My name is Princess Amara Al-Rashid.

I was 24 years old on September 8th, 2019 when my life changed forever.

I was living in five different palaces shared between five powerful Saudi princes as their collective wife.

That night, I planned to end my suffering permanently.

Instead, Jesus Christ saved my soul.

I was born the third daughter to Prince Khaled al-Rashid, a minor member of the Saudi royal family.

From my earliest memories, I lived surrounded by unimaginable wealth, yet trapped behind golden bars.

Our palace had marble floors imported from Italy, crystal chandeliers worth more than most people’s homes, and servants who attended to my every need.

But I had no freedom, no voice, no choice in anything that mattered.

From birth, I was told my value came from my ability to strengthen family alliances.

My father would look at me and see political opportunity, not a daughter with hopes and dreams.

I was educated by private tutors who taught me languages, mathematics, and literature.

But I was never allowed outside the palace walls unsupervised.

Every lesson was designed to make me more valuable as a bargaining chip in the royal marriage market.

When I was 16, my mother died suddenly from an illness the doctors couldn’t explain.

She had been my only advocate in the family, the only person who saw me as more than a commodity.

I remember holding her hand as she whispered her final words to me.

She said she was sorry she couldn’t protect me from what was coming.

I didn’t understand what she meant then, but her death left me completely alone in a world of men who viewed women as property to be traded.

For 3 years after my mother’s death, I lived in relative peace, thinking perhaps my father had forgotten about arranging my marriage.

I spent my days reading books in our vast library, learning about the outside world I would never see.

I dreamed of traveling, of choosing my own path, of falling in love with someone who saw me as an equal.

These were foolish dreams, but they kept me sane during those lonely years.

On my 19th birthday, everything changed.

I was summoned to my father’s private chamber, a room I rarely entered.

I remember the marble floors felt cold under my feet as I walked to my fate.

The room smelled of expensive incense and my father’s cologne, scents that would forever remind me of that devastating day.

He sat behind his massive desk, paper spread before him.

Discussing my future as if I weren’t standing right there.

My father announced the arrangement he had been negotiating for months.

I would enter a shared marriage with five princes from different influential families.

Each man represented a different sphere of power within Saudi society.

This wasn’t just a marriage.

It was a political strategy designed to unite five powerful clans under the al-Rashid influence.

I would be the human contract binding these alliances together.

Ask yourself this question.

How would you feel learning you’re not a person but a political tool? The room began spinning as I processed what my father was telling me.

I wasn’t going to marry one man who might grow to love me.

I was going to be shared among five men, like a piece of property divided among business partners.

My father explained it as an honor, a way to serve our family and strengthen our position in the kingdom.

To me, it felt like a death sentence.

The five princes had already agreed to the arrangement.

Prince Fod brought military connections that would protect our family’s interests.

Prince Sultan controlled significant portions of the oil industry.

Prince Bandar had deep ties to the religious establishment.

Prince Nasser owned banking empires that could finance our ambitions.

Prince Mansour had international business connections that would expand our influence globally.

Together, they offered everything my father needed to elevate our family’s status.

The wedding ceremony was elaborate beyond description.

Islamic traditions were followed to the letter, but with the strange modification of five grooms instead of one.

I wore a dress that cost more than most people earn in their lifetime, covered in diamonds and pearls that felt like chains around my neck.

Each prince stood beside me during different portions of the ceremony, taking turns claiming me as their wife.

I felt like a prize being divided among victors of some cruel game.

The hundreds of guests celebrated this union as a masterpiece of political strategy.

They praised my father for his brilliant negotiation and congratulated the five princes on their shared acquisition.

No one asked how I felt.

No one seemed to care that I was a human being with my own desires and dreams.

The contracts were signed with great ceremony, legal documents that bound me to rotate between five different households for the rest of my life.

The schedule was predetermined and inflexible.

Monday and Tuesday belonged to Prince Fad.

Wednesday and Thursday were Prince Sultan’s days.

Friday and Saturday I would spend with Prince Bandar.

Sunday was reserved for Prince Nasser.

On alternating weeks, I would spend extended time with Prince Mansour.

Each prince received equal time with their shared wife, but I received no time that belonged to me alone.

There was no day in the week when I could simply be myself.

No moment when I wasn’t performing the role of wife to one of these five men.

I was passed between them like a borrowed book, expected to adapt instantly to each man’s preferences and demands.

The wedding night was the beginning of my nightmare.

I won’t share the intimate details, but I will tell you that being intimate with someone you don’t love, someone who sees you as property rather than a person, kill something inside your soul.

That night, I began to die emotionally, piece by piece.

The girl who had once dreamed of love and freedom was being systematically destroyed by this arrangement that everyone else celebrated as a triumph.

As the celebration finally ended and I prepared for my new life, I realized my childhood was officially over.

I was now the shared wife of five powerful men bound by Islamic law and family honor to fulfill this role until death.

I had no idea that exactly 5 years later on September 8th, 2019, Jesus Christ would shatter these chains and set me free forever.

The rotation system became my personal hell on earth.

Every Sunday evening, servants would pack my belongings and transport me to whichever palace I was scheduled to visit next.

I never had a place to truly call home because I was always a guest in someone else’s house.

Each household had different rules, different expectations, and different ways of reminding me that I was property rather than family.

Prince Fod ran his palace like a military compound.

He had served as a general in the Saudi army and treated everyone, including me, like soldiers under his command.

I was expected to wake at 5:00 in the morning, maintain perfect posture at all times, and follow strict schedules for meals, prayers, and activities.

His staff watched my every move, and reported any deviation from protocol.

Conversations were formal and brief.

Affection was seen as weakness.

I lived in constant fear of disappointing him because his punishments were swift and harsh.

Wednesday and Thursday brought different torture with Prince Sultan.

He was obsessed with image and appearance, constantly criticizing everything about how I looked, spoke, or carried myself.

His palace walls were covered with mirrors, and he would make me stand before them while he pointed out my flaws.

My hair wasn’t styled correctly.

My makeup wasn’t perfect.

My posture needed improvement.

I spent hours each day with beauty specialists trying to meet his impossible standards.

Nothing I did was ever good enough for his refined tastes.

Prince Bandar represented the worst of religious extremism.

As a prominent figure in the Islamic establishment, he forced me through lengthy prayer sessions and Quran memorization that lasted for hours.

I was required to cover completely in his presence, even indoors with family.

He monitored every word I spoke to ensure it aligned with his interpretation of Islamic doctrine.

Books were forbidden except religious texts.

Music was banned.

Laughter was discouraged as frivolous.

His palace felt like a tomb where joy went to die.

Sunday nights with Prince Nasser were coldly transactional.

He treated our marriage like a business deal that required regular performance reviews.

He would critique my behavior from the previous week as if I were an employee rather than his wife.

conversations centered around profit margins, investment returns, and market strategies.

He showed more affection toward his financial portfolios than he ever showed me.

I felt like a commodity he had purchased rather than a woman he had married.

Prince Mansour was the most dangerous because of his unpredictable, violent temper.

He would be charming one moment and explosive the next.

I learned to read the subtle signs of his changing moods, but I was never fast enough to avoid his anger completely.

He never struck me directly, but he would throw objects, scream until his voice was horsearo, and destroy furniture when displeased.

His household staff lived in constant terror, and I soon joined them in that fear.

My first escape attempt came when I was 20 years old.

During the annual Hajj pilgrimage, our family traveled to Mecca with thousands of other Muslims.

I thought the chaos and crowds would provide perfect cover for disappearing.

I had saved small amounts of jewelry over months, planning to sell them for travel money.

During the ritual circling of the Cabba, I broke away from our group and tried to reach the airport in Jedha.

I was caught before I even reached the terminal.

Palace security had been watching me more closely than I realized.

They dragged me back to face my father and husbands who were furious at my betrayal.

For 3 months, I was confined to a single room with no books, no visitors, and minimal food.

Guards were posted outside my door around the clock.

The isolation nearly drove me insane, but it also strengthened my resolve to try again.

My second escape attempt was more sophisticated.

I reached out to a distant cousin who lived in America, begging her to help me leave Saudi Arabia.

We communicated through encrypted messages for weeks, planning every detail of my escape route.

She promised to wire money and arrange safe passage once I reached a neutral country.

I thought I had found my salvation through family connections.

I was betrayed by a servant I had trusted completely.

She had been with our family for years, and I thought her loyalty to me was genuine.

Instead, she reported our communications to my father, who used the evidence to justify even tighter security measures.

The betrayal hurt worse than the failed escape, because it proved that no one in my world could be trusted completely.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, have you ever felt completely trapped? Have you experienced the suffocating weight of knowing that every door you try is locked? Every person you trust might betray you.

Every hope you nurture might be crushed.

That was my reality.

Every single day for 5 years, I was surrounded by luxury that millions of people would envy.

But I would have traded it all for one day of genuine freedom.

The psychological damage was devastating.

I began turning to Islamic mysticism and extreme religious devotion, thinking perhaps Allah would intervene if I proved my faithfulness.

I would fast for days at a time until I was weak and dizzy.

I memorized entire chapters of the Quran, hoping that religious knowledge would somehow earn me divine rescue.

I prayed five times a day with desperate intensity, begging for relief from my circumstances.

Instead of peace, my religious efforts only brought more emptiness.

The God I was worshiping felt distant and uncaring about my suffering.

Islamic teachings told me to accept my fate as Allah’s will to find contentment in submission to my circumstances.

But every fiber of my being rebelled against this message.

I knew in my heart that the God who created me hadn’t intended for me to live as shared property among five men.

My physical health began deteriorating from the constant stress and depression.

I lost weight rapidly and had trouble sleeping.

Headaches became a daily occurrence.

My menstrual cycle became irregular from the emotional trauma.

Palace doctors prescribed medications, but they couldn’t treat the real source of my illness, which was a broken spirit trapped in an impossible situation.

I was dying from the inside out, surrounded by unimaginable luxury, but starved of the basic human dignity that every person deserves.

Suicidal thoughts began creeping into my mind as the only escape I could imagine.

By September 2019, these thoughts had become plans.

I was ready to choose death over continuing to live as property shared among five men who had never learned to see me as fully human.

That night when I discovered I was pregnant, unable to identify which of my five husbands was the father, I finally reached my breaking point.

The shame and horror of bringing a child into this arrangement was more than I could bear, I made the decision to end my life before the pregnancy progressed.

Seeing death as my only escape from this living nightmare.

September 8th, 2019 was supposed to be my last night on earth.

I was alone in Prince Sultan’s Palace guest quarters, having finished what I believed would be my final dinner.

The room was decorated with expensive silk tapestries and golden fixtures, but it felt like a tomb to me.

I had spent the day writing what I thought were my final prayers to Allah, asking forgiveness for what I was about to do.

Every word felt hollow as I wrote it because deep down I knew Allah had never truly heard my cries for help.

I had planned everything carefully over the previous weeks.

I knew exactly how I would end my suffering and I had gathered everything I needed.

The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was surrounded by enough wealth to feed thousands of families.

Yet I felt so worthless that death seemed like my only option.

My hands shook as I prepared to take the final steps, not from fear of dying, but from the complete spiritual emptiness that had consumed my soul.

The moment I reached for the means of ending my life, something extraordinary happened.

The air in the room suddenly changed, becoming thick with a presence I had never experienced before.

It wasn’t the oppressive feeling I knew from my five husbands or the cold authority of my father.

This presence carried overwhelming power, yet it felt completely safe.

The atmosphere itself seemed to vibrate with an energy that made my heart pound, but not from fear.

A brilliant light began filling the room, but unlike any light I had ever seen.

It didn’t hurt my eyes to look directly at it, even though it was brighter than the desert sun at noon.

The light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, penetrating every shadow and corner.

Within this radiance, I began to see the outline of a figure, someone who was both fully human and yet clearly divine.

As the figure became clearer, I saw a man with kind eyes and nail scarred hands.

I had never studied Christianity, but somehow I knew immediately that this was Jesus Christ.

There was no doubt in my mind, no questioning of his identity.

His presence carried an authority that made every earthly power I had known seemed like child’s play.

Yet, his face showed such tenderness that I felt completely safe for the first time in my adult life.

Jesus spoke to me in perfect Arabic, his voice carrying tones I had never heard in any human conversation.

He said, “Habibi,” which means, “My beloved,” in Arabic, “I have been waiting for you.

” His voice was unlike anything I had ever experienced, combining absolute authority with pure tenderness.

Every word resonated in my chest as if he were speaking directly to my heart rather than just my ears.

He continued speaking, revealing knowledge of my suffering that no human could possess.

I know every tear you have shed, he said.

I have seen every moment of pain.

Every night you cried yourself to sleep.

Every time you felt forgotten and alone.

You were never alone.

Beloved daughter, I was always there waiting for this moment when you would be ready to hear my voice.

Then Jesus said something that shattered every lie I had believed about myself.

You were never meant to be shared among men.

He declared, “You are my bride, chosen, and beloved.

The men who claim to own you have no authority over your true identity.

You belong to me, and I have come to set you free.

” The supernatural peace that filled my being was indescribable.

Imagine carrying a,000 lb weight on your shoulders for years.

Then having it completely removed in a single instant.

The despair that had been crushing my spirit lifted away like morning fog disappearing in sunlight.

For the first time since my wedding day 5 years earlier, I could breathe freely.

Jesus began explaining his love for me as an individual, not as part of a political arrangement or family alliance.

He told me that my name in heaven wasn’t Princess Amara, the shared wife of five men.

He called me by a name I had never heard before, beloved daughter, spoken with such affection that tears began streaming down my face.

This name carried more worth and dignity than any royal title ever could.

He showed me his crucifixion wounds, the scars on his hands and feet where nails had pierced his flesh.

This is how much I love you.

He said, “I endured this pain so that you could be free from every chain that binds you.

Your freedom cost me everything, but it was worth it because you are worth it.

In that moment, I understood the gospel message with perfect clarity, even though I had never heard it explained before.

Jesus had died to pay the penalty for human sin, including mine.

He had risen from the dead to offer eternal life and freedom to anyone who would accept his gift.

The God I had been seeking through Islamic devotion had been reaching toward me through his son all along.

Ask yourself this question.

When did you last experience perfect peace? Not the temporary calm that comes from solving a problem or achieving a goal, but the deep unshakable peace that comes from knowing you are completely loved and accepted exactly as you are.

That was what filled my heart as Jesus spoke to me that night.

I fell to my knees, not from religious obligation, but from overwhelming gratitude.

The words poured out of my heart.

Jesus, I give you my life, my death, my everything.

I don’t understand how this is possible, but I know you are real and you love me.

Please save me from this life of bondage.

As I prayed, I felt physical sensations of chains breaking off my heart and mind.

The spiritual oppression that had weighed me down for years was being lifted away by divine power.

The suicidal despair that had driven me to plan my death was replaced by supernatural joy that bubbled up from deep within my spirit.

I was the same person in the same room with the same impossible circumstances.

But everything had changed because Jesus had entered my story.

In that sacred moment, I knew that Islam had never brought me the peace I desperately needed.

But Jesus was offering true freedom.

Not just freedom from my five husbands, but freedom from the spiritual darkness that had convinced me I was worthless.

I was no longer Princess Amara, the shared wife.

I was a beloved daughter of the King of Kings, and my real life was just beginning.

When I woke the next morning, everything looked different.

The same golden walls surrounded me.

The same silk curtains hung from the windows, but I was seeing them through completely new eyes.

The presence of Jesus from the night before hadn’t left me.

I could still feel his peace in my heart, still hear his voice calling me, beloved daughter.

For the first time in 5 years, I woke up with hope instead of dread.

I was scheduled to be with Prince Sultan for two more days, but my mind was consumed with questions about what had happened to me.

I had encountered Jesus Christ, but I knew nothing about Christianity.

In Saudi Arabia, converting to any religion other than Islam was punishable by death.

So, I had never been exposed to gospel teaching.

I needed to learn more, but I had to be extremely careful about how I searched for information.

That afternoon, while pretending to listen to music on my smartphone, I began scanning through radio frequencies.

Deep in the AM band, I discovered a faint signal broadcasting in Arabic.

It was a Christian radio station transmitting from somewhere outside Saudi Arabia.

I had to hold the phone close to my ear and strain to hear through the static, but I was hearing gospel music for the first time in my life.

The song spoke of freedom, redemption, and God’s love in ways that Islamic worship never had.

The radio program featured testimonies from other Muslim converts who had found Jesus.

Hearing their stories was like finding water in the desert.

These people described the same emptiness I had felt in Islam.

The same desperate search for meaning.

The same supernatural encounter with Christ that had transformed everything.

I wasn’t crazy and I wasn’t alone.

Jesus was calling Muslims all over the Middle East to himself.

I began secretly researching Christianity online using private browsing modes and clearing my search history immediately afterward.

Even though a palace internet was monitored, I was desperate to understand what had happened to me.

I read about Jesus’s teachings, his miracles, his death and resurrection.

Everything I discovered confirmed what my heart already knew.

This was the truth I had been searching for my entire life without knowing it.

The more I learned about Christianity, the more I understood how different it was from Islam.

In Islam, I had spent years trying to earn Allah’s approval through prayers, fasting, and good works.

But I never felt accepted or loved.

Christianity taught that Jesus had already done everything necessary for my salvation.

His love wasn’t conditional on my performance.

I was accepted completely based on his sacrifice, not my efforts.

Within a week of my encounter with Jesus, I began receiving dreams and visions that provided specific guidance.

I would see detailed images of escape routes from the palace, timing instructions for when guards would be distracted, and faces of people who would help me.

Jesus was showing me things I could never have known on my own.

The supernatural guidance was so precise that I knew it had to be from God.

One vision showed me a Filipino woman who worked as a maid in Prince Bander’s household.

I had seen her before, but never paid much attention.

In the dream, Jesus showed me that she was a secret Christian who could be trusted.

When I arrived at Prince Bandar’s palace the following Friday, I watched her carefully and noticed she would briefly touch a small cross pendant hidden beneath her uniform when she thought no one was looking.

I took a tremendous risk by approaching her during my mandatory prayer time.

While Prince Bandar was occupied with business calls, I whispered to her in English, “I need to talk to you about Jesus.

” Her eyes widened in shock and fear, but she also saw something in my expression that convinced her I was genuine.

She nodded slightly and whispered back, “Tonight, servants’s bathroom after midnight.

” That conversation changed everything.

Maria, the Filipino maid, had been a secret Christian for 15 years, part of an underground network that helped persecuted believers throughout the Middle East.

She had been praying for an opportunity to share the gospel with someone in the royal family, never imagining it would be one of the wives.

When I told her about my encounter with Jesus, she wept with joy and immediately began discipling me.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, have you ever seen God use the most unexpected people to help you? Maria became God’s instrument to teach me the basics of Christianity through whispered Bible studies in hidden corners of the palace.

She would slip me handwritten scripture verses that I memorized quickly and then destroyed.

She taught me simple prayers and helped me understand what it meant to follow Jesus in a hostile environment.

The Christian underground network in Saudi Arabia was more extensive than I had imagined.

Through coded conversations and secret signals, Maria connected me with other believers who could help plan my escape.

There were Christian migrant workers from the Philippines, Indonesia, and India who had formed a quiet but effective support system for converts like me.

They understood the deadly risks involved and had helped other Muslims flee the country safely.

Learning about Jesus was like discovering a hidden treasure that had been waiting for me my entire life.

I was like a person dying of thirst who suddenly found an endless spring of pure water.

Every Bible verse I memorized brought deeper understanding of God’s love.

Every prayer connected me more closely to my heavenly father.

Every day of secret study convinced me that Jesus was worth any sacrifice required to follow him.

Maria arranged for me to be secretly baptized in a palace bathroom during one of my stays with Prince Bandar, a Filipino pastor who worked as a driver, performed the ceremony using a large basin normally used for washing floors.

As I went under that water, I felt my old identity washing away completely.

I was no longer just Princess Amara, shared property of five men.

I was a new creation in Christ, born again as a daughter of the King of Kings.

The baptism was both beautiful and terrifying.

Beautiful because it represented my public declaration of faith in Jesus.

Terrifying because I knew it meant there was no turning back.

If my conversion was discovered, it would mean certain death.

But the peace and joy I felt emerging from that water was worth every risk.

I had finally found my true identity and my true home in Christ.

Over the following months, I gradually transferred small amounts of jewelry and valuable items to Christian contacts who converted them to cash for my eventual escape.

Every transaction required perfect timing and absolute secrecy.

The underground network provided detailed instructions about creating false documentation and establishing safe passage routes through multiple countries.

The most remarkable aspect of this entire process was how God orchestrated every detail supernaturally.

Security cameras mysteriously malfunctioned at crucial moments when I needed to meet with Christian contacts.

Guards were consistently called away on urgent business during my most vulnerable activities.

Family members who normally watched me closely became distracted by other crises that demanded their attention.

Every obstacle that should have stopped me was removed by divine intervention.

I felt like the Israelites walking through the Red Sea with walls of water held back by God’s power.

The same Jesus who had appeared to me that desperate night was now actively working to set me free from physical bondage just as he had freed me from spiritual darkness.

December 14th, 2019 arrived as the divinely appointed night of my escape.

For weeks, I had been receiving specific instructions through dreams and visions about the exact timing and method of my departure.

Jesus had shown me that this particular date would provide the perfect combination of circumstances for my freedom.

It was during Ramadan when palace routines were altered for evening prayers and late night meals, creating unusual patterns that would work in my favor.

I was scheduled to be at Prince Mansour’s palace that weekend, which was actually ideal because his security was the most relaxed due to his overconfidence.

He believed his violent reputation made escape attempts unthinkable.

The irony was perfect.

The man who had terrorized me the most would unknowingly provide the easiest exit from my prison.

I spent the day in normal activities, careful not to display any nervous energy that might arouse suspicion.

I attended afternoon prayers, ate dinner with Prince Mansour’s household, and participated in evening conversations as if nothing extraordinary was planned.

Inside, my heart was pounding with anticipation.

But I had learned to hide my emotions perfectly after 5 years of survival in this system.

As midnight approached, I changed into servants clothing that Maria had smuggled to me weeks earlier.

I wrapped myself in a simple black abaya that would make me invisible among the palace staff.

Looking in the mirror one last time, I whispered a prayer of gratitude to Jesus for bringing me to this moment.

I was walking out of my old life carrying nothing but my faith in Christ and the clothes on my back.

The series of miraculous events that followed could only be explained by divine intervention.

As I walked through the palace corridors toward the service exit, every security camera I passed was mysteriously dark.

The electrical system had developed selective malfunctions that perfectly aligned with my escape route.

Guard stations that were normally occupied stood empty because the men had been called away on urgent business that materialized from nowhere.

I walked out of Prince Mansour’s palace wearing servants clothing, my heart beating so loudly I was certain everyone could hear it.

The guards at the main gate didn’t even look up as I passed through with other domestic workers finishing their evening shifts.

After 5 years of being watched constantly, I was suddenly invisible.

I knew this was Jesus protecting me just as he had protected his disciples when they needed to escape dangerous situations.

The predetermined contact point was a small mosque three blocks from the palace where Maria’s cousin worked as a night janitor.

He was waiting with a delivery truck that would transport me to the first safe house.

As I climbed into the back of the truck among boxes of cleaning supplies, I felt every mile carrying me away from Saudi Arabia like chains breaking off my soul.

The physical distance from my captivity represented spiritual freedom that grew stronger with every passing moment.

The journey to freedom required crossing multiple borders using documentation that the Christian underground network had prepared over several months.

The attention to detail was extraordinary.

They had created a complete false identity with supporting documents that could withstand official scrutiny.

Every checkpoint we passed through successfully was another answered prayer, another confirmation that God was orchestrating my rescue.

During the long hours hidden in vehicles crossing desert highways, I prayed constantly and felt Jesus’s presence surrounding me like a protective shield.

Whenever border guards approached for inspections, I would silently recite Bible verses that Maria had taught me.

The peace that filled my heart during those dangerous moments was supernatural.

Any fear I felt was immediately replaced by confidence that my heavenly father was in complete control.

We reached the safe house in Jordan after 36 hours of travel.

When I finally stepped out of the truck and breathed free air for the first time in my adult life, I collapsed to my knees in overwhelming gratitude and wept.

For the first time in my life, I was in a place where I could pray to Jesus openly without fear of death.

The relief was so intense that my entire body shook as years of suppressed emotions poured out.

The immediate consequences of my escape were swift and severe.

Within 48 hours, my family discovered I was missing and launched a massive search operation.

Palace security had discovered the servants clothing I left behind and realized this was a planned escape rather than a kidnapping.

My father’s rage was legendary throughout the royal circles, and my five husbands were equally furious at losing their shared investment.

Official death threats were issued through Islamic religious authorities declaring me an apostate who deserved execution according to Sharia law.

I became a dead woman to my family in the most literal sense.

They actually held a funeral for me telling everyone that Princess Amara had died of sudden illness.

This allowed them to save face while simultaneously declaring their intention to kill me if I was ever found.

An international manhunt was launched with substantial financial rewards offered for information leading to my capture.

My five husbands used their extensive business networks to search for me across multiple countries.

Extremist Islamic groups put a price on my head, viewing my conversion to Christianity as an insult to Islam itself that required violent response.

Despite these threats, I experienced the most profound peace of my life during my first weeks of freedom in Jordan.

The Christian refugee community there welcomed me with open arms, providing safety, encouragement, and continued education in biblical truth.

I attended my first church service in a small assembly of Arabic-speaking believers, mostly other refugees who had fled Islamic persecution.

Hearing 300 people singing Amazing Grace in Arabic broke something open in my heart that had been frozen for years.

The corporate worship experience was overwhelming because for the first time in my life, I was surrounded by people who were freely expressing love for the same Jesus who had rescued me.

Their voices joined together created a sound of praise that seemed to reach directly into heaven.

Bible study with refugee Christian women from various Middle Eastern countries became the foundation of my spiritual growth.

These women understood exactly what I had experienced because they had walked similar paths of conversion and persecution.

We studied scripture together, prayed for our families who had rejected us, and encouraged each other with testimonies of God’s faithfulness during the darkest moments.

I began sharing my testimony with other Muslim women who were questioning their faith.

And I discovered that God had rescued me not just for my own freedom, but to help free others.

The same Jesus who had appeared to me in that palace bedroom was working throughout the Islamic world, calling people to himself through dreams, visions, and miraculous encounters.

My story became a tool in his hands to reach other hearts that were ready to hear truth.

Learning to live free required tremendous adjustments that I hadn’t anticipated.

Freedom in Christ doesn’t mean freedom from consequences or healing processes.

I needed extensive trauma counseling to address the psychological damage from years of abuse and control.

Simple decisions that most people take for granted, like choosing what to wear or where to go, felt overwhelming because I had never been allowed to make personal choices.

The nightmares about recapture continued for months, but they gradually decreased as I learned to rest in God’s protection and sovereignty.

Each morning that I woke up free was a gift from Jesus Christ.

And I began each day with prayers of thanksgiving for his rescue.

The healing process was slow and sometimes painful, but it was also beautiful because I was being restored to the person God had always intended me to be.

Two years after my escape, God brought the most unexpected blessing into my life through a Christian missionary named Michael who served Muslim refugees in Jordan.

He had dedicated his life to helping people like me who had fled Islamic persecution.

And his heart for the lost was evident in everything he did.

When we first met at a refugee support meeting, I was struck by how he looked at me with complete respect and dignity, seeing me as a whole person rather than damaged goods.

Our relationship developed slowly because I needed time to heal from the trauma of being shared among five men who had never loved me.

Michael was patient, gentle, and never pressured me for anything beyond friendship.

He understood that my ability to trust had been severely damaged, and he was willing to earn that trust through consistent kindness and genuine care for my well-being.

When he proposed marriage after 18 months of courtship, I knew I had found the godly man Jesus intended for me.

I went from being shared by five men to being cherished by one godly man who saw me as his equal partner in life and ministry.

Our wedding was a simple ceremony surrounded by other refugee believers who had become our spiritual family.

As I spoke my vows to Michael, I remembered Jesus’s words about me being his bride.

And I understood that earthly marriage was meant to reflect the love relationship between Christ and his church.

This was what God had always intended for me.

Our first child was born exactly three years after my escape and we named her Grace because she represented God’s unmmerited favor in our lives.

Holding my daughter for the first time, I realized this is what God intended for families.

Children born in love, raised in freedom, cherished as gifts from heaven rather than viewed as political assets.

Grace would never know the fear and bondage that had defined my childhood because she was growing up in the liberty that comes from knowing Jesus.

The ministry work that emerged from my testimony began organically as other Muslim women heard my story and reached out for help.

I discovered that my experience, while extreme in its circumstances, represented the spiritual hunger that millions of Muslim women carried in their hearts.

They were searching for the same freedom, dignity, and unconditional love that I had found in Christ.

God was using my testimony to reach hearts that had been prepared by his spirit.

We established a network of secret safe houses for Muslim women who were converting to Christianity and needed escape routes from honor violence and persecution.

Using my knowledge of royal connections and palace security systems, I could help plan rescues that seemed impossible to others, the same insider information that had once trapped me was now being used to liberate other women from similar bondage.

I used my royal connections and knowledge to help others find the same freedom that Jesus gave me.

Former palace guards who had secretly converted to Christianity became allies in rescue operations.

Servants who had witnessed my transformation spread the gospel quietly throughout royal households.

Even some family members who had initially supported my arranged marriage began questioning Islamic teachings when they saw the supernatural peace that characterized my new life.

The underground network expanded to include Christian workers who had been trained to minister effectively to Muslims.

We developed strategies for sharing the gospel in ways that addressed the specific spiritual needs and cultural concerns of Islamic communities.

The approach required tremendous wisdom because we were working with people whose conversion to Christianity could result in death sentences.

Training programs emerged for Christian workers who wanted to serve in Muslim majority countries.

I would teach them about Islamic culture, family dynamics, and the spiritual strongholds that kept Muslims in bondage.

Understanding the enemy’s tactics was essential for effective ministry.

These workers needed to know how to present the gospel in ways that would resonate with Muslim hearts while avoiding unnecessary cultural barriers.

Speaking at international conferences became a regular part of my ministry as word spread about God’s miraculous rescue of a Saudi princess.

Churches and mission organizations wanted to hear firsthand accounts of how Jesus was moving in the Islamic world.

Every testimony I shared was an opportunity to educate Christians about the spiritual hunger that exists throughout Muslim communities and encourage them to pray and give toward reaching these forgotten people.

The cost of following Christ was enormous, but the rewards were infinitely greater than anything I had sacrificed.

I lost complete contact with my birth family and the enormous wealth that had defined my childhood.

Living under constant security threats meant we moved frequently and maintained careful anonymity to protect our safety.

The price on my head from extremist groups never disappeared.

And we lived with a reality that discovery could mean death.

But I lost earthly riches and gained eternal treasures that can never be stolen or destroyed.

The peace that fills my heart each morning is worth more than all the gold and jewels I left behind in those Saudi palaces.

The joy of knowing Jesus personally far exceeds any pleasure that wealth could provide.

The freedom to make my own choices, to love my husband genuinely, to raise my children in truth.

These blessings are priceless.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself honestly, what would you give up for true freedom? Would you trade temporary comfort for eternal significance? Would you surrender earthly security for the adventure of following Christ wherever he leads? The same Jesus who performed a miracle in my life wants to transform your circumstances as well, regardless of what holds you captive.

You may not be trapped in a Saudi palace, but we are all enslaved by something.

Some people are bound by addiction, others by fear, still others by materialism or pride or bitterness.

Whatever chains bind your heart, Jesus has the power to break them completely.

The same God who rescued me from five husbands can rescue you from whatever prevents you from experiencing his love.

Don’t wait for a miraculous vision like I experienced.

His love letter to you is already written in the Bible waiting for you to read and believe.

Every promise he made to me is available to you as well.

Every blessing I received through faith can be yours through surrender to his lordship.

The gospel message is universal because human need is universal.

I am no longer Princess Amara, shared between five husbands who never learned to see me as fully human.

I am a daughter of the King of Kings, bride of Christ alone, free to live in the purpose God designed for me before the foundation of the world.

My identity comes from heaven now, not from earthly titles or family connections.

This is the truth that every human heart needs to discover.

If he can save a sapi princess from impossible circumstances, he can save anyone from whatever situation seems hopeless.

Your new life of freedom can begin right now, just as mine did that night in 2019 when Jesus appeared to me in my darkest hour.

Don’t let another day pass without surrendering your heart to the one who loves you unconditionally and died to set you free.

Until we meet in heaven, remember that you are beloved.

You are chosen.

You are free.

Every day I wake up in liberty is a gift from Jesus Christ.

And the same gift is available to you through simple faith in his finished work on the