt weak.

I had come seeking guidance and found only fear.

Next, I went to the police station.

I knew it was risky, but I couldn’t stay silent.

The officer at the front desk barely looked up when I explained my situation.

When I mentioned the prince’s name, his pen froze in his hand.

Then he laughed, not kindly, but mockingly.

Shake Ali, he said, you should be honored that your wife has been chosen to serve the royal household.

Many would envy such attention.

I felt my blood boil.

This is not an honor, I said through clenched teeth.

This is injustice.

His smile vanished.

He leaned forward and whispered.

Be careful what you call injustice.

Some men disappear for less.

I knew then that I was alone.

No law, no system, no authority would help me.

I left the station shaking.

My faith in man and in Allah’s justice beginning to crumble.

Days passed with no word from Amira.

Each sunrise felt like a punishment.

I stopped eating, stopped answering calls.

The few friends I had in um the ministry avoided me.

One of them sent a short message.

Brother, I advise silence for your safety and hers.

That message cut deeper than a knife.

Silence for safety.

Was that what faith had come to mean? My apartment grew dark and cold.

I spent my nights pacing the floor, replaying the moment she was taken.

Sometimes I thought I heard her voice in the hallway only to realize it was my imagination.

I would collapse onto her prayer rug and whisper her name until dawn.

I wanted to believe she was safe, but a voice inside me whispered that she was lost forever.

One evening, a young neighbor named Khaled knocked on my door.

He looked nervous, glancing around before stepping inside.

“Shake,” he said quietly.

I heard something from a cousin who works in the palace.

My heart pounded.

What did you hear? He hesitated, then said, “Your wife, she is being kept in the women’s quarters of Prince Fisal’s estate.

No one dares question it.

They say she was brought there under royal orders.

” My knees gave out and I sank into a chair.

I thanked him for his courage, but begged him not to speak of it again.

After he left, I sat in silence for hours.

Knowing where she was brought no comfort, only deeper pain.

The palace was a world I could never enter.

My wife was near yet unreachable.

Every attempt I made to seek justice ended the same way with warning looks and hushed voices.

Even my brothers in Al- Casim stopped answering my calls.

My mother, when she finally picked up the phone, wept and told me to stay quiet for the sake of the family.

Allah will deal with oppressors.

She said, “Do not destroy yourself.

” But I was already being destroyed.

Each day without Amira was another cut to my soul.

I stopped going to the mosque.

The Quran that once brought me peace now felt heavy in my hands.

I would stare at its pages, unable to read a single verse.

The same tongue that once preached about faith and trust in Allah now struggled to utter his name.

I felt like a hypocrite, a man who had led others to believe that piety could protect them when it had failed to protect his own home.

As weeks turned into months, my body began to waste away.

I avoided the mirror because I could not bear to see the hollow eyes staring back.

The once proud Imm of Alcasim was now a broken man wandering through empty rooms.

At night, I would climb to the roof and look toward the royal district where the palace lights glowed against the horizon.

I imagined Amira there praying for deliverance, perhaps remembering the sound of my voice.

Sometimes in my desperation, I shouted her name into the wind, hoping somehow she would hear me.

The city never answered.

The silence mocked me, reminding me that in a world ruled by men like Prince Fisal Bintarik, prayers were whispers drowned out by power.

It was during one of those sleepless nights that I began questioning everything I had believed.

I asked myself if Allah truly saw the suffering of his servants or if his silence meant indifference.

I thought of the countless sermons I had preached to urging others to trust in divine justice and wondered if I had deceived them.

The more I prayed, the emptier I felt.

I started to believe that perhaps the world belonged not to the righteous but to the powerful.

That justice was just a word we used to comfort ourselves.

There were moments when dark thoughts crept in.

Whispering that death might be the only escape from the torment.

I would sit on the floor holding Amira’s small Quran and think about ending it all just to stop feeling this endless pain.

But even in that darkness, a small part of me refused to give up.

It wasn’t faith exactly.

More like stubbornness.

I couldn’t accept that everything I had dedicated my life to was a lie.

I wanted to believe there was still meaning even if I couldn’t see it.

One night after hours of pacing, I lifted my hands in desperation and cried, “Allah, if you are there, show me something, anything.

I cannot live like this anymore.

My voice echoed off the walls unanswered.

I sank to my knees, sobbing until exhaustion pulled me into sleep on the cold floor.

I didn’t know it then.

But that broken cry, that final act of surrender was the moment that would eventually open the door to something entirely unexpected.

When I woke that morning, sunlight was pouring through the window, but it felt like darkness still surrounded me.

My body achd from sleeping on the cold floor, and my head throbbed with the weight of another hopeless day.

The call to prayer echoed faintly from the nearby mosque.

Yet, I could not move.

For the first time since childhood, I missed fajger intentionally.

It was not rebellion.

It was exhaustion.

My lips refused to form the words I had repeated all my life.

I felt no strength left to pray to a god who seemed so distant.

My voice had grown horse from calling, and all I had received was silence.

I sat there staring at the walls, thinking of Amira, wondering if she was even alive.

Every second felt like a punishment.

The faith that had once given me purpose now felt like an empty shell.

In the days that followed, I withdrew completely from the world.

I stopped attending the mosque, stopped answering the few friends who still tried to call.

My beard had grown unckempt, my eyes sunken.

The man who had once been called Shik Ali, the voice of the village, was now a ghost in his own home.

I barely ate surviving on tea and dry bread.

Sometimes I would open the Quran hoping a verse would leap from the page and give me comfort.

But the words looked foreign, lifeless.

I would shut it again, ashamed of my own emptiness.

I no longer recognized myself.

How could a man who had preached about faith lose it so completely? I began to believe that perhaps Allah had abandoned me because of some hidden sin, some imperfection in my devotion.

The guilt consumed me until even breathing felt heavy.

One evening, as I sat in the dark, I heard a soft knock on my door.

For a moment, I thought I was imagining it.

Hardly anyone visited me anymore.

When I opened the door, I saw my neighbor Ahmed standing there holding a small plate of food.

He lived in the apartment next to mine, a quiet man who rarely spoke.

He was a teacher at an international school nearby and often greeted me politely but never intruded.

That night his eyes looked kind but filled with concern.

Shake Ali, he said gently.

I haven’t seen you at the mosque in many days.

Are you well? I tried to smile, but it came out broken.

I am fine, I lied, though my appearance betrayed me.

Ahmed hesitated, then offered the plate.

“My wife made this.

Please eat.

You look weak.

” I thanked him softly and took the food, my voice trembling with the shame.

After that night, Ahmed began visiting more often.

He never stayed long, just long enough to check on me, to bring me a meal, or ask if I needed anything.

His kindness surprised me.

In a city where most people avoided a man in disgrace, he showed a genuine care.

Yet, something about him puzzled me.

He never attended the mosque, though I had assumed he was Muslim.

One afternoon, as he helped me fix a broken light bulb in the hallway, I asked him casually, “Ah, which mosque do you go to? I’ve never seen you there.

” He hesitated, his hands still on the ladder, then said quietly, “I pray at home.

” His answer was odd, but I didn’t press further.

I was too tired for curiosity at that time.

I thought little of it.

I was only grateful that someone still saw me as human when the rest of the world had turned its back.

Weeks passed and his visits became my only moments of human connection.

Sometimes we sat together in silence over tea.

Other times he listened patiently as I spoke about Amira, about my helplessness, about my growing anger at Allah’s silence.

He never interrupted, never judged.

One evening when the pain in my chest grew too heavy, I told him everything.

The letter, the guards, the prince and the months of unanswered prayers.

When I finished, my voice was shaking.

Tell me, Ahmed, I asked bitterly, where is Allah in all this? How can he allow such injustice to exist? For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he sighed softly and said, “Sometimes, Ali, we search for God in the wrong places.

His words made no sense to me.

” Then I stared at him confused and frustrated, but he only looked back with quite compassion.

The next evening, Ahmed came again, but this time there was something different about him.

He seemed hesitant, as though carrying a secret.

We sat together in the small living room, the air heavy with the silence.

Finally, he said, “Ali, I want to tell you something, but I asked you to listen with an open heart.

” I nodded.

Though I had little patience for talk, he continued, his voice steady.

“I am not like most of the people in this building.

I am a Christian.

” I froze, unsure if I had heard him correctly.

My first instinct was anger.

My mind flashed with every warning I had ever preached about the corruption of Christians and their false beliefs.

A Christian, I repeated sharply.

You live here in Riyad and you dare to admit that? He didn’t flinch.

Yes, he said softly.

Because hiding truth does not change it.

I have been praying for you.

For a few moments, I was speechless.

I stood up abruptly pacing the floor.

“You pray for me,” I said, my voice rising.

“You a cafir, pray for me.

How dare you?” Ahmed did not argue.

He remained seated, calm, his eyes full of patience.

Ali, he said gently, “I know you are angry.

I would be too.

But listen to me.

I have seen your pain.

I have heard you cry through these walls at night.

I know what has been taken from you and I know your prayers have not been answered.

So I ask you one question, not to offend you, but to help you think.

What do you really have to lose by trying someone else? The words hung in the air like thunder.

I turned towards him stunned.

Trying someone else? I repeated.

There is no one else but Allah.

Ahmed looked at me sadly.

Then why does your heart feel so empty? He asked softly.

I wanted to shout, to throw him out, but his question pierced deeper than I wanted to admit.

For days, I had felt nothing.

No peace, no sign, no comfort, only silence.

I stared at him, my anger fading into confusion.

You don’t understand, I muttered.

My entire life has been built on Islam.

I have given every breath to Allah.

I cannot turn away now.

Even if he has turned from me.

Ahmed nodded slowly.

I understand.

He said, I too once followed a faith that gave me rules but not peace.

It was only when I met Jesus that I understood what love truly is.

His words made me uneasy.

I wanted to stop listening.

Yet something inside me, something desperate, would not let go.

That night after he left, I could not sleep.

His question echoed in my mind over and over.

What do you really have to lose by trying someone else? I had lost everything already, my wife, my position, my peace, my faith.

What was left to lose? Yet the idea of praying to anyone other than Allah felt like betrayal.

The fear of hellfire burned in my mind.

Still, a small voice inside whispered that maybe, just maybe, there was something I didn’t understand.

I remembered the calm in Ahmed’s eyes, the gentleness in his voice.

He had not tried to argue or insult my beliefs.

He had simply offered compassion, the one thing I had not felt from anyone else in months.

That night, for the first time, I found myself wondering about the god he spoke of.

The next day, I avoided him.

I spent the entire day walking through the crowded streets of Riyad, trying to quiet my thoughts.

Everywhere I looked, I saw people rushing about their lives.

Men in white thbes, women in black abayas, children laughing, shopkeepers shouting prices.

The world moved on while my heart remained frozen.

I stopped at a small park near the old mosque, sitting on a bench beneath a date tree.

I thought about my childhood in Al Casim, how certain I had been about faith, about right and wrong.

I thought about my sermons, my words about trusting Allah’s justice.

And now here I was alone, defeated, questioning everything I once taught others to believe.

I buried my face in my hands and whispered, “If you are real, please show me.

I cannot carry this anymore.

” That evening, Ahmed came again, bringing with him a small Arabic Bible.

He placed it gently on the table beside my Quran.

You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to, he said quietly.

Just know that the same God who loves me loves you, too.

He hears even the cries you think are lost in the dark.

I didn’t touch the book.

I didn’t even look at it.

But his words stayed with me long after he left.

I sat staring at the two books side by side, one representing everything I had ever known, the other representing everything I had been taught to fear.

My hands trembled as I reached it for my tea.

A strange piece lingered in the room that I couldn’t explain.

For the first time in months, the silence didn’t feel cruel.

It felt expectant like something unseen was watching and waiting.

Over the following days, Ahmed didn’t mention religion again.

He continued to visit, helping me with small chores, sharing meals, and sometimes sitting quietly while I spoke about Amira.

He never preached, but his presence itself was a sermon.

There was something different about him, an inner calm I couldn’t understand.

One afternoon, I asked him, “Ahmed, how can you be so peaceful after leaving Islam? Aren’t you afraid of Allah’s punishment?” He smiled gently.

“I did not leave Allah Ali.

I found him.

I found him in Jesus.

” His words stirred something in me that I couldn’t name.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I found him.

Could it be that I had been searching for the wrong thing all along? The battle inside me grew fiercer with each passing day.

A part of me wanted to shut the door on Amit completely, to cling to the faith I had known all my life.

But another part, the wounded, desperate part, longed for the peace he carried.

I began to replay every word he had said, every verse of comfort he had quoted from his book.

One evening, as I stood on my balcony watching the sun sink behind the Riyad skyline, I whispered his question again.

What do you really have to lose? The answer came easily this time.

Nothing.

I had nothing left to lose.

Only a faint spark of hope remained, fragile, but alive.

I didn’t know it yet, but that small spark would soon lead me to a decision that would change everything I believed about God, love, and life itself.

That night, after weeks of restless thinking, I finally reached the end of myself.

The sun had set over Riyad, and the city’s lights flickered like distant stars outside my window.

I sat in the dark staring at the Arabic Bible Ahmed had left on my table.

It still lay beside my Quran untouched as if waiting for me to decide.

My heart felt torn in two.

I was terrified of betraying the faith that had shaped my entire life.

Yet equally afraid of spending another day trapped in this silence.

I remembered Ahmed’s voice echoing in my mind.

What do you really have to lose? Those words felt heavier than ever.

I had lost my wife, my peace, my name, and my faith.

The only thing left to lose was my life.

And maybe I thought if there was a God who still cared, he might finally answer tonight.

Slowly, I knelt on the rug where Amamira and I once sprayed together.

I could still smell the faint trace of her perfume on the fabric, and it made my chest tighten.

For the first time in my life, I did not face toward Mecca.

Instead, I simply looked upward, not sure where heaven was, but hoping someone there could hear me.

My voice shook as I whispered, “Jesus, I don’t know you.

I don’t even know if you exist, but I am broken.

If you are real, please help me.

Please bring my wife back safely.

I have no one else to turn to.

My words felt strange on my tongue.

The name Jesus sounded foreign yet powerful.

I waited in silence, expecting nothing.

And then something happened that I could never explain.

It started as warmth spreading through my chest.

Soft at first, then stronger, like sunlight pouring into a cold room.

My heartbeat slowed.

My tears, which had been falling freely, suddenly stopped.

I felt surrounded by peace.

A presence so gentle yet so real that I froze in awe.

It wasn’t the emptiness I had felt in my prayers before.

It was as if someone had entered the room.

I looked around, but there was no one there.

Yet I could feel it.

The comforting presence of something beyond human.

The pain that had lived inside me for months lifted slightly, replaced by a calm that I hadn’t felt since before Amira was taken.

I didn’t understand it, but I knew this piece wasn’t from me.

Something or someone was answering.

I stayed there on my knees, afraid to move, afraid that if I did, the presence would vanish.

That night, I slept deeply for the first time in months.

No nightmares, no voices, no memories of soldiers taking Amir away.

Just a silence, but not the cruel kind.

It was a healing silence, full of rest.

When I woke at dawn, my heart felt lighter.

I sat up slowly, unsure whether what I had felt was real or just the result of exhaustion.

But then I remembered the warmth, the peace that had filled my room like invisible light.

I whispered again, “Jesus, was that you?” The moment I said his name, that same warmth returned just for a second.

Enough to to make me believe I wasn’t imagining it.

I didn’t know what to call it then, but now I know it was the presence of God reaching into my brokenness.

For the first time, I realized that maybe Allah wasn’t the only one who listened to prayers.

Later that morning, I decided to visit Ahmed.

When he opened the door, he looked at me and smiled knowingly.

“You prayed, didn’t you?” he asked softly.

I was too stunned to speak.

How could he have known? I saw it in your eyes, he said.

There is peace there that wasn’t there before.

I sat down and told him everything.

The warmth, the silence, the calm that had wrapped around me.

He nodded, tears welling in his eyes.

“That’s Jesus,” he said.

“He always answers those who call him sincerely.

I wanted to argue, to question, to reason, but I couldn’t.

What I had felt was real.

No amount of logic could explain it away.

Ahmed opened his small Bible and read a verse aloud.

Come to me all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

His voice broke as he said it, and mine did too when I whispered.

That’s exactly what he did.

In the following days, something inside me began to change.

I found myself talking to Jesus quietly throughout the day, not in ritual, but in simple words, like speaking to a friend.

I didn’t know how to pray the way Christians did.

But it didn’t seem to to matter.

Every time I said his name, peace followed.

I started sleeping better, eating again, even feeling strong enough to walk outside without dread.

It was as if a light had returned to my soul.

Yet, I still didn’t understand what any of it meant.

I told Ahmed that I wasn’t ready to abandon Islam completely.

He smiled gently and said, “You don’t have to understand everything right now.

Just keep talking to him.

Let him show you who he is.

” His patience disarmed me.

He wasn’t trying to convert me.

He was introducing me to someone who had already found me.

A few days later, as I sat reading the Quran, my phone rang.

The number was unknown, but something in me said, “Answer it.

” My hand trembled as I pressed the button.

The voice that came through was faint, but unmistakable.

Alli, it was a mirror.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“Amira, is it really you?” I whispered.

Her voice shook as she spoke.

“It’s me.

I’m alive.

I can’t talk long, but I wanted you to know that I’m safe.

” My eyes filled with tears.

“Where are you? What have they done to you?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“I’m still in the palace, but something strange has been happening here.

” The prince tries to come near me, but every time he does, something stops him.

He falls sick or someone interrupts or he’s suddenly called away.

It’s like something unseen is protecting me.

I was speechless, Amira continued in a whisper.

The other women here have started calling me al- Mahuza, the protected one.

They say I must have powerful protection from Allah.

But Ali, it doesn’t feel like that.

It feels different.

It’s peaceful, not fearful.

I pray every day and I feel as if someone is with me, shielding me from harm.

My tears flowed freely.

Amira, I said, my voice breaking.

Do you know who it is? She paused, then said something that made my heart stop.

Ahmed told me about someone before all this happened.

I remembered his name.

I started whis whispering it when I was afraid.

His name is Jesus.

Before I could reply, the line went dead.

I sat there frozen, phone in my hand, unable to move.

My wife, trapped inside a royal palace, was praying to the same name I had just called days earlier, and he was answering her too.

I ran to Ahmed’s apartment, my hands still shaking.

When he opened the door, I blurted out the whole story.

His eyes filled with tears as he listened.

“Do you see now?” he said softly.

“Jesus doesn’t need permission from kings or princes.

His power reaches anywhere, even into the palace of those who think they are untouchable.

” I could barely speak.

The coincidence was too perfect to ignore.

We both knelt on the floor praying together, not with ritual but with gratitude.

Ahmed thanked Jesus for protecting Amira and I could only nod, too overwhelmed to form words.

In that moment, I knew I was no longer speaking into silence.

I was talking to a living God who was already at work.

It felt as if the walls around my despair were cracking open, letting in light I never knew existed.

Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Amira had said.

Every time I imagined her praying in that palace, I saw the same invisible hands that had comforted me wrapping around her, too.

I began reading small portions from the Bible Ahmed had given me.

The words were simple but powerful.

One verse said, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

” I read it over and over until the tears blurred the letters.

I realized that what I was reading wasn’t just another book.

It was alive, speaking directly to my pain.

I started to see that Jesus wasn’t distant or reserved for others.

He was personal, intimate, involved.

Each day my prayers to him became bolder.

“Protect her, Lord Jesus,” I whispered each night.

“Do what no man can do.

” Soon, strange news began reaching me through whispers.

Ahmed had connections among believers who worked quietly across Riyad, and they often shared stories that never reached the public.

One of them, a cook in the royal palace, had sent word that something unusual was happening there.

Prince Fisal bin Tarik had been suffering from severe migraines and sudden illnesses that no doctor could explain.

Each time he tried to summon Amira, his condition worsened.

He had even begun avoiding her quarters entirely.

Rumors spread among the staff that she was protected by divine power.

When Ahmed told me this, I couldn’t stop trembling.

I knew in my heart who was responsible.

It wasn’t coincidence or luck.

It was the same power that had entered my room the night I prayed to Jesus for the first time.

Ahmed smiled as he shared more details.

One servant said, “The prince tried to visit your wife’s chamber one evening, but just as he reached the door, he collapsed in pain, clutching his head.

” He shouted for his guards, saying he felt like his skull was on fire.

They carried him away, and after that, he ordered everyone to keep away from her room.

I covered my face and began to weep.

My tears were no longer of grief, but of awe.

I had spent months believing that Allah had abandoned me.

But now I was witnessing a miracle beyond comprehension.

The same Jesus I had doubted was defending my wife against one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.

No imam, no scholar, no guard could have done that.

Only a god greater than all of them combined.

That evening as I prayed, I didn’t use memorized words.

I spoke to Jesus like a friend.

I don’t understand everything about you, I said quietly.

But I know you are real.

Thank you for saving her.

Thank you for showing mercy to someone who didn’t even believe in you.

A piece unlike anything I’d ever felt filled the room again.

It was as if invisible arms wrapped around me, reassuring me that everything would be all right.

For the first time since this nightmare began, I believed there was hope.

Not because of my strength or my religion, but because of the grace of a God I had only just met.

That night, I fell asleep whispering his name.

And for the first time I dreamed not of loss but of light.

The next morning Ahmed visited with a wide smile.

Ali, he said, something amazing has happened.

My heart raced.

What is it? He handed me a small note from his network.

The prince has suddenly announced that he no longer wants your wife in his household.

He said she brings him bad luck.

They’re preparing to send her back to her family.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

After months of torment, the impossible had happened.

I sank to my knees, laughing and crying at the same time.

“Thank you, Jesus,” I whispered over and over.

Ahmed knelt beside me, his hands lifted in praise.

The room was filled with such joy that words couldn’t capture it.

Deep inside, I knew that the God of impossible situations had heard every broken prayer I had ever cried.

As I waited for news of Amira’s return, I spent more time reading the Bible and praying with Ahmed.

Every story of Jesus compassion felt like it had been written for me.

The man who healed the sick, who defended the oppressed, who calmed storms.

He was the same one calming the storm inside me.

My life was still uncertain, but my heart was no longer afraid.

The walls of pain and doubt that had surrounded me for months were falling apart, replaced by faith that felt alive and real.

I didn’t know what would come next, but I was sure of one thing.

The hazes who had protected Amira and restored my hope was not finished with us yet.

The morning the guards brought Amira back felt unreal.

I had spent the entire night awake, pacing the small apartment, my heart beating so fast it hurt.

Every sound in the hallway made me jump.

I kept asking myself if it was really happening or just another cruel rumor.

Around midm morning, there was a knock on the door.

When I opened it, two palace guards stood there, their faces blank.

Behind them, wrapped in her blacka stood a mirror.

For a second, I couldn’t move.

My eyes filled with tears before my body even reacted.

She stepped forward and I pulled her into my arms.

We both started to cry, not caring who saw us.

The guard said nothing.

They handed me a document to sign confirming her temporary release, then turned and left without another word.

The moment they were gone, Amira collapsed in my arms, trembling with relief.

For several minutes, we simply held each other, unable to speak.

I could feel how thin she had become, how weak her hands felt in mine.

But she was alive, and that was all that mattered.

When she finally looked up, I saw that her eyes had changed.

There was pain in them, yes, but also something new, something peaceful.

Ali, she whispered.

He protected me.

I didn’t have to ask who she meant.

We both knew.

We sat on the floor crying and praying, thanking Jesus over and over for bringing her home.

The same rug where I had once shouted in despair became the place where we offered our gratitude.

I realized in that moment that everything I had lost had been returned to me by a God I had only recently begun to know.

His power was not only real, it was personal, merciful, and near.

When Amamira began to tell me what had happened inside the palace, my body shook as I listened.

She described nights when Prince Fisal Bintarik had tried to summon her only for sudden headaches or urgent calls to stop him.

She told me about storms that came out of nowhere, power outages and mysterious illnesses that struck the prince each time he approached her.

Ali, she said, I was not alone for one moment.

Every time I felt fear, I said the name Jesus and peace filled the room.

Sometimes I even saw light where there should have been darkness.

I couldn’t hold back my tears.

Every story she told confirmed what I already knew in my heart.

That Jesus had walked into that palace himself to protect her.

There were no imams, no guards, no laws strong enough to do what he had done.

For the next few days, we lived quietly, afraid that the prince might change his mind.

We kept the curtains drawn and spoke in whispers.

Ahmed visited often, bringing food and encouragement.

He hugged Amira like a brother who had prayed for years to see a miracle.

And in a way, that’s exactly what he was.

One evening he sat with us, tears in his eyes, and read from the Bible about how Jesus calmed the storm.

“He can calm your storm, too,” he said softly.

We both nodded.

It felt as if every word was written for us.

That night we knelt together, Amira and I side by side, Ahmed beside us, and we prayed to Jesus, not as strangers seeking miracles, but as two broken souls, ready to surrender everything.

I felt peace flooding through me again, stronger than ever.

It was the moment we gave our hearts completely to him.

That night, I confessed everything to Jesus.

We were wrong, I whispered.

We thought we knew you, but we didn’t.

We tried to protect ourselves with religion, but you are the one who saved us.

We want to follow you, not out of fear, but out of love.

Amira’s tears fell on the prayer rug as she repeated the same words.

Ahmed guided us, helping us pray in simple sentences.

When we finished, he said quietly, “You have been born again.

” The words sounded strange to my ears, but I knew their meaning.

Something inside me had changed.

The weight I had carried for months was gone.

The bitterness, the anger, even the fear of the prince, all of it had been replaced by a joy I couldn’t explain.

Amira looked at me and smiled through her tears.

Ali, she said, for the first time I feel free.

Our freedom, however, came with danger.

Ahmed warned us that if anyone discovered we had become followers of Jesus, we could be arrested or worse.

You must leave the country, he said firmly.

Prince Fel’s silence may not last.

And now that you both believe in Christ, you’re no longer safe here.

The words hit hard, but we knew he was right.

I couldn’t bear the thought of losing Amira again.

Ahmed introduced us to a small network of secret believers who had helped others escape before.

They met quietly in apartments always at night, praying together in whispers and sharing coded messages.

Some were former Muslims like us.

Others were foreigners who had stayed behind to help.

Their courage amazed me.

They didn’t just speak about faith.

They lived it every day, risking their lives to help others find freedom.

Through this network, a plan was made for our escape.

We would travel separately at first to avoid suspicion, then meet at the airport where forged documents awaited us.

A group of believers had arranged everything, the tickets, the disguises, even the safe contacts waiting for us in Jordan.

I couldn’t believe how detailed the plan was.

Every person involved was risking prison or death to help us.

When I asked one of them why they would take such a risk for strangers, she smiled and said, “Because Jesus risked everything for us.

” Her words struck deep.

I realized that these people weren’t bound by fear like the world I had known.

They were bound by love.

The night before we left, Amira and I sat in silence, holding hands.

The city that had once felt like a blessing now felt like a cage.

We were ready to escape.

We left before dawn.

The streets were quiet, the sky still dark.

I wore simple clothes and carried only a small bag.

Amamira kept her face covered, her steps quick but steady.

Each heartbeat felt like thunder in my chest.

At the airport, everything moved in a slow motion.

We passed the first checkpoint without issue.

At the second, the officer was called away suddenly, leaving his replacement, distracted by a malfunctioning computer.

I remembered Ahmed’s words.

When you walk with Jesus, even systems can fail for your sake.

It sounded impossible, but in that moment, I believed it.

Every obstacle we feared seemed to vanish on its own.

We boarded the plane just as the sun rose over Riyad.

As the aircraft lifted off the ground, Amamira gripped my hand tightly, whispering through her tears, “We are free.

” The flight to Aman felt like the longest journey of our lives.

I kept glancing over my shoulder, half expecting guards to appear, but none did.

When we landed, the relief was overwhelming.

We stepped out into the warm Jordanian air and fell to our knees on the tarmac.

thanking Jesus for bringing us safely across the border the border.

A local pastor met us there.

A kind man with a gentle smile.

He took us to a small apartment provided by a Christian relief group.

It wasn’t much, but it was safe.

And that was more than we had dared hope for.

For the first few days, we slept almost constantly.

Our bodies catching up on months of fear.

When we woke, we joined other believers in worship.

Their songs were simple, but each word carried power.

I understood then that faith was not about rituals.

It was about relationship.

A few weeks later, the pastor asked if we wanted to be baptized.

My heart leapt at the question.

He explained that baptism was a public declaration of faith, a symbol of dying to the old life and rising into a new one.

The place he had chosen made my heart tremble with awe, the Jordan River.

The same river where Jesus himself had been baptized.

The morning of the ceremony, the sun was soft and golden over the water.

Ahmed had traveled from Riyad to be there.

As Amira and I stepped into the river hand in hand, I felt every burden of my past fall away.

The pastor prayed in Arabic, his voice trembling with emotion.

Then, as we went under the water, I thought of the old Ali, the broken Imam who had lost everything.

And as we rose again, I felt reborn into a new life filled with grace.

After our baptism, we stayed in Jordan for several months waiting for our asylum papers to be processed.

It wasn’t easy.

We had little money and few possessions, but every day felt lighter because we were free.

Not just from the prince, but from the fear that had ruled our lives.

We began to help the church that had sheltered us cleaning, cooking, and sharing our story with others who were struggling with faith.

People we barely knew became like family.

One evening, a young convert who had been hiding his Bible asked me, “Shik Ali, do you ever miss being an imam?” I smiled gently.

“No,” I said.

I finally served the same God.

But now I know his heart.

It was the truth.

The God I had once feared now felt like a father who loved me deeply.

Eventually, our asylum was approved.

We were granted entry to Canada, a country that welcomed us as refugees.

The day we landed in Toronto, snow was falling, a sight neither of us had ever seen.

Amamira laughed like a child, lifting her hands to catch the flakes.

We settled into a small apartment provided by the church that sponsored us.

Life was simple again, but this time it was built on unshakable peace.

Amira soon discovered she was pregnant.

When the doctor confirmed it, we both cried tears of joy.

After everything we had endured, this child felt like a promise from God.

A sign that new life always follows suffering.

We named our son Omar not after the califfs of history, but because in Arabic the name means flourishing.

He was the symbol of everything Jesus had done for us.

Today, as I sit by the window of our apartment watching Omar play, I often think about how far we have come.

From the dusty village of Alcasim to the golden halls of Riyad, from despair to deliverance, every step of our journey has led us to this moment.

We are no longer defined by fear or loss.

We are defined by the love of a God who found us when we were lost and rescued us when no one else could.

I still pray five times a day.

But now those prayers are conversations with Jesus, not rituals to earn his favor.

He already gave it freely.

When people ask me what changed my life, I tell them the truth.

I met the living God and his name is Jesus Christ.

He took my pain and turned it into purpose.

He took my prison and turned it into freedom.

If there is one message I want the world to hear, it is this.

No situation is too hopeless for Jesus.

I have seen his power in the palace of a prince, in the heart of a broken imam, and in the tears of a faithful wife.

The same God who protected Amira and set us free still listens to every cry from every soul that dares to call his name.

Whether you are in a palace or a prison, he can reach you.

Whether you are surrounded by darkness or doubt, he can bring light.

Do not wait until you lose everything to find him.

Call on him now.

The God who turned my tragedy into testimony is waiting to do the same for you.

My name is Ali and Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.

He was the God I never knew, but the one I had been searching for all my life.