I’m sitting in my small apartment here in the west, thousands of miles from the place I once called home.

On my desk is an old photograph, faded now, the edges worn from being handled too many times.

In it, I’m standing outside the mosque in Jedha, wearing my white thicker shemach that marked me as a man of respect in Saudi Arabia.

I’m smiling.

I look confident, certain, complete.

That man in the photograph believed he knew everything about God.

That man had never doubted, never questioned, never imagined his entire world could crumble and be rebuilt into something completely different.

For 32 years, I believed I was serving Allah with all my heart, with every fiber of my being.

I never imagined that my greatest act of obedience would be seen as my greatest betrayal.

I never imagined that finding truth would cost me everything I’d ever known.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me take you back to the beginning.

To the streets of Jedha, where I was born, where the call to prayer echoed five times a day through concrete and sand.

where Islam wasn’t just a religion, but the very air we breathed.

Hello viewers from around the world.

Before our brother from Saudi Arabia continues his story, we’d love to know where you are watching from and we would love to pray for you and your city.

Thank you and may God bless you as you listen to this powerful testimony.

My earliest memories are filled with the sound of Quranic recitation.

My grandfather’s voice, deep and melodic, would fill our family majis as he read from the holy book each evening.

I remember sitting on the floor, a small boy of maybe four or 5 years old, watching his lips move as he shaped the Arabic words with precision and reverence.

The smell of bukour incense would drift through the room.

That distinct scent of agarwood burning in the mobcara sending thin trails of smoke toward the ceiling.

My grandfather was a respected shake in our community.

My father liked to tell me that our family line had produced Islamic scholars for six generations.

This wasn’t just a source of pride.

It was our identity, our purpose, the reason Allah had placed us on this earth.

We weren’t just any family.

We were the guardians of knowledge, the teachers of truth, the defenders of the faith.

I remember my grandmother would bring us fresh dates and Arabic coffee during these evening sessions.

The cardamom spiced coffee was so bitter I could barely swallow it as a child, but I forced myself to drink it anyway.

Even then, I understood that being a man meant embracing what was difficult, what required discipline.

My grandfather would smile at me over his coffee cup, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

He died when I was 10 years old, but not before he had instilled in me a love for the Quran that would shape my entire childhood and young adult life.

My father taught at the Islamic University in Jedha.

Our home was always filled with books, thick volumes of hadith collections, tapsir commentaries explaining Quranic verses, texts on fick juristprudence that outlined how a Muslim should live every aspect of life according to Sharia.

While other boys my age were playing football in the streets, I was often found in my father’s study running my fingers along the spines of these leatherbound books, smelling the particular scent of old paper and ink.

When I was 7 years old, my father enrolled me in a program to memorize the entire Quran.

This wasn’t unusual in our community.

Many boys started this journey but finishing it becoming a hai was something special.

It required dedication, discipline and a mind that could hold all 14 suras, thousands upon thousands of verses in perfect recitation.

I remember the process clearly.

Every morning before school, I would sit with Shik Abdullah, my Quran teacher, in a small room at our neighborhood mosque.

The walls were bare except for a single verse written in beautiful calligraphy.

Shik Abdullah was a patient but strict teacher.

We would work on just a few lines each day, repeating them over and over until the words were burned into my memory.

Then we would review everything I had memorized before, going back to the beginning, making sure nothing was forgotten.

It was hard work.

There were mornings I wanted to quit.

Mornings when my mind felt too tired to absorb even one more word.

But my father would remind me that I was carrying on our family legacy, that Allah would honor this effort, that paradise awaited those who memorized his words.

I completed my memorization when I was 12 years old.

The day I recited the entire Quran from memory in front of a committee of scholars and my family, I saw tears in my father’s eyes.

My mother had prepared a feast for our relatives and neighbors.

Everyone congratulated me, shook my hand, kissed my forehead.

I felt like I had accomplished something magnificent, something that set me apart.

I felt chosen.

Looking back now, I can see that this was the foundation of my identity being built.

Brick by brick, verse by verse, I was special.

I was dedicated.

I was a servant of Allah.

These weren’t just beliefs.

They were the core of who I understood myself to be.

My teenage years were consumed by religious study.

While my cousins were beginning to think about university majors in engineering or medicine, there was never any question about my path.

I would study Islamic sciences.

I would become a scholar like my father and grandfather before me.

At 15, I began studying under several prominent shakes in Jedha.

We focused on hadith, the sayings and actions of the prophet Muhammad peace be upon him.

I learned to distinguish between sah hadiths that were authentic and daif hadiths that were weak.

I learned the chain of narration, how each hadith had been passed down through generations of scholars and how to verify its reliability.

I also studied Fik in depth, Islamic Jewish prudence covering everything from how to perform ablution before prayer to the proper way to handle inheritance disputes.

Nothing was too small or too large for Islamic law.

There were rules for everything.

This gave me comfort.

I knew exactly what Allah expected of me at every moment of every day.

Our family followed the Wahhabi interpretation of Islam, what some call Salafism.

We believed in returning to the pure Islam practiced by Muhammad and his companions, stripping away innovations and cultural additions that had crept into the religion over centuries.

This meant strict adherence to the Quran and hadith, rejection of anything that seemed like bida or innovation, and a fierce commitment to the absolute oneness of Allah.

The concept of shik associating partners with Allah was the greatest sin imaginable to us.

This is why we rejected Shia practices of venerating Ali and other imams.

This is why we viewed Sufi mysticism with suspicion.

And this is why the Christian concept of the trinity seemed not just wrong but blasphemous.

The ultimate sherk.

When I was 19, I delivered my first sermon at our local mosque.

I was terrified.

My hands were shaking as I stood at the Mimbar, the pulpit, looking out at hundreds of men sitting cross-legged on the carpet, waiting to hear what I had to say.

I had prepared for weeks memorizing my main points reviewing them with my father practicing in front of a mirror.

I spoke about taqua, God consciousness, the awareness that Allah is always watching and that we must live our lives in constant submission to his will.

My voice cracked a few times, but as I continued, I found my rhythm.

The words began to flow.

I saw heads nodding in agreement.

When I finished, several older men came to shake my hand to tell me that my words had touched their hearts.

That night, I felt an exhilaration I had never experienced before.

I had spoken God’s truth, and people had listened.

I had carried on my family’s tradition.

I was becoming what I was meant to be.

By the time I was 23, I had completed my formal Islamic education and was appointed as an assistant imam at a prominent mosque in Jedha.

This wasn’t just any mosque.

It was large, influential, attended by hundreds for Friday prayers and by thousands during Ramadan.

My role was to lead some of the daily prayers, teach youth classes, provide Islamic counseling to community members, and occasionally deliver Friday sermons when the head imam was away.

I threw myself into this work with complete devotion.

I would arrive at the mosque before fajar, the dawn prayer, and often wouldn’t leave until aftersha, the night prayer.

Between the five daily prayers, I taught classes on Quranic interpretation, led study circles for young men learning hadith, and counseledled people struggling with questions about their faith or Islamic practice.

People came to me with every kind of problem.

A man worried that his business dealings might involve reeba, forbidden interest.

A woman asking whether she could work outside the home.

Young people wrestling with temptation in an increasingly connected world where western influences seem to creep in through every screen.

I had answers for all of them.

The Quran had answers.

The hadith had answers.

Islamic law had answers.

I remember feeling a deep satisfaction in this role.

I was helping people navigate the straight path.

I guiding them away from sin and toward righteousness.

I was fulfilling my purpose.

Around this time, my family arranged my marriage.

This was normal in our culture.

In fact, it would have been strange if I, as a young shake, had remained unmarried.

The woman chosen for me was from another respected family, the daughter of one of my father’s colleagues.

She was modest, educated in Islamic studies herself, and came from good stock, as they say.

I won’t say much about my marriage here.

It’s painful territory and there are others involved whose privacy I want to protect.

But I will say that we had children.

Three beautiful children who became the light of my life.

When my first son was born, I whispered the adan, the call to prayer in his tiny ear as is the tradition.

I remember looking at his small face, his eyes squeezed shut, his fingers curled into fists, and feeling overwhelmed with the responsibility to raise him as a good Muslim.

On the surface, my life was exactly what it was supposed to be.

I had a respected position, a family, the admiration of my community, and the satisfaction of serving Allah.

If you had asked me then if I was happy, I would have told you that happiness wasn’t the goal, obedience was the goal, submission was the goal, pleasing Allah was the goal.

But if you had asked me if I felt at peace, if you had pressed me to be truly honest, I am not sure what I would have said.

In addition to my work at the mosque, I became active in online Islamic apologetics.

This was the early 2000s and the internet was becoming a major battleground for religious ideas.

There were forums, social media platforms, and YouTube channels where Christians and atheists and Muslims debated questions of faith, scripture, and truth.

I saw this as an extension of my mission.

If I could defend Islam online, I could reach Muslims who were being exposed to doubts and questions.

I could refute the arguments of Christians who claimed Jesus was divine.

I could expose the supposed contradictions and corruptions in the Bible.

I could guide questioning Muslims back to certainty.

I created accounts on various platforms under my real name.

I wasn’t afraid to be identified.

I was proud of my scholarship, confident in my positions.

I would spend hours crafting detailed responses to Christian missionaries, breaking down their arguments point by point.

When Christians claim Jesus was the son of God, I would quote surah alas say he is Allah the one, Allah the eternal refuge.

He neither beggets nor is born nor is there to him any equivalent.

How could God have a son? The very idea was absurd.

A corruption of pure monotheism.

When they talked about Jesus dying for sins, I would explain that this was unjust.

How could a righteous God punish an innocent man for the sins of others? Each person must bear the weight of their own deeds.

On the day of judgment, Allah would place our good deeds on one side of the scale and our bad deeds on the other.

That was justice.

That made sense.

When they claimed the Bible was God’s unchanged word, I would point to the many versions, the councils that decided which books to include, the obvious contradictions between the gospels.

The Quran told us that the Torah and Injil, the original revelations given to Moses and Jesus had been corrupted over time.

This explained why the Bible contained error.

It wasn’t the pure word of God anymore.

I was good at this.

I knew my arguments well.

I had memorized the talking points, the proof texts, the rhetorical strategies.

I won debates.

I received messages from Muslims thanking me for strengthening their faith, from converts to Islam who said my arguments had convinced them.

But something strange began to happen.

The more I argued against Christianity, the more I found myself actually reading Christian materials.

I told myself it was necessary.

How could I refute what I didn’t understand? I needed to know my enemy’s position better than they knew it themselves.

I would read Christian websites explaining the Trinity, not to understand, but to find holes in the logic.

I would watch Christian preachers on YouTube in not to listen but to identify weak points I could exploit.

I would even occasionally read passages from English translations of the Bible, not to learn but to find contradictions I could highlight.

I was doing this as a faithful Muslim, as a defender of the faith.

At least that’s what I told myself.

My life had a rhythm, a structure, a pattern that felt unshakable.

I would wake before dawn for fajger prayer, lead the prayer at the mosque, spend the morning teaching or studying.

I would return home for lunch, rest briefly, then go back to the mosque for dur the midday prayer.

Afternoons were for meetings, counseling sessions or administrative work.

Then assur in the afternoon, Maghreb at sunset and Issha in the evening.

Five prayers, five anchors throughout each day, keeping me connected to Allah and to my purpose.

Friday was the most important day.

The mosque would fill with men for Juma, the congregational prayer and sermon.

When it was my turn to deliver the sermon, I would spend days preparing.

I wanted every word to have impact, to call people to greater devotion, to remind them of Allah’s commands and their obligations.

I remember one Friday sermon I gave about the importance of fearing Allah.

I talked about how Allah sees everything, our public actions and our private thoughts, our good deeds and our hidden sins.

I reminded the congregation that death could come at any moment, that we would stand before Allah on the day of judgment with nowhere to hide, that our deeds would be weighed and we would be held accountable for every word and action.

The message was meant to inspire righteousness, to motivate people toward good works.

But even as I spoke these words with passion and conviction, something inside me felt heavy.

Fear was so central to my understanding of faith.

Fear of Allah’s punishment.

Fear of the hellfire.

Fear of doing something wrong and not knowing it.

Fear of dying with more bad deeds than good.

After that sermon, an older man came to me with tears in his eyes, thanking me for reminding him of Allah’s judgment.

He looked genuinely frightened, genuinely uncertain about his eternal fate despite decades of faithful Islamic practice.

I comforted him with the standard response.

Continue doing good works.

Ask Allah for forgiveness.

Have faith in his mercy.

But inside I wondered, was this really peace? Was this really the assurance we were supposed to have? I pushed the thought away.

Such questions were dangerous.

They led to doubt.

And doubt was from Shayan, from Satan trying to lead me astray.

My days blended together in a pattern of ritual and responsibility.

I knew the prayer times by heart, could estimate them by the position of the sun, even without checking my phone.

I knew which verses to recite during which prayers, knew the proper words for bowing and prostrating, knew the rhythm of standing and sitting and bowing that made up each salah.

I fasted during Ramadan, the whole month of abstaining from food and water from dawn until sunset.

I paid my zakat, the required charity.

I had performed Hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca, when I was 25.

I remember standing in front of the Cabba, that black cube covered in gold embroidered cloth, shoulderto-shoulder with millions of Muslims from every corner of the earth.

All of us circling the holiest sight in Islam.

It had been overwhelming, the heat, the crowds, the sense of participating in something ancient and sacred.

I had wept during taw circling the cabba overcome with emotion.

I had prayed earnestly at the station of Abraham asking Allah to accept my pilgrimage to forgive my sins to grant me paradise.

But even there, even in that holy place, I had no certainty.

I hoped Allah would accept my pilgrimage, but I couldn’t know.

I hoped my sins were forgiven, but I couldn’t be sure.

I hoped I would enter paradise, but the Quran itself said that Allah guides whom he wills and leads astray whom he wills.

What if I wasn’t among the guided? What if my good deeds weren’t enough? These thoughts came to me late at night in the quiet moments when I was alone with my uncertainties.

During the day, I pushed them down, covered them over with activity and scholarship and service.

I told myself that doubt was a test, that true faith meant trusting Allah even without certainty, that seeking too much assurance was actually a form of arrogance.

Who was I to demand that Allah show me my fate? But the questions remained, buried but not gone, waiting.

My children grew.

My work at the mosque expanded.

My reputation in the community grew stronger.

People would stop me in the market or at the mall to ask quick questions about Islamic practice.

Was this food halal? Was that business transaction permissible? How should they handle a specific family situation according to Islamic law? I had answers for everyone else’s questions.

I was known as a man of knowledge, a man of certainty.

People saw me as spiritually strong or as someone who had achieved a level of closeness to Allah that they aspired to.

If only they had known what I was really feeling inside.

There was an emptiness I couldn’t name.

A sense that despite all my prayers, all my study, all my service, I wasn’t actually getting closer to Allah.

It was like climbing a mountain that grew taller with every step.

Like trying to fill a vessel with a hole in the bottom.

I would pray the tahajjud, the voluntary late night prayers that were considered especially pleasing to Allah.

I would wake at 2 or 3 in the morning, perform ablution in the cold, and stand in prayer in the darkness, reciting Quran and making dua, asking Allah for guidance and forgiveness and mercy.

But when I finished, I didn’t feel heard.

I didn’t feel the closeness to God that I was seeking.

I felt like I was speaking into emptiness, like my words were rising toward a ceiling instead of toward heaven.

I never would have admitted this to anyone.

How could I? I was a shake, a teacher, a religious leader.

People looked up to me.

My family was proud of me.

I had responsibilities, a reputation, a role to play.

So I played it.

I performed the part of the confident, knowledgeable, devoted Muslim scholar.

And most of the time, I believed my own performance.

But in the quiet moments, in the spaces between obligations, the questions would surface again.

Am I truly submitted to Allah? Will my good deeds outweigh my bad? How can I know if Allah is pleased with me? What if I die in a state of sin? What if paradise is close to me despite everything I’ve done? Islam taught me about Allah’s 99 names.

The merciful, the compassionate, the loving, the forgiving.

But it also taught me that Allah was the judge, the avenger, the one who leads astray, the one who could seal a heart and prevent it from finding truth.

Which Allah would I meet when I died? The merciful one or the wrathful one? And how could I know? These were the questions I carried with me through my perfect Islamic life.

These were the doubts that lived beneath the surface of my sermons and prayers and religious activities.

I see now that Allah in his mercy was preparing my heart for something I never could have imagined.

He was creating a thirst that Islam couldn’t satisfy, a hunger that Islamic practice couldn’t fill, a longing for certainty that Islamic theology couldn’t provide.

I was being prepared for an encounter that would shatter everything I thought I knew and rebuild my life on an entirely different foundation.

But I didn’t know that yet.

I was still the confident shake, the devoted Muslim, the man in the photograph on my desk.

I was still living in darkness, not yet knowing that light was coming.

The change began so gradually that I didn’t recognize it as a change at all.

It started on an ordinary Thursday evening.

I was in my office at the mosque, a small room lined with bookshelves holding Arabic texts on everything from Quranic interpretation to Islamic Jewish prudence.

The room smelled of old paper and the cardamom tea I’d been drinking.

Through the window, I could hear the sounds of Jedha, car horns, distant conversations, the call to Maghreb prayer beginning to echo from nearby mosques.

A young man had come to see me.

His name was Ahmed, maybe 19 years old, a university student studying engineering.

I knew his family, good people, faithful Muslims.

Ahmed sat across from my desk.

his hands nervous, picking at the edge of his toe.

He asked me a question that would lodge itself in my mind like a splinter.

Shake.

How can I know for certain that I’m going to paradise? I remember smiling, ready to give him the standard answer I’d given countless times before.

I opened my mouth to speak about faith, prayer, good deeds, the mercy of Allah.

But something made me pause.

Ahmed’s eyes were desperate.

This wasn’t a theoretical question for him.

This was real fear, real uncertainty.

He continued speaking, his words tumbling out.

He prayed five times a day.

He fasted.

He tried to be a good Muslim.

But he also struggled with sins, things he didn’t want to specify.

He was afraid that when he died, his bad deeds would outweigh his good ones.

He was afraid that Allah wouldn’t forgive him.

He was afraid of the hellfire.

I gave him the answers I was supposed to give.

I told him about Allah’s mercy, about the importance of sincere repentance, about continuing in good works and having faith.

I quoted the verse that says, “If you avoid the major sins, Allah will forgive the minor ones.

” I reminded him that no one earns paradise through deeds alone.

We all depend on Allah’s mercy.

But even as I spoke, I heard the uncertainty in my own voice.

Because the truth was I didn’t have certainty either.

After Ahmed left, I sat alone in my office for a long time.

The call to prayer had ended.

The mosque was quiet except for the soft shuffle of a men’s feet as they left after Mrib.

The sun was setting through my window, casting long shadows across my desk.

I asked myself his question.

How can I know for certain that I’m going to paradise? The Islamic answer was clear.

I couldn’t know.

No Muslim could know except the prophets and a few specific individuals mentioned in Hadith.

The rest of us, we could only hope.

We could only try our best and trust in Allah’s mercy.

On the day of judgment, our deeds would be weighed on scales.

If our good deeds outweighed our bad, if Allah in his mercy chose to forgive us, then we might enter paradise.

But there was always the if, always the uncertainty, always the possibility that we hadn’t done enough, hadn’t been sincere enough, hadn’t earned Allah’s pleasure.

And I had lived with this uncertainty my entire life.

But for some reason on that evening it suddenly felt unbearable.

The question wouldn’t leave me alone.

In the following days I found myself thinking about it constantly during prayers, during meals, during my classes at the mosque.

The question was always there hovering at the edge of my thoughts.

How can I know? I began studying the topic more deeply.

I pulled out my books on Islamic esquetology, on the day of judgment, on paradise and hell.

I reviewed the Quranic verses and hadiths about salvation and divine judgment.

The picture they painted was sobering.

The Quran described a scale of justice on which every deed would be weighed.

The hadith contained detailed descriptions of the questions we’d be asked in the grave.

The crossing of the Sirat bridge over hellfire.

The intercession of the prophet Muhammad for his followers.

But nowhere did I find certainty.

Nowhere did I find a guarantee.

Even the prophet Muhammad according to hadith said he didn’t know what would happen to him or his followers.

If the prophet himself didn’t have certainty, how could I? I found verses that spoke of Allah’s mercy, of his forgiveness, of his desire to guide his servants.

But I also found verses about his wroth, about people whose hearts he had sealed, about those he had led astray.

The Quran repeatedly emphasized that Allah guides whom he wills and leads astray whom he wills.

What if I wasn’t among the guided? What if despite all my efforts, all my prayers, all my scholarship and service, Allah had not chosen me for paradise? The thought terrified me.

I began praying even more.

I started waking for tahajjud every night instead of just sometimes.

I increased my voluntary fasts.

I gave more charity.

I pushed myself harder in Islamic practice as if I could somehow earn Allah’s favor through sheer effort.

But the emptiness only grew.

The more I did, the more inadequate it all felt.

It was like trying to fill an ocean with a teaspoon.

Around this time, I was preparing a lecture series on Islamic esquetology for the young men’s class at the mosque.

The topic was the science of the end times and the day of judgment.

I had taught on this subject before, but now I was going deeper, reviewing sources I hadn’t examined in years.

That’s when I encountered something that troubled me.

The hadith and even some Quranic verses gave a special place to Issa Jesus.

According to Islamic teaching, Jesus would return before the day of judgment.

He would descend in Damascus, kill the Dajal, the Antichrist figure in Islamic esquetology, break the cross, abolish the Jiz attacks, and establish Islamic law across the earth.

But why would Allah send Jesus back instead of Muhammad? Muhammad was the seal of the prophets, the final messenger, the one whose example we were supposed to follow.

If anyone should return to establish Islamic rule, wouldn’t it be Muhammad? I had learned in my Islamic studies that Jesus held a unique position.

The Quran called him the word of Allah and the spirit from Allah.

He was born of a virgin.

He performed miracles, healing the blind and lepers, even raising the dead, all by Allah’s permission.

The Quran stated that Jesus never sinned.

In contrast, Muhammad was told to seek forgiveness for his sins.

The Quran directly commanded him to ask Allah’s forgiveness in multiple verses.

I had always accepted this without question.

All prophets were sinless in their prophetic message we were taught.

But they were human and could make mistakes in personal matters.

This explained why Muhammad needed forgiveness while still being a perfect example for Muslims to follow.

But now the question nagged at me.

If Jesus never sinned at all, if he held titles like word of Allah and spirit from Allah that no other prophet held, if he would be the one to return and judge at the end times, what did this mean? I tried to push the question away.

I had been taught the answers.

Jesus was just a prophet, nothing more.

The Christians had elevated him to divinity which was sherk the unforgivable sin of associating partners with Allah.

The trinity was false.

Jesus wasn’t the son of God.

Allah has no son.

But the questions persisted.

At night lying awake I would think about these things.

The unique birth, the unique titles, the unique role in the end times.

the sinlessness, what made Jesus so special.

My online apologetics work continued, but something had shifted.

I was still defending Islam in debates and forums, still refuting Christian arguments, but I found myself increasingly interested in understanding what Christians actually believed rather than just tearing down their positions.

I told myself this was strategic.

I needed to know my opponent’s position better to refute it more effectively.

But looking back, I see that something deeper was happening.

A genuine curiosity was awakening, a desire to understand rather than just argue.

I began reading Christian websites more carefully, not just scanning for contradictions to exploit, but actually trying to understand the logic of their beliefs.

Why did they worship Jesus as God? What did they mean by the Trinity? How did they explain salvation? What struck me most was how they talked about assurance.

Christian testimonies were filled with phrases like, “I know I’m saved and I have eternal life and my salvation is secure.

” They spoke with a certainty I had never felt, a confidence about their eternal destiny that seemed almost arrogant to my Islamic mindset.

How could they be so sure? Wasn’t that presumptuous? Didn’t they fear Allah’s or God’s judgment? But I also couldn’t deny that I envied that certainty.

After three decades of Islamic practice, I had no assurance.

These Christians, some of them new believers, claimed to know they were saved.

I started watching Christian videos on YouTube, again, telling myself it was for apologetic purposes.

I used a VPN, of course.

Accessing Christian content was technically illegal in Saudi Arabia and I didn’t want religious police monitoring my internet activity.

The VPN itself made me nervous.

Every time I activated it, I felt like I was doing something wrong, something dangerous.

And I was.

If my use of VPN to access Christian materials was discovered, there could be serious consequences.

At minimum, questions from the religious police.

At worst, I didn’t want to think about the worst.

One night, alone in my office at the mosque after Isha prayer, I came across a video of a former Muslim sharing his testimony.

He was Arabic speakaking, maybe Egyptian or Syrian by his accent.

He described his journey from Islam to Christianity.

My first reaction was anger.

How could he betray Islam? How could he commit apostasy, the gravest sin? He was destined for hellfire.

But as I watched, something in his testimony caught my attention.

He talked about searching for peace, for certainty, for assurance of salvation, the same things I was grappling with.

He described reading the Quran’s references to Jesus and being struck by his uniqueness.

He described encountering Jesus in a dream.

I closed the video quickly, my heart pounding.

This was dangerous material.

These were lies meant to deceive Muslims.

I should report the video, block the channel, delete my browsing history.

But I didn’t.

Instead, late that night at home, I watched it again.

And then I watched another testimony and another.

I kept telling myself I was researching, preparing myself to refute these arguments, understanding the enemy’s tactics.

But deep down, I think I knew the truth.

I was searching.

I was questioning.

I was no longer satisfied with the answers I’d been given my whole life.

The real turning point came when I downloaded a Bible app on my phone.

I did it late at night, sitting in my car parked near the Jedha Cornesh.

The Red Sea was dark and calm, the lights of the city reflecting off the water.

I had driven here after lying to my wife, telling her I needed to do some late work at the mosque.

Instead, I sat in my car, my phone glowing in the darkness, my finger hovering over the download button.

This was more than just dangerous.

This felt like a line I couldn’t uncross.

Watching Christian videos was one thing.

actually downloading the Bible.

The supposedly corrupted scripture of the Christians felt different.

It felt like betrayal.

But I pressed the button.

The app downloaded.

I opened it, my hands trembling.

The app offered different translations.

I chose an Arabic one, a modern translation that would be easier to read than the classical Arabic of the Quran.

I stared at the screen at the table of contents showing all these books with strange names.

Matthew, Mark, Luke, John.

I should start with Genesis, I thought.

The beginning.

But something drew me to the Gospel of John instead.

I began reading.

The opening verses were jarring.

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

The word was God.

This was sherk, wasn’t it? Associating something with Allah.

But I kept reading.

I read how this word became flesh and dwelt among us.

I read Jesus’s interactions with people, healing the sick, teaching about God, it challenging religious leaders.

Then I came to chapter 3 to Jesus conversation with Nicodemus.

Jesus said something that stopped me cold.

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

I read it again and again.

Whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

Not might have or hope for or if your good deeds outweigh your bad.

The verse promised eternal life to whoever believes, a guarantee, a certainty.

I quickly navigated to chapter 14.

There I found Jesus saying something even more troubling.

I am the way and the truth and the life.

No one comes to the father except through me.

No one comes to the father except through Jesus.

This contradicted everything I had been taught.

Islam taught that there were many prophets in many ways to submit to Allah and that anyone who submitted to Allah alone, whether they lived before or after Muhammad, could be saved.

But Jesus claimed to be the only way.

Either he was lying or he was deluded or he was telling the truth.

I closed the app quickly, my heart racing.

I looked around the parking lot.

suddenly paranoid that someone might see me, might know what I was doing, but I was alone, just me, my phone, and these words that were shaking something loose in my soul.

I started the car and drove home in silence, my mind churning with thoughts I couldn’t yet put into words.

Over the following weeks, I fell into a pattern.

During the day, I was the model shake, leading prayers, teaching classes, counseling community members, maintaining my reputation.

But at night alone, I would read the Bible on my phone, the hidden under a passcode in an encrypted folder.

I read through the Gospel of John, then Matthew, then Luke.

I read the sermon on the mount and was struck by Jesus’s teachings about loving your enemies, about prayer, about worry and trust in God.

These teachings were beautiful.

They were radical.

They were nothing like the harsh judgmental Islam I had been practicing.

Jesus spoke of God as father, aba, a term of intimacy and affection.

In Islam, we were Allah’s slaves, his servants.

We obeyed him out of duty and fear.

But Jesus taught about a relationship with God characterized by love and trust.

I found myself comparing Jesus teachings to Muhammad’s.

Jesus said to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

Muhammad led armies and approved the killing of those who opposed Islam.

Jesus said to turn the other cheek.

Muhammad said to fight those who don’t believe in Allah or the last day.

These comparisons troubled me deeply.

I had been taught that Muhammad was the perfect example, the most moral human who ever lived.

But when I compared his actions to Jesus teachings, I saw inconsistencies I couldn’t explain away.

Then I encountered Jesus teaching about salvation over and over in different ways.

Jesus emphasized that eternal life was a gift received through faith, not something earned through works.

In John chapter 6, people asked Jesus what they must do to do the works God requires.

Jesus answered simply, “The work of God is this, to believe in the one he has sent.

” belief.

Faith, not endless striving, not perfect obedience, not weighing scales of good and bad deeds, just belief in Jesus.

This was the opposite of everything Islam had taught me.

In Islam, salvation was earned through a lifetime of submission, prayer, fasting, charity, pilgrimage, and even then it wasn’t guaranteed.

Allah might choose to show mercy or he might not.

But Jesus offered salvation as a gift, a free gift of grace.

The word grace itself was almost foreign to my Islamic understanding.

Islam emphasized Allah’s mercy, yes, but it was a conditional mercy.

You earned it through obedience, grace, unmmerited favor, unearned love.

This was a concept I had never encountered.

I found myself drawn to it like a thirsty man stumbling upon water in the desert.

But with the attraction came terror.

What was I doing? I was a shake, an Islamic teacher, a defender of the faith.

And here I was secretly reading the Bible, entertaining questions about Islam, feeling drawn to Christian teachings.

This was apostasy.

If anyone knew what I was thinking, what I was feeling, the consequences would be severe.

In Saudi Arabia, leaving Islam is punishable by death.

This isn’t just theory or ancient history.

This is the law.

A Muslim who converts to another religion is guilty of Ridda, apostasy, one of the worst crimes in Islamic law.

Even if the government didn’t enforce the death penalty, my family certainly might.

Honor killings for apostasy still happen.

A father or brother might kill a family member who leaves Islam, believing they’re defending the family honor and doing Allah’s will.

And beyond the legal and family consequences, I had been taught my entire life about the spiritual consequences of apostasy.

Apostates were destined for the lowest depths of hellfire.

Eternal punishment worse than for any other sin.

There was no forgiveness for someone who knowingly left Islam after being Muslim.

Every time I opened the Bible app, I felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff.

One more step and I would fall into something I couldn’t come back from.

I tried to stop.

I would delete the app, delete my browsing history, promise myself I wouldn’t search for Christian materials again.

I would redouble my Islamic practices, pray more, read more Quran, immerse myself in Islamic scholarship.

But it was like trying to unlearn something you’d already learned.

The questions had been asked, the comparisons had been made, the doubts had taken root.

And beneath it all, there was a hunger I couldn’t name.

A longing for something I had never had.

A desire for certainty, for peace, for assurance of salvation that Islam had never given me.

I became withdrawn or distracted.

My wife noticed.

She would ask if I was feeling well, if something was troubling me.

I would brush off her concerns, claim I was just tired from work, stressed about mosque responsibilities.

My teaching began to change subtly.

I started emphasizing Allah’s love and mercy more than his wroth and judgment.

I spoke less about rules and more about heart attitudes.

When young people ask difficult questions, I found myself giving less dogmatic answers, admitting that some things were mysteries we couldn’t fully understand.

Some people noticed.

A few older members of the community commented that my tone had softened, that I seemed less sure of myself than before.

They didn’t say it as a compliment.

I also started being more careful in my online apologetics.

I realized I had been harsh, even cruel, in how I argued with Christians.

I had mocked their beliefs, called them stupid for believing in the Trinity, accused them of worshiping a dead man.

But now, having read their scriptures, having seen the internal logic of their theology, I couldn’t maintain that same dismissive attitude.

I found myself actually listening to their arguments instead of just preparing my counterattacks.

One Christian I debated online, an Arabic speaker living in the West, sent me a private message.

He said he had been praying for me, that he could see I was searching for truth, that Jesus loved me and was pursuing me.

I wanted to be offended, to block him, to report his message.

Instead, I read it multiple times.

Someone was praying for me.

A Christian was praying for a Muslim shake.

The idea was strange and oddly touching.

We began a private correspondence.

I told him I wasn’t converting, that I was just trying to understand Christianity better, to refute it more effectively.

He seemed to see through my excuses, but never pushed too hard.

He simply answered my questions patiently, shared scripture passages, told me about his own journey to faith.

His name was Ysef.

He had been raised Muslim in Lebanon but converted to Christianity in his 20s.

He now lived in Canada, married with children, attending a church and leading a normal life.

He described experiencing Jesus in a powerful way, encountering his love and forgiveness, and finding peace he’d never known as a Muslim.

His story resonated with me because it was so similar to my own struggle.

The same questions, the same doubts, the same searching.

But he had found answers.

He had found peace.

I wanted what he had.

But wanting it and accepting it were two very different things.

The crisis came one night during Ramadan.

It was the 27th night.

one of the odd nights when Leilat al-qader, the night of power, was most likely to occur.

This was supposed to be the holiest night of the year worth more than a thousand months of worship.

I had gone to the mosque for taraw week prayers, the long evening prayers during Ramadan where the entire Quran is recited over the course of the month.

The mosque was packed.

Men standing shouldertosh shoulder in prayer.

The recitation of the Quran was beautiful.

The Imam’s voice rising and falling in the melodic tones of proper Tajid.

But I felt nothing.

I went through the motions, standing, bowing, prostrating, sitting.

I mouthed the words of prayer, but my heart was elsewhere.

I looked around at the hundreds of men praying with such devotion, such certainty, such faith.

I felt like a fraud.

After the prayers ended, most people stayed for additional voluntary prayers and dua, asking Allah for blessings on this blessed night.

I stayed too, not wanting to seem less devout than everyone else.

I prostrated in prayer, my forehead pressed to the carpet.

And I tried to pray.

I tried to feel something.

I tried to connect with Allah the way I had when I was younger.

When faith had seemed simple and certain, but there was only silence, only emptiness.

I whispered in Arabic, my lips moving against the carpet.

If you’re real, if you’re truly the most merciful, show me the truth.

I don’t care what it costs me.

Just show me what’s real.

It was a dangerous prayer.

I think part of me already knew what the answer would be.

I left the mosque earlier than usual, claiming I wasn’t feeling well.

I drove home slowly through the Jedha streets, seeing families gathered for ifar, the breaking of the fast.

Normal life, happy people, people who weren’t being torn apart by doubts and questions.

At home, everyone was asleep.

I went to my small home office and sat in the darkness for a long time.

Then I did something I had been avoiding.

I opened my encrypted Bible app and navigated to the book of Romans.

Yousef had told me to read it.

He said it explained salvation clearly.

I began reading chapter 3 and I came to verses 23 and 24.

For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.

And all are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.

All have sinned.

That was true.

I knew my own heart, my own failures.

But all are justified freely by his grace.

Justified meant declared righteous, made right with God, and it was free by grace through Christ Jesus.

I kept reading Romans 5:8.

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this.

While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

While we were still sinners, not after we cleaned ourselves up, not after we earned it.

While we were still sinners, Christ died.

I read chapter 8.

There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

No condemnation.

Not maybe or if you’re good enough.

Just no condemnation for those in Christ.

I came to verses 38 and 39 and I had to stop and read them multiple times.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, and neither height nor depth nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing could separate believers from God’s love.

Nothing.

No sin, no failure, no doubt, no weakness, nothing.

This was the assurance I had been searching for my entire life.

This was the certainty that Islam had never given me.

This was peace.

I sat in my dark office, my phone glowing, tears running down my face, and I felt something breaking open inside me.

What if this was true? What if Jesus really was who he claimed to be? What if salvation really was this simple belief, grace, faith rather than works? What if I had been wrong about everything? The thought was terrifying, but it was also somehow liberating.

I didn’t convert that night.

I wasn’t ready.

The cost was too high.

Is the implications too enormous? But something had shifted.

The question was no longer if Christianity might be true.

The question was, what was I going to do about it? I sat in the darkness for hours, wrestling with God, wrestling with myself, wrestling with the truth that was pushing its way into my heart despite all my resistance.

And I prayed again, this time with more urgency, more desperation.

Show me the truth.

Whatever it is, whoever you are, just show me.

I didn’t know it yet, but that prayer was about to be answered in a way I never could have imagined.

The answer came on a night I will never forget as long as I live.

It was 3 months after Ramadan.

I had continued my secret study of the Bible, my private correspondence with Yousef, my internal wrestling with questions that wouldn’t leave me alone.

On the outside, I was still the faithful shake.

On the inside, I was coming apart.

The guilt was crushing.

Every sermon I preached, I felt like a hypocrite.

Every time I taught young people about Islamic doctrine, I heard a voice in my head asking, “Do you even believe this anymore?” Every prayer I led at the mosque, I wondered if I was living a lie.

I couldn’t keep going like this.

Something had to break.

Either I needed to find a way back to confident Islamic faith or I needed to.

I couldn’t even let myself finish the thought.

That particular night was a Tuesday.

Nothing special about it.

I had led Maghreb and Isa prayers at the mosque, come home.

I had dinner with my family.

My wife had gone to bed.

My children were asleep.

The house was quiet.

I felt restless, anxious.

I went to my prayer room, a small room in our house reserved for salah with prayer rugs and a shelf holding my Quran and other Islamic books.

I decided to pray taj the voluntary night prayer.

I performed ablution, washed my hands and face and feet according to the ritual.

I stood on the prayer rug facing Mecca and began to pray.

But my heart wasn’t in it.

I was going through motions that had become mechanical, reciting Arabic words that no longer touched my soul.

I felt like I was performing for an audience that wasn’t watching.

After finishing the formal prayers, I stayed on the rug.

I prostrated my forehead to the ground and I began to cry.

I cried out in Arabic, no longer following any ritual formula.

Allah, I’m lost.

I don’t know what’s true anymore.

I’ve served you my whole life, but I have no peace.

I don’t know if you’re pleased with me.

I don’t know if paradise is waiting for me or if all my efforts have been worthless.

I need to know the truth.

Please show me what’s real.

I was exhausted physically from fasting that day, emotionally from months of internal turmoil.

Still prostrated on the prayer rug, I felt myself becoming drowsy.

I tried to fight it, tried to stay awake, but my body had other plans.

I fell into sleep right there on the prayer rug, still in the position of sujud, still facing toward Mecca.

And then the vision came.

I don’t know what to call it.

A dream, a vision, a supernatural encounter.

All I know is that it was more real than anything I had ever experienced.

I found myself standing in darkness.

Total darkness.

Not the darkness of night, but the absence of light, like being blind or like existing in a void.

I felt afraid, disoriented.

I didn’t know where I was or how I had gotten there.

I called out, “Is anyone there?” My voice echoed strangely, as if the darkness itself was swallowing the sound.

Then I heard a voice behind me.

It spoke in Arabic, gentle but clear, “You are searching.

What is it you seek?” I turned toward the voice, but saw nothing.

I answered, “I seek truth.

I seek peace.

I seek to know if I’m accepted.

if I’m loved, if I have any hope of salvation.

The voice came again.

And where have you been looking? I felt shame wash over me.

I had been looking in the Quran, in hadith, in Islamic scholarship.

But I had also been looking in places forbidden to me.

I had been reading the Bible.

I had been questioning Islam.

I had been considering the impossible.

I couldn’t make myself speak the answer.

Then slowly light began to appear.

It wasn’t like a sunrise or someone turning on a lamp.

It was more like the darkness itself was dissolving, being pushed back by the presence of something, someone approaching.

The light grew brighter, but not harsh.

It was warm, gentle, welcoming.

And in the light, I could see a figure walking toward me.

He was dressed in white.

His face was kind, full of compassion.

There were scars on his hands, marks that looked like wounds.

I somehow knew immediately who this was, though it seemed impossible.

This was Issa.

This was Jesus.

I fell to my knees, overwhelmed.

My Islamic training was screaming at me.

This is a test.

This is Shayan deceiving you.

Don’t listen.

But I felt no evil from this presence.

I felt only love.

Overwhelming unconditional pure love such as I had never felt in my entire life.

Jesus spoke and his voice was the same voice I had heard in the darkness.

You are searching for me.

You have been searching for me your whole life.

I couldn’t speak.

Tears were streaming down my face.

Some part of my mind was insisting this couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening.

But my heart knew.

My heart recognized him.

He continued, “You’ve been carrying a burden that was never meant to be yours.

You’ve been trying to earn what I offer freely.

You’ve been climbing a mountain to reach heaven when I have already built the bridge.

He extended his hands toward me and I saw the wounds clearly.

Puncture marks in his palms, scars on his wrists, the crucifixion wounds, the marks of his sacrifice.

In Islam, I had been taught that Jesus never died on the cross.

The Quran says someone else was made to look like him.

That Allah wouldn’t allow his prophet to be crucified.

But here was Jesus showing me the proof of his death.

He spoke again and his words cut through every argument, every theological objection, every doubt.

I died for you, not for your good deeds, not for your prayers or your fasting or your charity, for you, for your sins, for your shame, for your guilt.

I paid the price so you wouldn’t have to.

I broke down completely.

I sobbed like a child.

All the pain and fear and uncertainty of my entire life pouring out.

I had tried so hard to be good enough, to be righteous enough, to earn Allah’s favor.

And here was Jesus telling me I didn’t have to earn it.

He had already done what needed to be done.

I managed to choke out words.

I’m not worthy.

I’m a sinner.

I’ve done things.

I’ve failed so many times.

Jesus knelt down in front of me, his face level with mine.

The love in his eyes was beyond anything I can describe.

He said, “I know every sin you’ve ever committed.

I know every failure, every moment of weakness, every dark thought, and I died for all of it.

Your sins are already forgiven.

All you have to do is accept it.

Accept me.

Something inside me.

Something that had been clenched tight my whole life finally let go.

It was like a damn breaking.

Like chains falling off.

Like taking the first breath after being underwater too long.

I said, “I accept.

I believe you are Lord.

You are God.

Forgive me.

Save me.

” And Jesus smiled.

the most beautiful smile I have ever seen.

He placed his hand on my head and I felt warmth spread through my entire body.

He said, “Welcome home, my son.

Your name is written in the book of life.

Nothing can separate you from my love.

Nothing.

” Then he quoted words I had read in the Bible.

Words that now made perfect sense.

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

Rest.

That’s what I felt after 32 years of striving, of uncertainty, of fear.

I felt rest, peace, assurance.

I was saved.

Not because I had earned it, but because Jesus had done it for me.

The light began to fade.

Or perhaps I was waking up.

The last thing I heard was Jesus saying, “Follow me.

I will be with you always, even to the end of the age.

” I woke up on my prayer rug with tears soaking into the carpet beneath me.

My body was shaking.

I sat up quickly, looking around the prayer room as if Jesus might still be there physically.

The room was ordinary, just my prayer rugs, my Quran shelf, the bare walls.

But everything had changed, everything.

I looked at my hands, half expecting to see something different, some physical mark of what had just happened.

But I looked the same.

The change was inside.

I stood up on trembling legs and looked at the clock.

It was 4:30 in the morning, just before fajger, the dawn prayer.

I had only been asleep for maybe an hour.

But in that hour, my entire life had been transformed.

I walked to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

I looked exhausted, my eyes red from crying.

But there was something else in my expression.

A lightness, a piece I had never seen there before.

What just happened? Was that real? Even as I asked the question, I knew the answer.

It was real, more real than anything else in my life had ever been.

I had encountered Jesus, the son of God, my savior.

I had become a Christian.

The thought was so enormous, so impossible, so terrifying that I couldn’t fully process it.

A Christian, me, a shake, a man who had defended Islam for decades, a man whose entire identity, career, family, community was built on being Muslim.

What had I done? But beneath the terror was something else.

Joy, deep, overwhelming joy and peace.

a certainty about my salvation that I had searched for my entire life and never found in Islam.

I was saved.

Not might be saved if I was good enough.

Not hoping to be saved if Allah chose to show mercy.

I was saved.

Jesus had paid the price.

My sins were forgiven.

My name was written in the book of life and nothing could separate me from God’s love.

I went back to the prayer room and sat down, my mind racing.

The call to fajger began echoing from nearby mosques, the familiar sound that had woken me every morning of my life.

In a few minutes, I would need to leave for the mosque to lead the prayer.

But how could I? How could I stand before a congregation of Muslims and lead them in prayer to Allah when I now believed in Jesus as Lord and Savior? The answer was I couldn’t.

Not with a clear conscience, not with integrity.

But what was the alternative? Announce my conversion? That was suicide.

Literally, I sat frozen, torn between two impossible choices.

Finally, I did what I had to do.

I got dressed, put on my tobe and shim and went to the mosque.

I led fajger prayer mechanically, my mouth saying the Arabic words while my heart was somewhere else entirely.

Afterward, I made an excuse about not feeling well, and left quickly.

I drove home, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white.

I was a Christian, a follower of Jesus Christ in one of the most dangerous places on earth to be a Christian.

What happened next would be the most difficult period of my life.

But that morning, driving through the empty streets of Jedha as the sun rose over the Red Sea, I felt something I had never felt before.

I felt free.

The next few weeks were surreal.

I was living a double life and the strain was enormous.

During the day I continued my role as shake.

I led prayers, taught classes, counseledled community members.

I tried to act normal to be the person everyone expected me to be.

But inside everything had changed.

I couldn’t pray to Allah anymore.

Not sincerely.

I tried in those first few days.

I stood in the mosque going through the motions of salah.

But my heart wasn’t speaking to Allah.

My heart was speaking to Jesus, to the father, asking for guidance, for protection, for wisdom about what to do next.

I couldn’t teach Islamic doctrine with confidence anymore.

When I was explaining a theological point or answering a question about Islamic practice, I heard Christian alternatives in my head.

The gospel contradicted so much of what I was teaching.

Several times I nearly gave myself away.

Once during a teaching session, I was explaining Islamic sotiology, the doctrine of salvation, and I started to say something about grace before catching myself.

Another time, I was about to refer to God as father in front of a group of students.

My wife noticed something was different.

She would ask if I was feeling all right, if I was stressed about something.

I would make excuses, work pressure, community issues, not sleeping well.

But at night, alone, I would read my Bible voraciously.

Now that I was a believer, the scriptures came alive in a way they never had before.

I understood what Christians meant when they said the Bible was God’s living word.

Every passage spoke to me, taught me, encouraged me.

I devoured the Gospels, reading Jesus words over and over.

I read the epistles, Paul’s letters explaining salvation, grace, life in Christ.

I read the Psalms, and found prayers that expressed what my heart was feeling better than I could express it myself.

I was being discipled by scripture and by continued conversations with Yousef through encrypted messaging.

He was amazed and thrilled by my testimony about the vision.

He told me such encounters were rare but not unheard of.

Jesus often revealed himself to Muslims in dreams and visions because they couldn’t encounter him any other way.

Yousef became my lifeline.

He answered my questions about Christianity, helped me understand basic theology, taught me how to pray, explained what it meant to live as a follower of Christ.

He also warned me repeatedly, “You’re in danger.

You can’t stay there much longer.

You need to start making plans to leave Saudi Arabia.

” I knew he was right.

But leaving meant abandoning my family, my children, my career, my entire life.

How could I do that yet? How could I stay? Every day I remained was another day of living a lie, of public hypocrisy.

More than that, every day was another day I could be discovered.

And discovery would mean death.

I made a decision that I knew was important, even necessary, despite the risk.

I needed to be baptized.

According to Jesus’ command in Matthew chapter 28, believers were to be baptized in the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit.

Baptism was the public declaration of faith, the symbolic death and resurrection with Christ, the entrance into the Christian community.

But how could I be baptized in Saudi Arabia? There were no churches, no pastors, no legal way to do this.

Yousef connected me with an underground Christian network.

I learned that there were secret believers in Saudi Arabia, both foreigners and a small number of Saudi converts.

They met in homes in complete secrecy, sometimes just two or three people gathering to pray and study the Bible.

Through these connections, I was invited to a house meeting.

I was given an address in a different part of Jedha, told to arrive after dark, to park a few streets away, to be careful I wasn’t followed.

I told my wife I had a late meeting with another shake to discuss mosque business.

Then I drove across the city, my heart pounding, constantly checking my mirrors to make sure I wasn’t being tailed by religious police.

The house was ordinaryl looking from the outside, indistinguishable from any other in the neighborhood.

I knocked on the door with a specific pattern I had been told to use.

The door opened slightly.

A face peered out at me.

Then it opened wider to let me in before closing quickly behind me.

Inside were eight people.

Three were western expatriots working in Saudi Arabia.

Five were Arabs, four from other countries, and one I would learn who was Saudi like me.

We greeted each other carefully.

I was wearing my th and Shema, and I could see the surprise and caution in their eyes.

A shake at their secret Christian meeting.

Was this a trap? But when I began to speak, when I shared my testimony about the vision of Jesus, when I showed them my Bible app and explained my journey from Islam, their caution turned to joy.

They welcomed me as a brother.

Several embraced me, tears in their eyes.

The meeting was simple.

We sang Christian songs in hushed voices, careful not to be too loud.

We prayed together.

Not the formal ritualistic prayers of Islam, but spontaneous heartfelt prayers.

People prayed for each other, for wisdom, are for protection, for opportunities to share the gospel.

Then we studied the Bible together, reading through passages in the book of Acts about the early church.

The parallels to our own situation were obvious.

The early Christians had also gathered in secret, also faced persecution, also risk their lives to follow Jesus.

At the end of the meeting, the host, a Filipino man who had been living in Jedha for 10 years, asked if anyone needed prayer for anything specific.

I spoke up.

I want to be baptized.

Silence fell over the group.

Then the Filipino man smiled.

He said, “Let’s do it right now.

” They didn’t have a baptismal pool or even a bathtub big enough, but they had a shower.

One of the Saudi brothers, the only other Saudi convert in the room, said he would baptize me.

We went to the bathroom.

I removed my th and stood in the shower in my underclo.

The other Saudi brother, whose name I’ll call Khaled, turned on the water.

The rest of the group crowded into the doorway witnessing this baptism.

Khaled asked me, “Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, that he died for your sins and rose again, and do you accept him as your Lord and Savior?” I said, “I do believe Jesus is my Lord and my Savior.

Khaled said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

” He poured water over my head.

The water ran down my face and body and I felt symbolically like I was washing away my old life, my old identity, my old religion.

I was dying to my former self and rising as a new creation in Christ.

When I stepped out of the shower, dripping wet, everyone was crying and smiling.

They embraced me.

He welcomed me into the family of God.

For the first time since my encounter with Jesus, I felt like I wasn’t alone.

I was part of something bigger than myself.

The body of Christ, the church, the worldwide community of believers.

That night was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

I left that house feeling more alive, more at peace, more certain of my identity in Christ than I had ever felt as a Muslim.

But I also left knowing that time was running out.

I couldn’t maintain this double life much longer.

Something had to give.

Over the next two months, I tried to figure out a way forward.

Could I continue as a shake while secretly being Christian? Could I gradually influence people toward Jesus while pretending to be Muslim? Yousef and my new Christian friends told me this wasn’t viable.

Living a lie wasn’t honoring to God.

the more practically I would inevitably be discovered and the longer I waited, the more people I would hurt when the truth came out.

I needed to leave Saudi Arabia.

But how and when? Leaving wasn’t simple.

As a Saudi citizen, I couldn’t just claim refugee status somewhere.

I would need to get out of the country first, then apply for asylum.

This meant careful planning.

Yousef connected me with organizations that helped persecuted Christians escape dangerous countries.

They advised me on the process, the timing, the documentation I would need.

The plan they suggested was this.

I should arrange to travel for Umrah, the minor pilgrimage to Mecca, or for some other legitimate religious reason.

Once I was already traveling, it would be easier to divert to another country, Jordan or Egypt perhaps, and from there apply for asylum in a western country.

I began making preparations, setting aside money from my mosque salary, getting my documents in order, but I kept delaying.

I kept finding reasons to wait a little longer.

The truth is, I was terrified of leaving, terrified of losing my children, terrified of starting over in a foreign country with nothing, terrified of breaking my parents’ hearts, terrified of the consequences for my reputation, my legacy, everything I had built.

But I was also terrified of staying, of being discovered, of what would happen to me and possibly to my family.

if my conversion became known.

I was trapped between two terrifying futures, unable to choose, paralyzed by fear.

Then the decision was made for me.

One evening about 3 months after my encounter with Jesus, I made a careless mistake.

I was reading my Bible on my phone, sitting in the living room while my wife was in the kitchen.

My teenage son came into the room unexpectedly and I didn’t have time to switch to another app.

He saw the screen.

He asked, “Is that a Bible?” My heart stopped.

I tried to laugh it off, saying I was doing research for a debate with Christians online, but I could see the suspicion in his eyes.

Over the next few days, he must have told his mother what he saw.

My wife began questioning me more insistently.

Was something wrong? Was I having doubts about Islam? Was I being influenced by my online debates with Christians? I denied everything, but I could feel the walls closing in.

Then my son, curious or concerned, or perhaps looking to prove his suspicion, I checked my computer while I was at the mosque.

He found my browsing history, the Christian websites, the testimony videos, the downloaded articles about Christianity.

When I came home that evening, the atmosphere was different.

My wife’s eyes were red from crying.

My older children looked frightened.

My wife confronted me.

She told me what our son had found.

She asked me directly, “Have you left Islam?” I looked at my family, my wife of 15 years, my three children, the people I loved most in the world.

I thought about lying, about making excuses, about trying to cover my tracks.

But I was so tired of lying, so tired of pretending.

And I remembered Jesus’ words.

Whoever denies me before men, I will deny before my father in heaven.

I took a breath and told the truth.

I believe Issa al-Masi is Lord.

I believe he is the son of God.

I believe he died for my sins and rose again.

I am a follower of Jesus Christ.

The silence that followed felt like it lasted forever.

Then my wife began to wail, a sound of grief and horror.

My children looked at me with confusion and fear.

My wife began shouting, “How could you? How could you betray Islam, betray our family? You’ve ruined us.

You’ve disgraced us.

” She grabbed our children and took them to their rooms, slamming doors.

I stood alone in the living room, shaking, realizing I had just set in motion events I couldn’t stop.

Within an hour, my wife had called my father and brothers.

Within 2 hours, they were at our house.

My confession had become public, and my life, as I knew it, was over.

The next 72 hours were a nightmare I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

My father arrived at our house first with his face a mask of shock and grief.

He didn’t speak to me initially.

He went straight to my wife asking her if it was true, if I had really said what she claimed I had said.

When she confirmed it, when she showed him the evidence my son had found on my computer, my father sat down heavily on the sofa as if his legs could no longer support him.

He aged 10 years in that moment.

The strong, confident Islamic scholar suddenly looked like a frail old man.

My brothers came next.

Three of them, all Islamic teachers themselves, all carrying on the family tradition.

They burst into the house, not with grief, but with rage.

The eldest Ahmed grabbed me by my th and shoved me against the wall.

He spoke through clenched teeth.

Tell me this is a misunderstanding.

Tell me you’re doing research.

Tell me anything except that you’ve become a cfair or an apostate.

But I couldn’t lie anymore.

I had crossed the line.

There was no going back.

I said quietly, “I believe in Jesus Christ.

He is Lord.

He is the son of God.

” Ahmed slapped me hard across the face.

The blow snapped my head to the side.

My father shouted at him to stop.

that violence wouldn’t help.

But I could see the same fury in all their eyes.

My brothers began shouting at me all at once, calling me a traitor, a disgrace, a fool.

They demanded to know how this had happened.

Had Christians paid me? Had I been brainwashed? How could someone with my education, my knowledge of Islam make such a stupid decision? I tried to explain about my doubts, about searching for certainty, about encountering Jesus in a vision, but they wouldn’t listen.

To them, this was either insanity or demonic possession or western influence corrupting me.

My mother arrived last, brought by one of my sisters.

When she saw me, she began wailing and beating her chest in the traditional expression of grief.

She cried out, “My son is dead.

My son has died.

I have lost him.

To her, I was dead.

In Islamic culture, apostasy is treated like death.

I was being mourned as if I had actually died because in their eyes, the son they knew no longer existed.

My family essentially placed me under house arrest.

They confiscated my phone, my computer, my car keys.

They stationed my brothers outside the house in shifts to make sure I didn’t leave.

They wouldn’t allow me to go to the mosque, wouldn’t allow me to interact with anyone outside the family.

I was a prisoner in my own home.

The next day, my father arranged for other shakes to come talk to me, prominent scholars, respected imams, men I had studied under years ago.

They came in groups sitting in our majis surrounding me presenting arguments designed to bring me back to Islam.

They ask questions about my doubts about what had led me astray.

When I mention my questions about salvation, they explain the standard Islamic answers.

Allah’s mercy, the importance of good deeds, the need to trust in his wisdom.

When I mentioned Jesus’ unique titles in the Quran, they explained that these were honorific but didn’t make Jesus divine.

He was still just a prophet.

When I talked about my vision of Jesus, they told me it was Shayan deceiving me.

Satan could appear in any form except that of Muhammad.

My vision was a spiritual attack meant to lead me away from truth.

They quoted Quranic verses about the consequences of apostasy.

They reminded me of hadith where Muhammad said, “Whoever changes his religion, kill him.

” They weren’t explicitly threatening me.

Not yet.

But the implication was clear.

They brought books, printed articles, videos of Islamic scholars refuting Christianity.

They showed me testimonies of people who had left Islam but returned.

They argued.

They pleaded.

They tried every angle.

I sat through these sessions in silence mostly.

Not arguing back, not defending Christianity.

What was the point? They weren’t there to have an honest dialogue.

They were there to force me to recant.

One elderly shake who had been my teacher years ago spoke to me more gently than the others.

He told me he understood I was going through a crisis of faith that many Muslims experienced doubts at some point.

He said this was a test from Allah that Satan was attacking me precisely because I was such an effective defender of Islam.

He urged me to just say the shahada again to recite the Islamic declaration of faith.

Just say the words, he pleaded.

Even if you don’t feel the certainty right now, say the words, Allah will restore your faith in time.

His approach was kinder, but the message was the same.

Come back to Islam.

Deny Christ.

Save yourself.

I thought about Jesus words.

Whoever denies me before men, I will deny before my father in heaven.

I couldn’t do it.

Even to save my life, even to restore my family relationships, I couldn’t deny the one who had saved me, the one who had loved me enough to die for me.

So I remained silent, which everyone interpreted as stubbornness.

On the third day, the tone changed from persuasion to threats.

My uncle, who was a prominent shake with connections to the religious establishment, came to speak with my father privately.

I wasn’t in the room, but I could hear their voices through the wall.

They were discussing what to do with me.

My uncle’s voice was harsh.

If he doesn’t recant, we have no choice.

We must report him to the authorities.

Apostasy is a crime against Islam and against the state.

The committee for the promotion of virtue and the prevention of vice needs to be informed.

My father’s voice was pained.

He’s my son.

You’re talking about my son’s life.

My uncle responded.

He’s not your son anymore.

He’s a mertad, an apostate.

He’s betrayed Allah, the prophet, and his family.

Would you rather have the whole family’s reputation destroyed? Would you rather have people say we sheltered an apostate? Later that evening, two of my brothers pulled me aside.

The younger one, Khaled, had always been closest to me growing up.

He spoke quietly.

Brother, you need to understand how serious this is.

If you don’t recant, father won’t be able to protect you.

Uncle Hamza wants to involve the Mutawin.

You know what that means? I knew exactly what it meant.

The Mutawin, the religious police, had authority to arrest people for religious crimes.

If they took me, I would be interrogated, possibly tortured.

certainly tried under Sharia law for apostasy.

The penalty was death.

Khaled continued, “Even if father manages to keep the mutawin out of it, there are others in the family in the community who believe it’s their duty to to handle this to protect the family honor.

” Do you understand what I’m saying? He was warning me about honor killing.

He was telling me that members of my own family might decide to kill me themselves rather than let me live as an apostate and bring shame on the family name.

I asked him directly, “Are you one of those people? Would you kill me?” He looked away, tears in his eyes.

He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

My other brother, Ahmed, was less conflicted.

He spoke with cold certainty.

You have until tomorrow evening.

Either recant and return to Islam or we hand you over to the authorities.

Those are your only options.

Think about your children.

Think about your wife.

She’ll divorce you.

She has to divorce an apostate.

Your children will grow up with the shame of having an apostate father.

Is that really what you want? The mention of my children broke my heart.

I had barely seen them since my confession.

My wife was keeping them away from me and telling them their father had gone crazy, had been deceived by Satan.

My youngest daughter, only 8 years old, was told I was sick and needed to be away from them for a while.

The idea that I might never see them again, that they would grow up believing I had betrayed them, was almost unbearable.

That night, alone in the guest room where I was essentially imprisoned, I prayed desperately.

I prayed to Jesus, asking for wisdom, for strength, for a way out.

I thought about giving in.

I thought about saying the shahada, pretending to return to Islam, playing the long game.

I could fake Islamic faith publicly while remaining Christian privately.

People did this in persecuted areas.

They were called crypto-christians, secret believers.

But even as I considered it, I knew it was wrong.

Living a lie wasn’t faithful to Christ.

And more practically, I would be monitored constantly now.

Any slip up, any indication I was still Christian, and the consequences would be even worse.

I thought about my vision of Jesus, about his love, about the peace and assurance I had found in him.

Was that worth dying for? Was Jesus worth losing everything? The answer I realized was yes.

Absolutely yes.

Jesus had given up heaven, taken on human flesh, suffered, and died on a Roman cross for me.

Could I not give up my comfortable life for him? Could I not be willing to lose everything for the one who had given me everything? But I didn’t want to die.

I wanted to live.

I wanted to grow in my faith.

I wanted to serve Christ.

I wanted someday, somehow to see my children again and tell them about Jesus.

That meant I had to escape.

The next morning, while my brothers were downstairs arguing with my father about what to do with me, I managed to get to the window of the guest room.

I was on the second floor, but there was a ledge and beyond it a neighbor’s wall I might be able to reach.

But before I could seriously consider climbing out the window, my youngest brother, Khaled, entered the room.

He closed the door behind him and spoke quickly in a whisper.

I can’t watch them kill you.

I disagree with your choice, but you’re still my brother.

He handed me my phone, which he had retrieved from where my father had locked it away.

He also gave me some cash, my wallet with my ID and passport and keys to his car.

He continued speaking quickly.

In 2 hours, I’m going to tell them I need to go to the mosque for door prayer.

I’ll leave my car parked three streets over behind the abandoned building on Alraa Street.

If you can get out, take the car, drive to the airport, get on any international flight you can.

Umrah, business trip, anything.

Just get out of Saudi Arabia.

I was stunned.

Why are you helping me? He looked conflicted, pained.

Because I don’t want your blood on my hands.

Because part of me wonders if you actually found something real.

And I’m terrified of being on the wrong side of truth.

And because despite everything, I love you.

Before I could respond, he left the room quickly.

This was my chance, possibly my only chance.

For the next 2 hours, I waited in agony, listening to the sounds of my family downstairs, praying that Khaled’s plan would work.

Finally, I heard him leave, saying he was going to the mosque.

My father was resting.

My brothers Ahmed and Hassan were in the kitchen.

My wife was with the children in another part of the house.

The guest room door wasn’t locked.

They hadn’t thought I would try to leave.

And where would I go anyway? I opened the door quietly, crept down the stairs, and slipped out the front door before anyone noticed.

I walked quickly, but tried not to run.

Running would attract attention.

I found Khaled’s car where he said it would be.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition.

I drove toward the airport, my heart pounding, expecting any moment to see my brothers behind me or worse, to be pulled over by police.

But nothing happened.

The traffic was normal.

The city looked ordinary.

And somehow, impossibly, I was free.

At King Abdulaziz International Airport, I stood in line at the ticket counter, trying to look calm while my mind raced.

Where should I go? What should I say? I saw that there was a flight to Cairo leaving in 3 hours.

Egypt was close, large enough to get lost in, and from there I could figure out next steps.

I bought a one-way ticket, telling the agent I had sudden business there.

She didn’t question it.

Saudi men traveled frequently for business and religious purposes.

Going through security was terrifying.

Every time a security officer looked at me, I thought, “This is it.

They know my family has reported me.

I’m going to be arrested right here.

” But no one stopped me.

My passport was scanned.

My bag was checked, and I was waved through.

I sat in the departure lounge, trying to blend in, trying not to look like a man fleeing for his life.

I kept my phone off.

I didn’t want my family tracking me or calling me.

I couldn’t risk the guilt or manipulation that would come if I heard my father’s voice or my wife’s tears.

The boarding call came.

I walked onto the plane.

I found my seat.

The door closed.

The plane began to taxi.

And then we were lifting off, climbing into the air.

And I watched through the window as Jedha, my hometown, the city where I was born and raised, the place that held everyone and everything I had ever loved, grew smaller and smaller beneath me.

I was leaving behind my family, my children, my career, my reputation, my entire identity.

I was leaving behind the only life I had ever known.

But I was carrying with me something I had never had before.

Salvation, peace, and certainty that I belonged to Christ.

As the plane climbed above the clouds and Saudi Arabia disappeared from view, I closed my eyes and prayed, “Jesus, I don’t know what comes next.

I don’t know where this will lead, but I’m yours.

Guide me.

Protect me.

Use me.

” And beneath the fear and grief and uncertainty, I felt that familiar peace.

The peace that Jesus had given me.

The peace that the world cannot give.

The peace that passes all understanding.

I was free.

Not just physically free from Saudi Arabia, but spiritually free in Christ.

Whatever came next, I was ready to face it because I wasn’t facing it alone.

The plane touched down in Cairo just before midnight.

I walked through the airport in a days, my legs weak, my mind struggling to process what had just happened.

I had escaped.

I was out of Saudi Arabia.

I was alive.

But what now? I had some cash, a credit card that would work for maybe a few days before my family blocked it and the clothes on my back.

I had no plan.

In no contacts in Egypt, nowhere to stay.

I found a small hotel near the airport, paid cash for a room for one night, and collapsed on the bed.

Only then did I turn on my phone.

It exploded with notifications.

Dozens of missed calls from my family, angry text messages, voice messages ranging from my father’s please to come home to my uncle’s threats about what would happen if I didn’t return.

There was also a message from my wife saying she had filed for divorce, that she was telling the children I had abandoned them, that I was never to contact them again.

Reading her words, seeing the finality of it broke something inside me.

I had known this was coming, but knowing it and experiencing it are very different things.

I would never again tuck my children into bed, never watch them grow up, never be there for their graduations or weddings or important moments.

they would be raised to hate me, to see me as a traitor and disgrace.

I wept harder than I had ever wept in my life.

The price of following Jesus was far higher than I had imagined.

But even through the grief, I knew I had made the right choice.

Jesus was worth it.

Salvation was worth it.

Truth was worth it.

The next morning, I contacted Yousef through an encrypted messaging app.

He responded immediately, thanking God that I was safe.

He connected me with a Christian ministry in Cairo that helped religious refugees.

Within a few hours, I was sitting in a small office with a Coptic Christian man named Michael who worked with this organization.

He had heard hundreds of stories like mine.

Muslims who converted to Christianity and fled persecution.

A Michael explained the process.

I would need to register with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, tell them my story, and apply for refugee status.

If approved, I could then be resettled to a western country that accepted religious refugees.

But the process would take time, months, possibly years.

In the meantime, I would live in Cairo in legal limbo, unable to work officially, dependent on charity from churches and refugee organizations.

Michael helped me find a cheap apartment in a workingclass neighborhood of Cairo.

It was tiny, just one room with a small bathroom, but it was safe and affordable.

He connected me with a church that provided financial support for refugees and a community of other believers who had fled persecution.

For the first time in months, I could breathe.

I wasn’t looking over my shoulder constantly.

I wasn’t living a lie.

I was free to be a Christian openly.

The UNHCR interview process was intense.

I had to prove that I was genuinely at risk if I returned to Saudi Arabia.

They needed documentation, evidence of my conversion, proof of threats.

I showed them the messages from my family threatening me.

I showed them my baptism photos from the secret house church meeting.

I explained Saudi Arabia’s apostasy laws, the potential death penalty, the honor killing culture.

The interviewer, a woman from Europe, listened carefully and took detailed notes.

She told me that Saudi converts to Christianity were generally considered high priority cases because the danger was real and well documented.

After three interviews over several months, I was granted official refugee status.

Now I just had to wait for a country to accept me for resettlement.

The waiting was difficult.

Cairo was hot, crowded, chaotic.

I didn’t speak Egyptian Arabic well.

The dialect was different from what I was used to.

I had no income except small monthly stipens from the church and refugee organizations.

I lived in poverty, something I had never experienced before.

But I was also growing spiritually in ways I never had as a Muslim.

I attended church every week, often multiple times a week.

I was being discipled by a pastor who had himself converted from Islam years earlier.

I was reading the Bible systematically, studying theology, learning what it meant to live as a Christian.

I also connected with other Saudi converts.

There were a handful in Cairo, all in similar situations.

We became like family, understanding each other’s pain and joy in ways no one else could.

One of these men in a former Imam named Omar became my close friend.

We would spend hours talking about our journeys, about the cost of following Christ, about our hopes and fears for the future.

Omar asked me once, “Do you regret it? Would you go back if you could?” I thought about my children, about my lost life, about everything I had given up.

Then I thought about Jesus, about the peace I now had, about the certainty of my salvation, about the love of God I had discovered.

I answered honestly, I regret the pain I’ve caused others.

I grieve what I’ve lost, but I don’t regret knowing Jesus.

I would make the same choice again.

After eight months in Cairo, I received news.

Canada had approved my application for resettlement.

I would be relocated to a city I had barely heard of, starting a completely new life in a completely foreign culture.

The day I left Cairo, the small community of believers I had come to know gathered to pray over me and send me off.

We sang hymns together.

We cried together.

We thanked God together for his faithfulness.

On the flight to Canada, I reflected on how much had changed in less than a year.

A year ago, I was a respected shake in Jedha, living a comfortable life, confident in my religious knowledge.

Now, I was a refugee with nothing, flying to a foreign country, starting from zero.

But I had Jesus.

I had peace.

I had salvation.

I had purpose.

The plane landed in a Canadian city in mid-inter.

I stepped off the plane into cold I had never experienced.

Negative temperatures, snow on the ground, a landscape completely unlike the desert I had known all my life.

A representative from the refugee resettlement agency met me at the airport with a warm coat, gloves, and a hat.

She smiled and welcomed me to Canada in English.

I barely understood her.

My English was limited to what I had learned online.

She drove me to a small apartment that had been prepared for me.

It was furnished simply but had everything I needed.

A bed, a kitchen, a bathroom.

It was mine.

A place where I could be Christian openly, where I wouldn’t be arrested or killed for my faith.

That first night, alone in my new apartment in this new country, I stood at the window looking at the snow falling outside and I prayed, “Thank you, Jesus.

Thank you for saving me.

Thank you for bringing me here.

Show me what you want me to do with this new life you’ve given me.

The first year in Canada was extremely difficult.

Learning English was hard, especially at my age.

I was in my late 30s, having to learn a new language from scratch like a child.

The culture shock was overwhelming.

Everything was different.

the weather, the food, the social customs, the way people interacted.

I felt lost and isolated much of the time.

I received government assistance for the first year, help with rent, a small living allowance, access to English classes.

I was grateful, but also humbled.

I had gone from being a respected professional to being dependent on charity and government support.

But the local church community embraced me.

They helped me navigate practical challenges like opening a bank account, using public transportation, shopping for groceries.

They invited me to their homes, included me in their gatherings, treated me like family.

Slowly, very slowly, here I began to adjust.

My English improved.

I learned to dress for the cult.

I discovered Tim Hortons and hockey and Canadian politeness.

I also began to heal emotionally being in a safe environment, not living in constant fear, being able to worship Christ freely.

These things allowed the trauma of my escape to gradually process.

I started therapy with a counselor who specialized in helping refugees.

I hadn’t realized how much trauma I was carrying.

Not just from the escape, but from years of spiritual abuse in Islam, from the guilt and shame that had defined my Islamic faith, from the loss of my children.

The counselor helped me understand that grief and joy could coexist.

I could be grateful for my salvation and my new life while still grieving what I had lost.

Both were valid.

Both were real.

About 2 years after arriving in Canada, I felt God calling me to ministry.

Not as a professional pastor.

I didn’t have the education or credentials for that.

But as someone who could share the gospel with Muslims, particularly Arabic speakaking Muslims, I started volunteering at my church’s outreach to Middle Eastern refugees.

Many were coming to Canada, fleeing war and persecution.

Most were Muslim, but some were curious about Christianity, and a few were secret believers like I had been.

I began sharing my testimony with them, explaining how I went from being a shake to following Christ.

Some were hostile, some were curious, some were openly searching.

Over the next few years, I had the privilege of leading several Muslims to Christ.

Each time someone prayed to accept Jesus as Lord and Savior, I felt overwhelming joy.

These were my spiritual children, the family God was giving me to replace the biological family I had lost.

I also started an online ministry creating content in Arabic about Christianity.

I shared my testimony on YouTube and other platforms using a pseudonym and disguising my face for safety.

The videos reached thousands of Arabic speakers around the world, including in Saudi Arabia.

I received messages from Muslims with questions about Jesus, from secret believers who felt alone and needed encouragement, from people going through the same journey I had gone through.

This became my purpose, my calling.

God had allowed me to go through everything I had gone through.

the doubts, the search, the encounter with Jesus, the persecution, the exile so that I could help others find the same truth and freedom I had found.

It’s been 7 years now since I left Saudi Arabia.

A 7 years since I last saw my children.

They’re teenagers now, almost adults.

I have no contact with them.

My ex-wife ensured that completely.

But I pray for them every day.

I pray that somehow someway they’ll encounter Jesus like I did.

I pray that the seeds of faith might somehow be planted in their hearts.

I pray that in eternity we’ll be reunited.

I live simply here in Canada.

I have a small apartment, a part-time job that pays the bills, and a ministry that consumes most of my free time.

I’m not wealthy.

I’ll never have the material comfort I once had.

But I have something far more valuable.

I have peace with God.

I have certainty of salvation.

I have purpose.

I have joy.

The Christian life hasn’t been easy.

I still face challenges, still struggle with doubts sometimes, still wrestle with loneliness and grief.

Following Jesus doesn’t mean life becomes perfect.

Jesus himself promised we would face trials and persecution.

But he also promised he would never leave us or forsake us.

And that promise has proven true every single day of my life since I first encountered him on that prayer rug in Jedha.

People sometimes ask me if it was worth it, worth losing my family, my career, my country, my entire former life.

They ask if I regret converting to Christianity if the cost was too high.

My answer is always the same.

Jesus is worth everything.

knowing him, being known by him, having the assurance of salvation, experiencing his love.

These things are worth any cost.

In Islam, I served Allah for over 30 years, and I never had peace.

I never had certainty.

I was constantly striving, constantly uncertain, constantly afraid I wasn’t doing enough, that I wasn’t good enough.

But in Christ, I have rest.

Not because I’ve earned it, but because Jesus earned it for me.

My salvation doesn’t depend on my performance.

It depends on his finished work on the cross.

That truth has transformed everything.

I think about Jesus’ words in Matthew chapter 16 26.

What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world yet forfeit their soul? I lost my world, my career, my reputation, my family, my country.

But I gained my soul.

I gained eternal life.

I gained Christ.

That’s not a bad trade.

I want to speak directly to three groups of people who might hear my story.

First, to my fellow Muslims who are reading or watching this.

I know what you’re feeling.

If you’re questioning, if you’re searching, if you’re not satisfied with Islam, I’ve been where you are.

I understand the fear, the guilt, the sense that even asking questions is betraying your family and community.

But I want you to know Jesus loves you.

He died for you.

He’s seeking you right now.

Even as you read these words, the gospel message is simple.

You are a sinner.

You cannot save yourself through good deeds or religious practice.

But God loves you so much that he sent his son Jesus to pay the penalty for your sins.

Jesus died on the cross and rose from the dead, defeating sin and death.

If you believe in him, if you accept his sacrifice, you are saved.

Not maybe saved, not possibly saved, saved, eternally secure.

Your name written in the book of life.

You don’t have to wonder if your good deeds will outweigh your bad.

You don’t have to fear the day of judgment.

You don’t have to carry the crushing burden of trying to earn salvation.

Jesus offers it freely.

Grace, unmmerited favor, unconditional love.

I’m not going to lie to you.

Following Jesus will cost you something.

It may cost you everything, but he is worth it.

I promise you, he is worth it.

Second, to my Christian brothers and sisters, please don’t take your freedom for granted.

You can worship openly.

Read your Bible without fear.

Share your faith without risking death.

These are privileges millions of Christians around the world don’t have.

And please remember us, Christians in Muslim countries, secret believers, converts from Islam who are risking everything.

We need your prayers.

We need your support.

We need you to advocate for religious freedom.

When you hear about persecution of Christians, don’t just scroll past.

Pray, give, speak up.

We’re your family in Christ and we need you.

Also, please reach out to Muslims with love, not with arrogance or hatred.

Muslims are not your enemies.

They’re people Jesus died for.

People he pursuing.

People who need the gospel just like everyone else.

Many Muslims are searching, questioning, hungry for truth.

be ready to share Jesus with them with gentleness and respect.

And third, to my own children, if you ever see this, I love you.

I never wanted to leave you.

I never wanted to hurt you.

I’m sorry for the pain my decision caused you, but I couldn’t deny Jesus.

I couldn’t reject the one who saved me.

I couldn’t live a lie even to stay with you.

I pray for you every day.

I pray that God protects you, guides you, and that someday you’ll understand why I made the choice I made.

And I pray that you’ll encounter Jesus like I did.

That you’ll experience his love, that you’ll find the peace and certainty I found in him.

I hope that one day, if not in this life, then in eternity, we’ll be together again.

And when that day comes, I’ll be able to explain everything face to face.

Until then, know that your father loves you and is proud of you, even from far away.

I’m sitting here in my apartment in Canada.

As I finish this testimony, it’s evening and snow is falling outside my window again.

I can hear traffic in the street below, the sounds of a neighborhood going about its normal evening routines.

My life is ordinary now.

I work.

I attend church.

I serve in ministry.

I have friendships with other believers.

I’m just another immigrant, another member of the congregation, another person trying to follow Jesus day by day.

But my story is extraordinary because God is extraordinary.

Because Jesus is extraordinary.

I never would have imagined during my years as a shake in Jedha that my life would take this path.

I never would have imagined encountering Jesus in a vision.

I never would have imagined having the courage to leave everything and follow him.

But God knew.

God had a plan.

God was pursuing me even when I thought I was pursuing him through Islam.

And the same God who pursued me is pursuing you right now.

Whether you’re Muslim or Hindu or Buddhist or atheist or agnostic or anything else, if you’re searching for truth, for peace, for meaning, for salvation, Jesus is the answer.

Not a religion, not a set of rules, not an impossible standard to meet, but a person, a savior, God in human flesh who came to rescue us, who died in our place, who rose victorious over death.

So, and who offers eternal life as a free gift to anyone who believes.

That’s the good news.

That’s the gospel.

That’s what I found and what transformed my life completely.

My name is not important.

Many of you know me only by a pseudonym for security reasons.

Some of you may have seen my face, others haven’t.

But my identity doesn’t matter.

What matters is Jesus.

For 32 years, I built my identity on being a Muslim, a shake, an Islamic scholar.

When I lost that identity, when I left Islam, I felt like I had lost myself.

But I discovered that my true identity was never in my religion or my role or my reputation.

My true identity is in Christ.

I am a child of God, adopted into his family, loved with an everlasting love, secured by his grace.

That identity can never be taken from me.

Not by persecution, not by exile, not by loss, not even by death.

Because Christ lives, I will live.

And nothing can separate me from his love.

This is my testimony.

This is my story.

From darkness to light, from Islam to Christ, from death to life.

To God alone be the glory forever and ever.

Amen.