My name is Kharim.

I’m 28 years old.

And what I’m about to tell you happened on September 3rd, 2019.

That’s the day my devout Muslim sister was forced into marriage with the Saudi prince and the day Jesus Christ saved both our lives.

I never believed in miracles until I witnessed one myself.

I need to take you back to understand how we got to that terrible day.

My family was everything you’d expect from a devout Muslim household in Aman, Jordan.

We were the kind of family that neighbors pointed to with respect, the kind that other parents used as an example for their children.

My father served as an imam at our local mosque, a position he’d held for over 15 years.

Every Friday, hundreds of men would gather to hear his sermons about righteousness, obedience, and following Allah’s path.

My mother embodied the perfect Muslim wife.

She never questioned my father’s decisions, kept our home spotless, and raised us children according to strict Islamic principles.

She wore her hijab with pride and taught my sister that a woman’s greatest honor came through serving her family and eventually her husband.

I watched her wake before dawn every day to prepare breakfast before the first call to prayer.

Never complaining, always grateful for her role.

Then there was my sister at 19.

She was everything our culture celebrated in a young woman.

She was beautiful with dark eyes that sparkled when she laughed and a smile that could light up any room.

But more than her beauty, she was obedient.

She’d been wearing hijab since she was 12, never missing her prayers and always deferring to my father’s wishes.

The community mothers would often comment on how well behaved she was, how she never caused problems like some of the other girls her age.

But I knew a different side of her behind closed doors when it was just the two of us.

She would share her dreams.

She wanted to become a teacher to help children learn and grow.

She would tell me about the books she read in secret, stories of women who traveled the world and made their own choices.

We had this bond that transcended the typical brother sister relationship in our culture.

Maybe it was because I was only 3 years older.

Or maybe because I’d always been protective of her, but she trusted me with thoughts she couldn’t share with anyone else.

As the eldest son, I carried the weight of family expectations on my shoulders.

I was supposed to be the example, the one who would continue our family’s religious reputation.

I memorized the Quran by age 16, led prayers when my father was away, and never questioned the teachings I’d grown up with.

Every aspect of our lives revolved around our faith.

We prayed five times a day without fail, attended mosque regularly, and followed Islamic law in every decision we made.

Our family was respected throughout our neighborhood.

Other fathers would ask my father for advice about raising righteous children.

Other mothers would ask my mother how she trained my sister to be so modest and uh obedient.

We were living proof that Islamic principles when followed correctly created the perfect family structure.

But underneath this perfect exterior, I sometimes caught glimpses of my sister’s true feelings.

Late at night, when the house was quiet, she would knock softly on my door.

We’d sit on my floor and she’d whisper her fears about the future.

She knew that marriage was inevitable, that she had no choice in the matter.

Our parents had made it clear that they would choose her husband based on what was best for the family, not based on her feelings or desires.

She’d graduated from high school with excellent grades and dreamed of attending university.

But my father had decided that further education was unnecessary for a girl who would soon be married and focused on raising children.

The disappointment in her eyes when he announced this decision still haunts me.

She accepted it without argument as she’d been taught, but I saw how it crushed something inside her.

Our community operated on principles that had been unchanged for generations.

Marriage wasn’t about love or personal compatibility.

It was about family alliance, social status, and religious compatibility.

A girl’s value was measured by her purity, obedience, and ability to bring honor to her family through a good marriage.

Boys had more freedom, but we too were expected to marry within our class and maintain our family’s reputation.

I remember the conversations my parents would have about my sister future.

They would discuss which families had approached them, what kind of dowy might be expected and how the marriage would affect our family’s standing in the community.

My sister was never part of these conversations.

Her opinion was neither sought nor considered relevant.

The pressure to maintain our religious image was constant.

Every time we left the house, we represented not just ourselves, but our family’s commitment to Islamic principles.

Our neighbors watched to see if we attended Friday prayers, if my sister’s hijab was properly worn, if our behavior matched our proclaimed piety.

Any deviation from expected norms would become neighborhood gossip within hours.

My sister handled this pressure with grace that amazed me.

She never complained publicly, never showed disrespect to our parents, and always presented the perfect picture of Islamic womanhood.

But in our private moments, I could see the cost of this performance.

She was slowly disappearing behind uh the role she was expected to play.

Ask yourself this question.

When did you last feel completely powerless to protect someone you love? That’s exactly how I felt watching my sister navigate a system that gave her no voice, no choices, and no hope for the dreams she carried in her heart.

I knew that soon, very soon, our parents would announce her engagement to someone she’d never met, and our perfect Muslim family would take another step toward what everyone would celebrate as a blessed union.

I had no idea how drastically everything was about to change.

September 3rd, 2019 started like any other day.

I woke for the dawn prayer, performed my ablutions, and joined my father in our home’s prayer room.

The morning call to prayer echoed across Aman as it had every day of my life.

My sister prepared breakfast while my mother organized the household.

Everything seemed perfectly normal until my father returned from the mosque that afternoon.

I was studying in my room when I heard the front door open with unusual force.

My father’s voice carried through the house with an excitement I’d never heard before.

He called for the entire family to gather in our main room immediately.

The tone was urgent, almost breathless.

My mother rushed from the kitchen.

My sister emerged from her room looking confused and we all assembled as commanded.

My father stood before us with his chest puffed out, his eyes shining with what he clearly believed was divine favor.

He announced that Allah had blessed our family with the most incredible honor.

A representative from Saudi Arabia had visited him at the mosque with a proposal that would elevate our family’s status beyond anything we’d ever imagined.

The word stumbled from his mouth as he explained that a member of the Saudi royal family had requested my sister’s hand in marriage.

The room erupted in celebration.

My mother began crying, tears of joy, praising Allah for this unexpected blessing.

Extended family members who had been visiting began congratulating my father on his daughter’s incredible fortune.

Phone calls were made to relatives across the city, spreading the news of our family’s good luck.

Everyone was talking at once about what an honor this was, how this proved Allah’s favor upon our household.

But I wasn’t celebrating.

I was watching my sister while everyone else rejoiced.

She sat frozen, her face drained of all color.

Her hands trembled in her lap, and I could see the panic building in her eyes.

She tried to smile when relatives hugged her and offered congratulations, but I knew her well enough to see the terror beneath her forced expressions.

My father provided more details as the afternoon progressed.

The Saudi prince was prominent member of the royal family, wealthy beyond imagination with connections that could benefit our entire extended family.

He was 45 years old, established and looking for a wife who exemplified traditional Islamic values.

My father spoke about this age difference as if it were a positive thing.

Evidence of the prince’s maturity and stability.

As evening approached and the initial excitement died down, I noticed disturbing details in my father’s description.

The prince had been married before multiple times.

His previous wives had apparently returned to their families for various reasons.

Though my father didn’t seem concerned about this pattern, he described the prince as a businessman with interests across the Middle East.

Someone accustomed to getting what he wanted.

The financial arrangements were staggering.

The dowy being offered was more money than our family had ever seen.

The prince would also provide gifts for our entire family and guarantee my father a position managing mosque affairs in one of the prince’s properties.

This wasn’t just a marriage proposal.

It was a complete transformation of our family’s economic situation.

But something felt deeply wrong.

The speed of everything troubled me.

The marriage was to take place within two weeks.

There would be no extended engagement period.

No time for my sister to prepare mentally or emotionally.

The prince’s representatives had been very specific about the timeline.

They wanted the ceremony completed quickly and quietly.

That night, after our parents had gone to bed and the house was silent, my sister came to my room.

She slipped in quietly and sat on the floor beside my bed.

In the darkness, I could hear her crying softly.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

She told me she’d rather die than marry this man.

She begged me to help her to find some way to prevent this marriage.

I tried to comfort her, but what could I say? In our culture, refusing such a proposal was unthinkable.

It would bring shame on our entire family, destroy my father’s reputation in the community, and mark my sister as disobedient and unmarriageable.

The social consequences would be devastating for everyone we loved.

Over the next few days, I attempted to speak with my father privately.

I suggested that maybe my sister was too young, that perhaps she needed more time to mature before taking on the responsibilities of marriage.

My father’s reaction was swift and angry.

He demanded to know why I was questioning Allah’s blessing upon our family.

He reminded me that my sister was 19, well past uh the typical marriage age, and that this opportunity might never come again.

I tried approaching my mother, hoping she might understand a woman’s perspective on the situation, but she dismissed my concerns immediately.

She told me that my sister would learn to love her husband, that respect and affection would grow over time.

She reminded me that she herself had been nervous before her own arranged marriage, but that following Allah’s plan had brought her happiness and security.

The community elders I respected all supported the arrangement enthusiastically.

They spoke about the honor being brought to our neighborhood, how this marriage would demonstrate that righteous families were blessed by Allah.

Religious leaders at our mosque gave sermons about the importance of accepting Allah’s will even when we couldn’t understand his plans.

Wedding preparations began immediately.

My mother and aunts started shopping for my sister’s trousau, discussing the elaborate ceremony that would showcase our family’s new status.

Invitations were sent to relatives across Jordan and beyond.

Everyone was caught up in the excitement of planning what they called the wedding of the century.

But my sister was disappearing before my eyes.

She stopped eating properly, lost weight rapidly, and developed dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights.

When relatives visited to congratulate her, she responded with mechanical politeness, as if she were performing a role rather than living her own life.

The spark I’d always loved in her eyes was dimming day by day.

Look inside your own heart right now and tell me, have you ever watched injustice unfold and felt completely helpless? That’s exactly where I found myself.

Every Islamic teaching I’d been raised with, every cultural tradition I’d respected, every authority figure I trusted was telling me this marriage was right and blessed.

But my heart was screaming that something was terribly wrong.

I began investigating the Saudi prince more carefully, asking discrete questions and listening to conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear.

What I learned made my blood run cold.

But by then it was too late.

The wheels were already in motion for a wedding that would change everything.

The wedding day arrived like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

Our house had been transformed into a celebration venue with elaborate decorations in golden red covering every surface.

The smell of traditional foods filled the air as dozens of women prepared the feast.

But all I could focus on was my sister’s face during the henna ceremony the night before.

Her hands had been decorated with intricate patterns while she sat perfectly still, but her eyes were completely empty.

She looked like a beautiful doll being prepared for display.

The morning of the wedding, I watched my sister being dressed by our female relatives.

They painted her face with makeup, arranged her hair in elaborate styles, and draped her in the most expensive dress our family had ever purchased.

Everyone kept telling her how beautiful she looked, how lucky she was, how blessed this day would be.

She smiled and thanked them.

But I could see she was performing.

The real person I knew was hidden somewhere deep inside, protecting herself from what was about to happen.

When the prince arrived for the ceremony, my worst fears were confirmed.

He was a large man with cold eyes and an arrogant bearing that made everyone around him nervous.

He barely looked at my sister during the proceedings, treating her more like a business transaction than a person he was about to marry.

His bodyguards stood around the room, reminding everyone present of his power and status.

The way he spoke to the religious officials conducting the ceremony was dismissive and uh impatient, as if this was just another item to check off his list.

During the ceremony itself, I kept hoping something would happen to stop this madness.

Maybe my sister would find the courage to speak up.

Maybe my father would suddenly realize what he was doing to his daughter.

Maybe Allah would send some sign that this was wrong.

But the vows were exchanged.

The papers were signed.

and Islamic law declared my sister the property of a man she feared.

The celebration that followed was the most painful experience of my life.

Hundreds of guests ate, danced, and uh celebrated what they believed was a blessed union.

The prince’s representatives distributed expensive gifts to prove his generosity.

My father gave speeches about Allah’s favor upon our family.

My mother cried tears of joy, genuinely believing her daughter’s future was secure.

But I spent the entire evening watching my sister’s forced smiles and mechanical responses to congratulations.

The next morning brought the moment I’d been dreading most.

My sister had to leave with her new husband for Saudi Arabia.

She would live in his compound, far from everyone who loved her, completely dependent on his mercy for her daily survival.

As her belongings were loaded into the prince’s private car, I felt like I was watching her funeral.

Our final moment together is burned into my memory forever.

While the prince spoke with my father about uh travel arrangements, my sister approached me.

She wrapped her arms around me in what we both knew would be our last embrace for a very long time.

With her face pressed against my shoulder, she whispered four words that haunt me still.

Pray for me, Karim.

Then she was gone.

escorted to a waiting private jet by men who would know control every aspect of her life.

The first phone call came three days later.

My sister’s voice sounded strained as she described the prince’s compound in Riyad.

She spoke carefully, clearly aware that her conversations might be monitored.

She told me about the luxurious rooms, the servants, the beautiful gardens.

But I could hear the fear underneath her words.

When I asked if she was happy, there was a long pause before she said she was adjusting to her new life.

Over the following weeks, our conversations became increasingly disturbing.

My sister began speaking in code using phrases that seemed innocent but carried deeper meaning.

When she mentioned being tired all the time, I understood she meant she was being kept awake at night.

When she talked about learning new rules, I knew she meant the prince was controlling her every movement.

When she said the servants were very attentive, I realized she meant she was being watched constantly.

The prince’s true nature revealed itself gradually through these conversations.

My sister mentioned his quick temper when things didn’t go his way.

She described how he would explode in rage over minor issues, throwing objects and screaming at the staff.

She told me about his drinking, which violated Islamic law, but which no one dared to question.

Most troubling were her references to his treatment of previous wives, women who had simply disappeared from his household without explanation.

Physical evidence of abuse began appearing during our video calls.

I noticed bruises on my sister’s arms that she tried to hide with long sleeves.

Her face became thinner, her eyes more sunken.

When I asked about the marks, she would uh make excuses about clumsiness or accidents.

But I knew what I was seeing.

The prince was hurting her, and she was powerless to stop it.

My attempts to get help for my sister were met with complete indifference from every authority I contacted.

The Saudi embassy in Jordan treated her situation as a private family matter that was none of their concern.

Jordanian officials explained that once she was married and living in Saudi Arabia, their jurisdiction ended.

Even international human rights organizations seemed powerless against the diplomatic immunity protecting the prince.

My own family’s reaction was perhaps the most heartbreaking of all.

When I tried to express concern about my sister’s well-being, my father accused me of ingratitude toward Allah’s blessing.

My mother insisted that the marriage always required adjustment and that my sister would learn to be content.

Religious leaders at our mosque reminded me that the wife’s duty was to submit to her husband’s authority regardless of personal discomfort.

The final phone call came on a Tuesday evening in late September.

My sister was crying uncontrollably when the call connected.

Her face on the video was bruised and swollen.

Through her tears, she told me the prince had beaten her severely because she had refused one of his demands.

She said he had threatened to kill her if she continued to resist his authority.

Her exact words were, “He’s going to kill me, Karim.

If Allah is merciful, why is this happening to me?” Then the line went dead and I couldn’t reach her again.

So I’m asking you just as a brother would when everything you believed failed you when every authority you trusted abandoned someone you loved.

When your own family chose tradition over justice.

Where would you turn? That’s the question I faced as I sat in my room that night knowing my sister might already be dead and that there was absolutely nothing I could do to save her.

Three days passed without any word from my sister.

Three days of calling her phone and hearing nothing but silence.

Three days of my parents telling me to be patient that Allah would protect her that I was overreacting.

Three days of lying awake at night imagining the worst possible scenarios.

By the third night I had reached a breaking point that uh I never knew existed.

I found myself questioning everything I had believed since childhood.

If Allah was truly merciful and just as I had been taught my entire life, why was my innocent sister suffering? If Islamic teachings were meant to protect and honor women, why had they delivered her into the hands of a monster? If our religious leaders truly followed God’s will, why did they support a marriage that was destroying a young woman’s life? The anger consumed me in ways I had never experienced.

I was angry at my father for caring more about family honor than his daughter’s safety.

I was angry at my mother for her willful blindness to my sister’s suffering.

I was angry at our community for celebrating what was clearly an abusive situation, but mostly I was angry at Allah for allowing this injustice to happen to the most innocent person I knew.

During those dark hours, I remembered conversations I had dismissed years earlier.

Our neighbor, Mr.

David was a Christian man who had lived quietly in our predominantly Muslim neighborhood for over a decade.

He was respectful of our faith, never pushy about his own beliefs, but occasionally our paths would cross and we would talk.

He was a kind man who helped elderly neighbors with groceries and always had a gentle word for the children on our street.

I recalled one particular conversation we had shared about 2 years earlier.

I had been complaining about some injustice I had witnessed at school and Mr.

David had listened patiently.

Then he had said something that stuck with me even though I had rejected it at the time.

He told me that Jesus came specifically to set the oppressed free, to bring justice to those who had no power to defend themselves.

He said that God’s heart broke for anyone who suffered under systems of oppression, regardless of whether those systems claimed religious authority.

At the time I had politely disagreed with him, explaining that Islam provided perfect guidance for all human relationships when properly followed.

I had told him that injustice occurred when people failed to follow Islamic teachings correctly.

Not because the teachings themselves were flawed.

Mr.

David had simply nodded and said that if I ever found myself in a situation where I needed help that seemed impossible, I should consider calling on Jesus who specialized in impossible situations.

Now sitting in my room on September 10th, 2019 at nearly midnight, I was facing exactly the kind of impossible situation Mr.

David had described.

Every human avenue for helping my sister had been exhausted.

Every religious authority I respected had failed her.

Every family member I loved had abandoned her to preserve their own comfort.

I was completely utterly powerless to protect the person who muttered most to me in the world.

The realization hit me like a physical blow.

I might never see my sister alive again.

She might already be dead, buried in some unmarked grave in the Saudi desert while her husband planned his next marriage to another innocent girl.

The prince had the power, the money, and the legal authority to do whatever he wanted to my sister, and no earthly force would ever hold him accountable.

That’s when something inside me broke completely.

All my pride, all my religious certainty, all my cultural conditioning crumbled in an instant.

I found myself on my knees beside my bed, tears streaming down my face, speaking words I never thought I would say.

I called out to Jesus.

A god I had been taught was false.

Because the God I had been taught was true had remained silent while my sister was being destroyed.

My prayer was desperate and clumsy.

I had no idea how Christians were supposed to pray.

No knowledge of proper forms or rituals.

I simply poured out my heart in raw desperation.

I told Jesus that if he was real, if he truly cared about justice as Mr.

David claimed then I needed his help more than I had ever needed anything in my life.

I explained about my sister, about the forced marriage, about the abuse, about my complete powerlessness to save her.

I begged Jesus to forgive me for never believing in him before, but explained that I was willing to believe now if he would just save my sister.

I promised that if he rescued her from this nightmare, I would spend the rest of my life telling people about his power and love.

I cried harder than I had cried since childhood, releasing years of pent up frustration and fear.

Then something extraordinary happened.

As I knelt there sobbing, a piece that I cannot adequately describe began to fill my heart.

It wasn’t the absence of concern for my sister, but rather a deep certainty that my prayer had been heard and would be answered.

I felt a presence in that room, a warmth and comfort that I had never experienced during any of my Islamic prayers.

For the first time in days, my racing thoughts became calm and ordered.

I knew with a certainty that defied logic that help was coming for my sister.

I couldn’t explain how or when or from where, but I absolutely knew that the impossible situation was about to become possible.

The desperation that had been crushing me for days lifted, replaced by an inexplicable confidence that everything was going to change.

For the first time in a week, I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

I dreamed of my sister smiling, truly smiling, the way she used to before the marriage destroyed her spirit.

In the dream, she was free, safe, and uh surrounded by people who loved and protected her.

When I woke the next morning, I still carried that supernatural peace even though nothing had changed in the natural world.

Have you ever been so desperate that you called out to a god you weren’t sure existed? That’s exactly what I did that night, and it changed everything that followed.

Because the next morning, my phone rang with news that would prove Jesus specializes in exactly the kind of impossible situations that leave human beings completely helpless.

The phone call came at exactly 9:47 a.

m.

on September 11th, 2019.

I know the precise time because I was staring at my phone, still carrying that uh inexplicable piece from the night before when the unknown international number appeared on my screen.

The voice on the other end spoke English with a British accent, introducing herself as Sarah Mitchell from the International Human Rights Coalition based in London.

My heart began racing as she explained why she was calling.

Her organization had received an anonymous tip about a young Jordanian woman being held against her will by a Saudi prince.

The tip included specific details about my sister’s situation, details that only someone with inside knowledge could have known.

Someone had provided them with evidence of abuse, including uh photographs and video footage that had apparently been leaked from inside the prince’s compound.

I was stunned into silence.

How could this organization know about my sister when I had never contacted them? How had they obtained evidence that I didn’t even know existed? Sarah explained that they were launching an immediate investigation and had already contacted British embassy officials in Saudi Arabia.

She needed me to confirm my sister’s identity and provide additional background information to strengthen their case.

As I answered her questions, I realized that the information she already possessed was impossibly detailed.

She knew about the forced marriage, the timeline of events, even specific incidents of abuse that my sister had only mentioned to me in our private phone calls.

When I asked how they had obtained this information, Sarah explained that they couldn’t reveal their sources, but that someone with access to the prince’s household had taken enormous personal risks to expose what was happening.

Within hours of that first call, everything began moving with supernatural speed.

Sarah called back to inform me that major news outlets were picking up the story.

Somehow, security footage from inside the prince’s compound had been leaked to international media showing clear evidence of my sister being physically abused.

The footage was timestamped and authenticated, making it impossible for the prince or his representatives to deny its authenticity.

By afternoon, the story had exploded across social media and international news platforms.

Human rights organizations that had previously been unresponsive were suddenly demanding immediate action.

European Parliament members were calling for sanctions against the prince.

American Congress people were issuing statements condemning the abuse.

The Saudi royal family, desperate to protect their international reputation, began distancing themselves from this particular prince.

The most incredible development came that evening.

Sarah called to tell me that my sister was being transferred to a medical facility due to injuries sustained uh in a recent beating.

During the transport from the prince’s compound to the hospital, the vehicle had experienced mechanical problems and stopped directly outside the British embassy in Riyad.

In what she called an extraordinary stroke of luck, my sister had managed to run from the vehicle to the embassy gates where British security personnel immediately granted her asylum.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

The timing, the location, the mechanical failure that happened at the exact spot where help was available.

It was too perfect to be coincidence.

When I spoke with my sister for the first time since her terrifying final call, her voice was shaky but alive.

With something I hadn’t heard in months, hope.

Through tears of relief, she told me the most amazing part of the story.

During the worst moments of her captivity, when the prince’s abuse had become unbearable, she had begun having dreams.

In these dreams, a man with kind eyes and gentle hands would appear to her, telling her that she was loved and that deliverance was coming.

She described how this figure would comfort her during the darkest nights, giving her strength to survive another day.

She said that uh on the night before her rescue, the figure in her dream had spoken more clearly than ever before.

He had told her to be ready, that tomorrow everything would change, and that she should run to the building with the British flag when the opportunity came.

She had never seen a British embassy before, but somehow she knew exactly which building to run toward when their vehicle stopped.

It was only after reaching safety that other people at the embassy began showing her pictures and telling her about Jesus Christ.

When she saw artistic depictions of Jesus, she immediately recognized him as the figure from her dreams.

The people caring for her explained that Jesus often appeared to people in desperate situations, especially those suffering under oppression and abuse.

They told her that her dreams were a sign that God had been watching over her even in her darkest moments.

The evidence that had led to international attention was equally miraculous.

Multiple sources later confirmed that a palace employee had secretly recorded hours of footage showing the prince’s treatment of my sister and previous wives.

This person had simultaneously contacted human rights organizations, media outlets, and government officials across multiple countries, ensuring that the story couldn’t be suppressed or ignored.

The British embassy staff who helped my sister described the mechanical failure of her transport vehicle as one of the most fortunate coincidences they had ever witnessed.

The car had broken down at the exact moment when embassy security was conducting a shift change, meaning maximum personnel were present at the gates.

The driver and guards had been distracted by the mechanical problem for just long enough to allow my sister to escape and reach safety.

But perhaps the most stunning aspect was the international response.

Within 48 hours of my sister’s rescue, the prince found himself under investigation by multiple governments.

His assets in several countries were frozen.

Travel bans were imposed.

Business partners began severing relationships to protect their own reputations.

The man who had seemed untouchable just days earlier was suddenly facing consequences from every direction.

My family’s reaction to these developments revealed their true priorities.

Instead of celebrating my sister’s safety, my father was furious about the international embarrassment to our family name.

My mother was confused and frightened by the media attention.

Extended family members blamed my sister for bringing shame upon us all.

Religious leaders in our community condemned her for seeking help from Christians rather than accepting Allah’s will.

Now ask yourself this question.

Do you believe in coincidences or do you see God’s hand moving? Because as I watch these impossible circumstances unfold in perfect sequence, I knew I was witnessing something far beyond human capability.

The prayer I had offered to Jesus in desperation had been answered in ways more miraculous than I could have ever imagined.

The Christian embassy workers who cared for my sister during her first weeks of freedom became her introduction to a relationship with Jesus that would transform both our lives.

While she recovered physically from her ordeal, they gently shared the gospel with her, explaining that the Jesus who had appeared to her in dreams was the same Jesus who had died on the cross for her sins and risen again to offer her eternal life.

Back in Jordan, I was secretly devouring every piece of Christian literature I could find.

Mr.

David, our Christian neighbor, noticed my sudden interest and uh began discreetly providing me with books, pamphlets, and eventually a Bible translated into Arabic, I read with hungry desperation, discovering truths about God’s character that I had never encountered in Islam.

The Jesus I was learning about was not the diminished prophet I had been taught to believe in, but the son of God who loved the oppressed and came to set captives free.

My sister and I began having long phone conversations about what we were both learning.

She told me about the Bible studies at the embassy, how the Christians there prayed for her healing, not just from physical injuries, but from the emotional trauma she had endured.

She described how they treated her with genuine love and respect, never trying to control her or make decisions for her, but helping her discover her own worth as a daughter of God.

Together we made the decision to accept Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior.

For my sister, it happened during a prayer meeting at the embassy when she realized that the Jesus who had sustained her through her darkest days wanted to be with her forever.

For me, it was during a quiet moment in my room reading the Gospel of John when I understood that Jesus offered the forgiveness and relationship with God that I could never earn through Islamic works.

The transformation in both of us was immediate and profound.

My sister began to heal emotionally in ways that amazed the counselors working with her.

The nightmares that had plugged her since her rescue began to fade.

She started smiling again, genuinely smiling for the first time in months.

She found peace in knowing that her suffering had not been meaningless.

That God had used even her terrible experience to bring both of us to salvation.

But we knew that remaining in our current situations was impossible.

My family’s reaction to my sister’s rescue had made it clear that they cared more about their reputation than her well-being.

When I began asking questions about Christian beliefs, my father became suspicious and angry.

He started monitoring my activities, questioning where I went and who I spoke with.

The pressure to conform and forget about my sister’s experience was becoming unbearable.

The embassy workers helping my sister began the process of applying for asylum in Canada for both of us.

They explained that uh as converts from Islam, we would face serious persecution and possibly death if we remained in Jordan.

The Canadian government had programs specifically designed to help people in our situation, particularly those who had suffered religious persecution or were fleeing forced marriages.

The application process took several months during which I had to maintain the pretense of being a faithful Muslim while secretly studying Christianity and planning our escape.

I continued attending mosque with my father, performed the required prayers and participated in family religious observances.

But my heart was no longer in any of it.

I was merely going through the motions while counting the days until I could live openly as a Christian.

The most difficult part was the baptism ceremony that took place in the embassy compound.

My sister was baptized first.

surrounded by the Christians who had become her new family during those months of recovery when she told me about the experience over the phone, describing the joy and peace she felt as she went under the water and rose again as a new creation in Christ.

I wept with happiness for her spiritual freedom.

My own baptism had to wait until I could safely leave Jordan, but the embassy chaplain assured me that my salvation was secure regardless of the timing of this public declaration.

He explained that baptism was an outward symbol of an inward transformation that had already taken place in my heart when I accepted Jesus.

The day our asylum applications were approved was both the happiest and most heartbreaking day of my life.

I would finally be reunited with my sister and free to live openly as a Christian.

But leaving meant saying goodbye to my parents and the only life I had ever known.

My mother cried when I told her I was moving to Canada for work opportunities, never knowing the real reason for my departure.

My father’s final words to me at the airport still echo in my memory.

As I prepared to board the plane, he pulled me aside and said he was proud of the man I had become, that he trusted me to represent our family well in Canada.

The irony was devastating.

I was leaving specifically because I could no longer represent the family he wanted me to be.

In his eyes, I was dead from the moment I accepted Jesus Christ.

The reunion with my sister at the airport in Toronto was the culmination of everything we had both prayed for during those dark months.

She looked healthier than she had in years with a light in her eyes that I remembered from our childhood.

We held each other and wept knowing that we had both been rescued not just from physical danger but from spiritual death.

Our first public testimony took place at the church that had sponsored our immigration to to Canada.

standing before a congregation of people who had prayed for us throughout our ordeal.

We shared the the miraculous story of how Jesus had saved my sister’s life and brought both of us to faith.

The response was overwhelming.

People wept as they heard about God’s faithfulness even in impossible circumstances.

My sister enrolled in college to study counseling specifically to help other women who had survived abuse and trafficking.

She wanted to use her experience to bring uh healing to others who had suffered similar trauma.

Her English improved rapidly and uh she began speaking at churches and conferences across Canada sharing her testimony of God’s deliverance.

I found work with the refugee resettlement organization, specifically helping other former Muslims who were converting to Christianity.

The Canadian government recognized that our situation was unfortunately common and they had developed programs to help people like us transition safely to new lives of freedom.

Both of us began receiving counseling to process the trauma of leaving our families and culture behind.

The Christians supporting us helped us understand that grief for what we had lost was normal and healthy even when we were grateful for what we had gained.

We learned that following Jesus didn’t erase the pain of broken family relationships, but it did give us hope for healing and purpose.

The most beautiful development came 2 years after our arrival in Canada.

My sister met a Christian man at our church who loved her despite her past, who saw her as the precious daughter of God that she truly was.

Their wedding was everything her first marriage had not been.

Joyful, voluntary, and blessed by a community that celebrated her choice and freedom.

Today, we both work full-time in ministry to former Muslims.

My sister counsels women who have escaped forced marriages and human trafficking.

I help new converts navigate the practical challenges of leaving Islam and uh adjusting to life in Christian communities.

We speak uh regularly at churches sharing our testimony and raising awareness about the persecution that converts from Islam face around the world.

The transformation in our lives extends far beyond our personal circumstances.

We now understand that suffering can have divine purpose when it leads people to salvation and equips them to minister to others in similar situations.

My sister often tells the women she counels that God can use even their worst experience to bring healing to others who are still trapped.

Looking back, I can see God’s hand orchestrating every detail of our rescue and conversion.

The timing of events, the people he placed in our path, the supernatural protection he provided, and the doors he opened for our escape were all part of his perfect plan.

We thought we knew God through Islam, but Jesus showed us God’s true heart of love, justice, and mercy.

Our family in Jordan has completely cut off contact with us.

To them we are dead trits who brought shame upon our family name by converting to Christianity.

The pain of this rejection uh never completely goes away.

But we have found a new family in the body of Christ that loves and uh accepts us unconditionally.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, do you know this Jesus who saves not just souls but lives? Do you understand that he specialize in impossible situations? That he hears the prayers of the desperate and that he can transform even the worst circumstances into testimonies of his power and love.

If you are someone who has suffered under religious oppression, if you have been told that God’s will includes your abuse or suffering, if you have been taught that you have no value or choice in your own life, I want you to know that there is a God who sees you, loves you, and wants to set you free.

Jesus Christ came to earth specifically for people like my sister, people like me, people like you.

Are you ready to call on his name and discover the freedom that only he can provide? Because I promise you based on everything I have witnessed and experienced that he is waiting to answer your prayer just as miraculously as he answered mine.